Collected Poetical Works of Francesco Petrarch

by Francesco Petrarch

And all his armour broke, who erst had slain

  Such numbers, and so many captive ta’en;

  The fair dame from the noble sight withdrew

  With her choice company, — they were but few.

  And made a little troop, true virtue’s rare, —

  Yet each of them did by herself appear

  A theme for poems, and might well incite

  The best historian: they bore a white

  Unspotted ermine, in a field of green,

  About whose neck a topaz chain was seen

  Set in pure gold; their heavenly words and gait,

  Express’d them blest were born for such a fate.

  Bright stars they seem’d, she did a sun appear,

  Who darken’d not the rest, but made more clear

  Their splendour; honour in brave minds is found:

  This troop, with violets and roses crown’d,

  Cheerfully march’d, when lo, I might espy

  Another ensign dreadful to mine eye —

  A lady clothed in black, whose stern looks were

  With horror fill’d, and did like hell appear,

  Advanced, and said, “You who are proud to be

  So fair and young, yet have no eyes to see

  How near you are your end; behold, I am

  She, whom they, fierce, and blind, and cruel name,

  Who meet untimely deaths; ’twas I did make

  Greece subject, and the Roman Empire shake;

  My piercing sword sack’d Troy, how many rude

  And barbarous people are by me subdued?

  Many ambitious, vain, and amorous thought

  My unwish’d presence hath to nothing brought;

  Now am I come to you, while yet your state

  Is happy, ere you feel a harder fate.”

  “On these you have no power,” she then replied,

  (Who had more worth than all the world beside,)

  “And little over me; but there is one

  Who will be deeply grieved when I am gone,

  His happiness doth on my life depend,

  I shall find freedom in a peaceful end.”

  As one who glancing with a sudden eye

  Some unexpected object doth espy;

  Then looks again, and doth his own haste blame

  So in a doubting pause, this cruel dame

  A little stay’d, and said, “The rest I call

  To mind, and know I have o’ercome them all:”

  Then with less fierce aspect, she said, “Thou guide

  Of this fair crew, hast not my strength assay’d,

  Let her advise, who may command, prevent

  Decrepit age, ’tis but a punishment;

  From me this honour thou alone shalt have,

  Without or fear or pain, to find thy grave.”

  “As He shall please, who dwelleth in the heaven

  And rules on earth, such portion must be given

  To me, as others from thy hand receive,”

  She answered then; afar we might perceive

  Millions of dead heap’d on th’ adjacent plain;

  No verse nor prose may comprehend the slain

  Did on Death’s triumph wait, from India,

  From Spain, and from Morocco, from Cathay,

  And all the skirts of th’ earth they gather’d were;

  Who had most happy lived, attended there:

  Popes, Emperors, nor Kings, no ensigns wore

  Of their past height, but naked show’d and poor.

  Where be their riches, where their precious gems,

  Their mitres, sceptres, robes, and diadems?

  O miserable men, whose hopes arise

  From worldly joys, yet be there few so wise

  As in those trifling follies not to trust;

  And if they be deceived, in end ’tis just:

  Ah! more than blind, what gain you by your toil?

  You must return once to your mother’s soil,

  And after-times your names shall hardly know,

  Nor any profit from your labour grow;

  All those strange countries by your warlike stroke

  Submitted to a tributary yoke;

  The fuel erst of your ambitious fire,

  What help they now? The vast and bad desire

  Of wealth and power at a bloody rate

  Is wicked, — better bread and water eat

  With peace; a wooden dish doth seldom hold

  A poison’d draught; glass is more safe than gold;

  But for this theme a larger time will ask,

  I must betake me to my former task.

  The fatal hour of her short life drew near,

  That doubtful passage which the world doth fear;

  Another company, who had not been

  Freed from their earthy burden there were seen,

  To try if prayers could appease the wrath,

  Or stay th’ inexorable hand, of Death.

  That beauteous crowd convened to see the end

  Which all must taste; each neighbour, every friend

  Stood by, when grim Death with her hand took hold,

  And pull’d away one only hair of gold,

  Thus from the world this fairest flower is ta’en

  To make her shine more bright, not out of spleen

  How many moaning plaints, what store of cries

  Were utter’d there, when Fate shut those fair eyes

  For which so oft I sung; whose beauty burn’d

  My tortured heart so long; while others mourn’d,

  She pleased, and quiet did the fruit enjoy

  Of her blest life: “Farewell,” without annoy,

  “True saint on earth,” said they; so might she be

  Esteem’d, but nothing bates Death’s cruelty.

  What shall become of others, since so pure

  A body did such heats and colds endure,

  And changed so often in so little space?

  Ah, worldly hopes, how blind you be, how base!

