And served in all his wars: this is the wife
Of Brutus, Portia, constant in her life
And death: this Julia is, who seems to moan,
That Pompey lovèd best, when she was gone.
Look here and see the Patriarch much abused
Who twice seven years for his fair Rachel choosed
To serve: O powerful love increased by woe!
His father this: now see his grandsire go
With Sarah from his home. This cruel Love
O’ercame good David; so it had power to move
His righteous heart to that abhorrèd crime,
For which he sorrow’d all his following time;
Just such like error soil’d his wise son’s fame,
For whose idolatry God’s anger came:
Here’s he who in one hour could love and hate:
Here Tamar, full of anguish, wails her state;
Her brother Absalom attempts t’ appease
Her grievèd soul. Samson takes care to please
His fancy; and appears more strong than wise,
Who in a traitress’ bosom sleeping lies.
Amongst those pikes and spears which guard the place,
Love, wine, and sleep, a beauteous widow’s face
And pleasing art hath Holophernes ta’en;
She back again retires, who hath him slain,
With her one maid, bearing the horrid head
In haste, and thanks God that so well she sped.
The next is Sichem, he who found his death
In circumcision; his father hath
Like mischief felt; the city all did prove
The same effect of his rash violent love.
You see Ahasuerus how well he bears
His loss; a new love soon expels his cares;
This cure in this disease doth seldom fail,
One nail best driveth out another nail.
If you would see love mingled oft with hate,
Bitter with sweet, behold fierce Herod’s state,
Beset with love and cruelty at once:
Enraged at first, then late his fault bemoans,
And Mariamne calls; those three fair dames
(Who in the list of captives write their names)
Procris, Deidamia, Artemisia were
All good, the other three as wicked are —
Semiramis, Byblis, and Myrrha named,
Who of their crooked ways are now ashamed
Here be the erring knights in ancient scrolls,
Lancelot, Tristram, and the vulgar souls
That wait on these; Guenever, and the fair
Isond, with other lovers; and the pair
Who, as they walk together, seem to plain,
Their just, but cruel fate, by one hand slain.”
Thus he discoursed: and as a man that fears
Approaching harm, when he a trumpet hears,
Starts at the blow ere touch’d, my frighted blood
Retired: as one raised from his tomb I stood;
When by my side I spied a lovely maid,
(No turtle ever purer whiteness had!)
And straight was caught (who lately swore I would
Defend me from a man at arms), nor could
Resist the wounds of words with motion graced:
The image yet is in my fancy placed.
My friend was willing to increase my woe,
And smiling whisper’d,— “You alone may go
Confer with whom you please, for now we are
All stained with one crime.” My sullen care
Was like to theirs, who are more grieved to know
Another’s happiness than their own woe;
For seeing her, who had enthrall’d my mind,
Live free in peace, and no disturbance find:
And seeing that I knew my hurt too late.
And that her beauty was my dying fate:
Love, jealousy, and envy held my sight
So fix’d on that fair face, no other light
I could behold; like one who in the rage
Of sickness greedily his thirst would ‘suage
With hurtful drink, which doth his palate please,
Thus (blind and deaf t’ all other joys are ease)
So many doubtful ways I follow’d her,
The memory still shakes my soul with fear.
Since when mine eyes are moist, and view the ground,
My heart is heavy, and my steps have found
A solitary dwelling ‘mongst the woods,
I stray o’er rocks and fountains, hills and floods:
Since when such store my scatter’d papers hold
Of thoughts, of tears, of ink; which oft I fold,
Unfold, and tear: since when I know the scope
Of Love, and what they fear, and what they hope;
And how they live that in his cloister dwell,
The skilful in their face may read it well.
Meanwhile I see, how fierce and gallant she
Cares not for me, nor for my misery,
Proud of her virtue, and my overthrow:
And on the other side (if aught I know),
This lord, who hath the world in triumph led,
She keeps in fear; thus all my hopes are dead,
No strength nor courage left, nor can I be
Revenged, as I expected once; for he,
Who tortures me and others, is abused
By her; she’ll not be caught, and long hath used
(Rebellious as she is!) to shun his wars,
And is a sun amidst the lesser stars.
Her grace, smiles, slights, her words in order set;
Her hair dispersed or in a golden net;
Her eyes inflaming with a light divine
So burn my heart, I dare no more repine.
Ah, who is able fully to express
Her pleasing ways, her merit? No excess,
No bold hyperboles I need to fear,
My humble style cannot enough come near
The truth; my words are like a little stream
Compared with th’ ocean, so large a theme
Is that high praise; new worth, not seen before,
Is seen in her, and can be seen no more;
Therefore all tongues are silenced; and I,
Her prisoner now, see her at liberty:
And night and day implore (O unjust fate!)
