Herb, flower, and verdant path the lay symphonious move.
27 Aug. 1801. C.L.
JOHN NOTT (1751–1825)
Nott, a physician and classical scholar from Bristol, published his Petrarch translated in a Selection of his Sonnets and Odes in 1807–8. Text from Bohn’s Illustrated Library (1859).
P7: La gola e ’l sonno e l’oziose piume
INTEMPERANCE, slumber, and the slothful down
Have chased each virtue from this world away;
Hence is our nature nearly led astray
From its due course, by habitude o’erthrown;
Those kindly lights of heaven so dim are grown,
Which shed o’er human life instruction’s ray;
That him with scornful wonder they survey,
Who would draw forth the stream of Helicon.
‘Whom doth the laurel please, or myrtle now?
10 Naked and poor, Philosophy, art thou!’
The worthless crowd, intent on lucre, cries.
Few on thy chosen road will thee attend;
Yet let it more incite thee, gentle friend,
To prosecute thy high-conceived emprize.
P156: I’ vidi in terra angelici costumi
Yes, I beheld on earth angelic grace,
And charms divine which mortals rarely see,
Such as both glad and pain the memory;
Vain, light, unreal is all else I trace:
Tears I saw shower’d from those fine eyes apace,
Of which the sun ofttimes might envious be;
Accents I heard sigh’d forth so movingly,
As to stay floods, or mountains to displace.
Love and good sense, firmness, with pity join’d
10 And wailful grief, a sweeter concert made
Than ever yet was pour’d on human ear:
And heaven unto the music so inclined,
That not a leaf was seen to stir the shade;
Such melody had fraught the winds, the atmosphere.
MARY ROBINSON (1758–1800)
Pupil of David Garrick and mistress of George IV, Robinson’s main claim to our attention is her sonnet sequence, Sappho and Phaon (1796), which tells the story of Sappho’s rejected love for Phaon and her eventual suicide. Although no sonnet is a direct translation of any Petrarchan sonnet, Robinson ‘regenders’ the idea of the Petrarchan sequence with the added innovation of a suicide. Her sonnet of Laura to Petrarch expresses the reinvention of the lady’s voice. She was the empress of the exclamation point! Text from Sappho and Phaon.
42. Her Last Appeal to Phaon
While from the dizzy precipice I gaze,
The world receding from my pensive eyes,
High o’er my head the tyrant eagle flies,
Cloth’d in the sinking sun’s transcendent blaze!
The meek-ey’d moon, ’midst clouds of amber plays,
As o’er the purpling plains of light she hies,
Till the last stream of living lustre dies,
And the cool concave owns her temper’d rays!
So shall this glowing, palpitating soul,
10 Welcome returning reason’s placid beam,
While o’er my breast the waves Lethean roll,
To calm rebellious fancy’s fev’rish dream;
Then shall my lyre disdain love’s dread control,
And loftier passions prompt the loftier theme!
44. Conclusive
Here droops the Muse! while from her glowing mind,
Celestial sympathy, with humid eye,
Bids the light sylph, capricious fancy, fly,
Time’s restless wings with transient flow’rs to bind!
For now, with folded arms and head inclin’d,
Reflection pours the deep and frequent sigh,
O’er the dark scroll of human destiny,
Where gaudy buds and wounding thorns are twin’d.
O! sky-born VIRTUE! sacred is thy name!
10 And though mysterious Fate, with frown severe,
Oft decorates thy brows with wreaths of fame,
Bespangled o’er with sorrow’s chilling tear!
Yet shalt thou more than mortal raptures claim,
The brightest planet of th’ ETERNAL SPHERE!
Laura to Petrarch
O SOLITARY wand’rer! whither stray
From the smooth path the dimpled pleasures love,
From flow’ry meadow, and embow’ring grove,
Where hope and fancy smiling, lead the way!
To thee, I ween, full tedious seems the day;
While lorn and slow the devious path you rove,
Sighing soft sorrows on the garland wove
By young desire, of blossoms sweetly gay!
Oh! blossoms! frail and fading! like the morn
10 Of love’s first rapture! beauteous all, and pure,
Deep hid beneath your charms lies mis’ry’s thorn,
To bid the feeling breast a pang endure!
Then check thy wand’rings, weary and forlorn,
And find in friendship’s balm sick passions cure.