  If since I bathe the ground with flowing tears

  For that mild soul, who sees it, witness bears;

  And thou who read’st mayst judge she fetter’d me

  The sixth of April, and did set me free

  On the same day and month. Oh! how the way

  Of fortune is unsure; none hates the day

  Of slavery, or of death, so much as I

  Abhor the time which wrought my liberty,

  And my too lasting life; it had been just

  My greater age had first been turn’d to dust,

  And paid to time, and to the world, the debt

  I owed, then earth had kept her glorious state:

  Now at what rate I should the sorrow prize

  I know not, nor have heart that can suffice

  The sad affliction to relate in verse

  Of these fair dames, that wept about her hearse;

  “Courtesy, Virtue, Beauty, all are lost;

  What shall become of us? None else can boast

  Such high perfection; no more we shall

  Hear her wise words, nor the angelical

  Sweet music of her voice.” While thus they cried,

  The parting spirit doth itself divide

  With every virtue from the noble breast,

  As some grave hermit seeks a lonely rest:

  The heavens were clear, and all the ambient air

  Without a threatening cloud; no adversaire

  ‘Durst once appear, or her calm mind affright;

  Death singly did herself conclude the fight;

  After, when fear, and the extremest plaint

  Were ceased, th’ attentive eyes of all were bent

  On that fair face, and by despair became

  Secure; she who was spent, not like a flame

  By force extinguish’d, but as lights decay,

  And undiscerned waste themselves away:

  Thus went the soul in peace; so lamps are spent,

  As the oil fails which ga
ve them nourishment;

  In sum, her countenance you still might know

  The same it was, not pale, but white as snow,

  Which on the tops of hills in gentle flakes

  Falls in a calm, or as a man that takes

  Desir’ed rest, as if her lovely sight

  Were closed with sweetest sleep, after the sprite

  Was gone. If this be that fools call to die,

  Death seem’d in her exceeding fair to be.

  ANNA HUME.

  [LINES 103 TO END.]

  And now closed in the last hour’s narrow span

  Of that so glorious and so brief career,

  Ere the dark pass so terrible to man!

  And a fair troop of ladies gather’d there,

  Still of this earth, with grace and honour crown’d,

  To mark if ever Death remorseful were.

  This gentle company thus throng’d around,

  In her contemplating the awful end

  All once must make, by law of nature bound;

  Each was a neighbour, each a sorrowing friend.

  Then Death stretch’d forth his hand, in that dread hour,

  From her bright head a golden hair to rend,

  Thus culling of this earth the fairest flower;

  Nor hate impell’d the deed, but pride, to dare

  Assert o’er highest excellence his power.

  What tearful lamentations fill the air

  The while those beauteous eyes alone are dry,

  Whose sway my burning thoughts and lays declare!

  And while in grief dissolved all weep and sigh,

  She, in meek silence, joyous sits secure,

  Gathering already virtue’s guerdon high.

  “Depart in peace, O mortal goddess pure!”

  They said; and such she was: although it nought

  ‘Gainst mightier Death avail’d, so stern — so sure!

  Alas for others! if a few nights wrought

  In her each change of suffering dust below!

  Oh! Hope, how false! how blind all human thought!

  Whether in earth sank deep the dews of woe

  For the bright spirit that had pass’d away,

  Think, ye who listen! they who witness’d know.

  ’Twas the first hour, of April the sixth day,

  That bound me, and, alas! now sets me free:

  How Fortune doth her fickleness display!

  None ever grieved for loss of liberty

  Or doom of death as I for freedom grieve,

  And life prolong’d, who only ask to die.

  Due to the world it had been her to leave,

  And me, of earlier birth, to have laid low,

  Nor of its pride and boast the age bereave.

  How great the grief it is not mine to show,

  Scarce dare I think, still less by numbers try,

  Or by vain speech to ease my weight of woe.

  Virtue is dead, beauty and courtesy!

  The sorrowing dames her honour’d couch around

  “For what are we reserved?” in anguish cry;

  “Where now in woman will all grace be found?

  Who with her wise and gentle words be blest,

  And drink of her sweet song th’ angelic sound?”

  The spirit parting from that beauteous breast,

  In its meek virtues wrapt, and best prepared,

  Had with serenity the heavens imprest:

  No power of darkness, with ill influence, dared

  Within a space so holy to intrude,

  Till Death his terrible triumph had declared.

  Then hush’d was all lament, all fear subdued;

  Each on those beauteous features gazed intent,

  And from despair was arm’d with fortitude.

  As a pure flame that not by force is spent,

  But faint and fainter softly dies away,

  Pass’d gently forth in peace the soul content:

  And as a light of clear and steady ray,

  When fails the source from which its brightness flows,

  She to the last held on her-wonted way.

  Pale, was she? no, but white as shrouding snows,

  That, when the winds are lull’d, fall silently,

  She seem’d as one o’erwearied to repose.

  E’en as in balmy slumbers lapt to lie

  (The spirit parted from the form below),

  In her appear’d what th’ unwise term to die;

  And Death sate beauteous on her beauteous brow.

  DACRE.

  PART II

  La notte che seguì l’ orribil caso.