She neither hears nor pities my estate:
Hard laws of Love! But though a partial lot
I plainly see in this, yet must I not
Refuse to serve: the gods, as well as men,
With like reward of old have felt like pain.
Now know I how the mind itself doth part
(Now making peace, now war, now truce) — what art
Poor lovers use to hide their stinging woe:
And how their blood now comes, and now doth go
Betwixt their heart and cheeks, by shame or fear:
How they be eloquent, yet speechless are;
And how they both ways lean, they watch and sleep,
Languish to death, yet life and vigour keep:
I trod the paths made happy by her feet,
And search the foe I am afraid to meet.
I know how lovers metamorphosed are
To that they love: I know what tedious care
I feel; how vain my joy, how oft I change
Design and countenance; and (which is strange)
I live without a soul: I know the way
To cheat myself a thousand times a day:
I know to follow while I flee my fire
I freeze when present; absent, my desire
Is hot: I know what cruel rigour Love
Practiseth on the mind, and doth remove
All reason thence, and how he racks the heart:
And how a soul hath neither strength nor art
Without a helper to resist his blows:
And how he flees, and how his da
rts he throws:
And how his threats the fearful lover feels:
And how he robs by force, and how he steals:
How oft his wheels turn round (now high, now low)
With how uncertain hope, how certain woe:
How all his promises be void of faith,
And how a fire hid in our bones he hath:
How in our veins he makes a secret wound,
Whence open flames and death do soon abound.
In sum, I know how giddy and how vain
Be lovers’ lives; what fear and boldness reign
In all their ways; how every sweet is paid.
And with a double weight of sour allay’d:
I also know their customs, sighs, and songs;
Their sudden muteness, and their stammering tongues:
How short their joy, how long their pain doth last,
How wormwood spoileth all their honey’s taste.
ANNA HUME.
PART IV.
Poscia che mia fortuna in forza altrui.
When once my will was captive by my fate,
And I had lost the liberty, which late
Made my life happy; I, who used before
To flee from Love (as fearful deer abhor
The following huntsman), suddenly became
(Like all my fellow-servants) calm and tame;
And view’d the travails, wrestlings, and the smart,
The crooked by-paths, and the cozening art
That guides the amorous flock: then whilst mine eye
I cast in every corner, to espy
Some ancient or modern who had proved
Famous, I saw him, who had only loved
Eurydice, and found out hell, to call
Her dear ghost back; he named her in his fall
For whom he died. Aleæus there was known,
Skilful in love and verse: Anacreon,
Whose muse sung nought but love: Pindarus, he
Was also there: there I might Virgil see:
Many brave wits I found, some looser rhymes,
By others writ, hath pleased the ancient times:
Ovid was one: after Catullus came:
Propertius next, his elegies the name
Of Cynthia bear: Tibullus, and the young
Greek poetess, who is received among
The noble troop for her rare Sapphic muse.
Thus looking here and there (as oft I use),
I spied much people on a flowery plain,
Amongst themselves disputes of love maintain.
Behold Beatrice with Dante; Selvaggia, she
Brought her Pistoian Cino; Guitton may be
Offended that he is the latter named:
Behold both Guidos for their learning famed:
Th’ honest Bolognian: the Sicilians first
Wrote love in rhymes, but wrote their rhymes the worst.
Franceschin and Sennuccio (whom all know)
Were worthy and humane: after did go
A squadron of another garb and phrase,
Of whom Arnaldo Daniel hath most praise,
Great master in Love’s art, his style, as new
As sweet, honours his country: next, a few
Whom Love did lightly wound: both Peters made
Two: one, the less Arnaldo: some have had
A harder war; both the Rimbaldos, th’ one
Sung Beatrice, though her quality was known
Too much above his reach in Montferrat.
Alvernia’s old Piero, and Girault:
Folchetto, who from Genoa was estranged
And call’d Marsilian, he wisely changed
His name, his state, his country, and did gain
In all: Jeffray made haste to catch his bane
With sails and oars: Guilliam, too, sweetly sung
That pleasing art, was cause he died so young.
Amarig, Bernard, Hugo, and Anselm
Were there, with thousands more, whose tongues were helm,
Shield, sword, and spear, all their offensive arms,
And their defensive to prevent their harms.
From those I turn’d, comparing my own woe,
To view my country-folks; and there might know
The good Tomasso, who did once adorn
Bologna, now Messina holds his urn.
Ah, vanish’d joys! Ah, life too full of bane!
How wert thou from mine eyes so quickly ta’en!
Since without thee nothing is in my power
To do, where art thou from me at this hour?
What is our life? If aught it bring of ease,
A sick man’s dream, a fable told to please.