  The night — that follow’d the disastrous blow

  Which my spent sun removed in heaven to glow,

  And left me here a blind and desolate man —

  Now far advanced, to spread o’er earth began

  The sweet spring dew which harbingers the dawn,

  When slumber’s veil and visions are withdrawn;

  When, crown’d with oriental gems, and bright

  As newborn day, upon my tranced sight

  My Lady lighted from her starry sphere:

  With kind speech and soft sigh, her hand so dear.

  So long desired in vain, to mine she press’d,

  While heavenly sweetness instant warm’d my breast:

  “Remember her, who, from the world apart,

  Kept all your course since known to that young heart.”

  Pensive she spoke, with mild and modest air

  Seating me by her, on a soft bank, where,

  In greenest shade, the beech and laurel met.

  “Remember? ah! how should I e’er forget?

  Yet tell me, idol mine,” in tears I said,

  “Live you? — or dreamt I — is, is Laura dead?”

  “Live I? I only live, but you indeed

  Are dead, and must be, till the last best hour

  Shall free you from the flesh and vile world’s power.

  But, our brief leisure lest desire exceed,

  Turn we, ere breaks the day already nigh,

  To themes of greater interest, pure and high.”

  Then I: “When ended the brief dream and vain

  That men call life, by you now safely pass’d,

  Is death indeed such punishment and pain?”

  Replied she: “While on earth your lot is cast,

  Slave to the world’s opinions blind and hard,

  True happiness shall ne’er your search reward;

  Death to the good a dreary prison opes,

  But to the vile and base, who all their hopes

  And cares below have fix’d, is full of fear;

  And this my loss, now mourn’d with many a tear,

  Would seem a gain, and, knew you my delight

  Boundless and pure, your joyful praise excite.”

  Thus spoke she, and on heaven her grateful eye

  Devoutly fix’d, but while her rose-lips lie

  Chain’d in cold silence, I renew’d my theme:

  “Lightning and storm, red battle, age, disease,

  Backs, prisons, poison, famine, — make not these

  Death, even to the bravest, bitter seem?”

  She answer’d: “I deny not that the strife

  Is great and sore which waits on parting life,

  And then of death eternal the sharp dread!

  But if the soul with hope from heaven be fed,

  And haply in itself the heart have grief,

  What then is death? Its brief sigh brings relief:

  Already I approach’d my final goal,

  My strength was failing, on the wing my soul,

  When thus a low sad-whisper by my side,

  ‘O miserable! who, to vain life tied,

  Counts every hour and deems each hour a day,

  By land or ocean, to himself a prey,

  Where’er he wanders, who one form pursues,

  Indulges one desire, one dream renews,

  Thought, spee
ch, sense, feeling, there for ever bound!’

  It ceased, and to the spot whence came the sound

  I turn’d my languid eyes, and her beheld,

  Your love who check’d, my pity who impell’d;

  I recognised her by that voice and air,

  So often which had chased my spirit’s gloom,

  Now calm and wise, as courteous then and fail.

  But e’en to you when dearest, in the bloom

  Of joyous youth and beauty’s rosy prime.

  Theme of much thought, and muse of many a rhyme,

  Believe me, life to me was far less sweet

  Than thus a merciful mild death to meet,

  The blessed hope, to mortals rarely given:

  And such joy smooth’d my path from earth to heaven,

  As from long exile to sweet home I turn’d,

  While but for you alone my soul with pity yearn’d.”

  “But tell me, lady,” said I, “by that true

  And loyal faith, on earth well known to you

  Now better known before the Omniscient’s face,

  If in your breast the thought e’er found a place

  Love prompted, my long martyrdom to cheer,

  Though virtue follow’d still her fair emprize.

  For ah! oft written in those sweetest eyes,

  Dear anger, dear disdain, and pardon dear,

  Long o’er my wishes doubts and shadows cast.”

  Scarce from my lips the venturous speech had pass’d,

  When o’er her fair face its old sun-smile beam’d,

  My sinking virtue which so oft redeem’d,

  And with a tender sigh she answer’d: “Never

  Can or did aught from you my firm heart sever:

  But as, to our young fame, no other way,

  Direct and plain, of mutual safety lay,

  I temper’d with cold looks your raging flame:

  So fondest mothers wayward children tame.

  How often have I said, ‘It me behoves

  To act discreetly, for he burns, not loves!

  Who hopes and fears, ill plays discretion’s part!

  He must not in my face detect my heart;’

  ’Twas this, which, as a rein the generous horse,

  Slack’d your hot haste, and shaped your proper course.

  Often, while Love my struggling heart consumed,

  Has anger tinged my cheek, my eyes illumed,

  For Love in me could reason ne’er subdue;

  But ever if I saw you sorrow-spent,

  Instant my fondest looks on you were bent,

  Myself from shame, from death redeeming you;

  Or, if the flame of passion blazed too high,

  My greeting changed, with short speech and cold eye

  My sorrow moved you or my terror shook.

  That these the arts I used, the way I took,

  Smiles varying scorn as sunshine follows rain,