Some few there from the common road did stray;
Lælius and Socrates, with whom I may
A longer progress take: Oh, what a pair
Of dear esteemèd friends to me they were!
’Tis not my verse, nor prose, may reach thieir praise;
Neither of these can naked virtue raise
Above her own true place: with them I have
Reach’d many heights; one yoke of learning gave
Laws to our steps, to them my fester’d wound
I oft have show’d; no time or place I found
To part from them; and hope, and wish we may
Be undivided till my breath decay:
With them I used (too early) to adorn
My head with th’ honour’d branches, only worn
For her dear sake I did so deeply love,
Who fill’d my thoughts; but ah! I daily prove,
No fruit nor leaves from thence can gather’d be:
The root hath sharp and bitter been to me.
For this I was accustomed much to vex,
But I have seen that which my anger checks:
(A theme for buskins, not a comic stage)
She took the God, adored by the rage
Of such dull fools as he had captive led:
But first, I’ll tell you what of us he made;
Then, from her hand what was his own sad fate,
Which Orpheus or Homer might relate.
His winged coursers o’er the ditches leapt,
And we their way as desperately kept,
Till he had reached where his mother reigns,
Nor would he ever pull or turn the reins;
But scour’d o’er woods and mountains; none did care
Nor could discern in what strange world they were.
Beyond the place, where old Ægeus mourns,
An island lies, Phoebus none sweeter burns,
Nor Neptune ever bathed a better shore:
About the midst a beauteous hill, with store
Of shades and pleasing smells, so fresh a spring
As drowns all manly thoughts: this place doth bring
Venus much joy; ‘t was given her deity,
Ere blind man knew a truer god than she:
Of which original it yet retains
Too much, so little goodness there remains,
That it the vicious doth only please,
Is by the virtuous shunn’d as a disease.
Here this fine Lord insulteth o’er us all
Tied in a chain, from Thule to Ganges’ fall.
Griefs in our breasts, vanity in our arms;
Fleeting delights are there, and weighty harms:
Repentance swiftly following to annoy:
(Such Tarquin found it, and the bane of Troy)
All that whole valley with the echoes rung
Of running brooks, and birds that gently sung:
The banks were clothed in yellow, purple, green,
Scarlet and white, their pleasing springs were seen;
And gliding streams amongst the tender grass,
Thickets and soft winds to refresh the place.
After when winter maketh sharp the air,
Warm leaves, and leisure, sports, and gallant cheer
Enthrall low minds. Now th’ equinox hath made
<
br /> The day t’ equal the night; and Progne had
With her sweet sister, each their old task ta’en:
(Ah! how the faith in fortune placed is vain!)
Just in the time, and place, and in the hour
When humble tears should earthly joys devour,
It pleased him, whom th’ vulgar honour so,
To triumph over me; and now I know
What miserable servitude they prove,
What ruin, and what death, that fall in love.
Errors, dreams, paleness waiteth on his chair,
False fancies o’er the door, and on the stair
Are slippery hopes, unprofitable gain,
And gainful loss; such steps it doth contain,
As who descend, may boast their fortune best;
Who most ascend, most fall: a wearied rest,
And resting trouble, glorious disgrace;
A duskish and obscure illustriousness;
Unfaithful loyalty, and cozening faith,
That nimble fury, lazy reason hath:
A prison, whose wide ways do all receive,
Whose narrow paths a hard retiring leave:
A steep descent, by which we slide with ease,
But find no hold our crawling steps to raise:
Within confusion, turbulence, annoy
Are mix’d; undoubted woe, and doubtful joy:
Vulcano, where the sooty Cyclops dwell;
Liparis, Stromboli, nor Mongibel,
Nor Ischia, have more horrid noise and smoke:
He hates himself that stoops to such a yoke.
Thus were we all throng’d in so strait a cage,
I changed my looks and hair, before my age,
Dreaming on liberty (by strong desire
My soul made apt to hope), and did admire
Those gallant minds, enslaved to such a woe
(My heart within my breast dissolved like snow
Before the sun), as one would side-ways cast
His eye on pictures, which his feet hath pass’d.
ANNA HUME.
THE SAME.
PART I.
The fatal morning dawn’d that brought again
The sad memorial of my ancient pain;
That day, the source of long-protracted woe,
When I began the plagues of Love to know,
Hyperion’s throne, along the azure field,
Between the splendid horns of Taurus wheel’d;
And from her spouse the Queen of Morn withdrew
Her sandals, gemm’d with frost-bespangled dew.
Sad recollection, rising with the morn,
Of my disastrous love, repaid with scorn,
Oppressed my sense; till welcome soft repose
Gave a short respite from my swelling woes.
Then seem’d I in a vision borne away,
Where a deep winding vale sequester’d lay;
Collected Poetical Works of Francesco Petrarch Page 40