JOHN PENN (1760–1834)
John Penn, grandson of William Penn of Pennsylvania, became an English MP. He was a litterateur and one of the most ardent translators of Petrarch in the Regency period (Watson, English Petrarchans, pp. 11–12). His Poetical Miscellanies, including Translations from Petrarch, from which this sonnet is taken, came out in 1797.
P77: Per mirar Policleto a prova fiso
That master, Polycletus, and the rest
whom History boasts, exerting all their art
A thousand years, could only show a part
of the unrivalled grace that fires my breast;
But, surely, Simon, in the regions blessed,
Had seen the beauteous sovereign of my heart,
And thus, among the sons of earth, we start
To see her lineaments so fair expressed.
This face is of some being in the sky,
10 A semblance true; not one, like us, whose soul
Is veiled by cumbrous flesh from every eye:
My friend judged well, who could not form a whole
So various, where, less aided than on high,
The impediments of earth his sight control.
SIR SAMUEL EGERTON BRYDGES (1762–1837)
Brydges, editor, printer, publisher of Lee Priory Press, caused much trouble to Archdeacon Wrangham (see the next author), whose translations he published after a three year delay. Wrangham thought Brydges plagiarized him in the 32 poems he translated. Brydges was proud of his translations ‘in Literal Prose’, of which the following, from Res Literariae (vol. 1, 1821), is an example. Wrangham should never have complained.
P361: Dicemi spesso il mio fidato speglio
In Literal Prose
My faithful Mirror, my weary Spirit,
My altered countenance; my feeble address,
And my diminished strength, repeatedly say to me,
‘Do not deceive yourself! Thou art no longer young!
It is better to obey Nature in every thing;
For, in disputing with her, we are overtaken by Time’
Then, as water extinguishes fire,
I awoke from my long, and heavy slumber,
And I clearly perceived that our life was passing away,
10 And that we can exist but once.
Sometimes from the inmost recesses of my heart I hear her voice,
Who is now free from her lovely earthly frame.
But whilst She dwelt among us, she was so preeminent that
(If I do not deceive myself,) She eclipsed all other women.
ARCHDEACON FRANCIS WRANGHAM (1767–1843)
Bookish clergyman and friend of Wordsworth, Archdeacon Wrangham had publishing difficulties with Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges (Watson, English Petrarchans, p. 13). These eight sonnets are taken from A Few Sonnets Attempted from Petrarch in Early Life (1817); text from Bohn’s Illustrated Library (
1859).
P12: Se la mia vita da l’aspro tormento
11. He Hopes That Time Will Render Her More Merciful
If o’er each bitter pang, each hidden throe
Sadly triumphant I my years drag on,
Till even the radiance of those eyes is gone,
Lady, which star-like now illume thy brow;
And silver’d are those locks of golden glow,
And wreaths and robes of green aside are thrown,
And from thy cheek those hues of beauty flown,
Which check’d so long the utterance of my woe,
Haply my bolder tongue may then reveal
10 The bosom’d annals of my heart’s fierce fire,
The martyr-throbs that now in night I veil:
And should the chill Time frown on young Desire,
Still, still some late remorse that breast may feel,
And heave a tardy sigh – ere love with life expire.
P13: Quando fra l’altre donne ad ora ad ora
12. The Beauty of Laura Leads Him to the Contemplation of the Supreme Good
THRONED on her angel brow, when Love displays
His radiant form among all other fair,
Far as eclipsed their choicest charms appear,
I feel beyond its wont my passion blaze,
And still I bless the day, the hour, the place,
When first so high mine eyes I dared to rear;
And say, ‘Fond heart, thy gratitude declare,
That then thou had’st the privilege to gaze.
’T was she inspired the tender thought of love,
10 Which points to heaven, and teaches to despise
The earthly vanities that others prize:
She gave the soul’s light grace, which to the skies
Bids thee straight onward in the right path move;
Whence buoy’d by hope e’en now I soar to worlds above.’
P61: Benedetto sia’l giorno e ’l mese e l’anno
47. He Blesses All the Circumstances of his Passion
BLEST be the day, and blest the month, the year,
The spring, the hour, the very moment blest,
The lovely scene, the spot, where first oppress’d
I sunk, of two bright eyes the prisoner:
And blest the first soft pang, to me most dear,
Which thrill’d my heart, when Love became its guest;
And blest the bow, the shafts which pierced my breast,
And even the wounds, which bosom’d thence I bear.
Blest too the strains which, pour’d through glade and grove,
10 Have made the woodlands echo with her name;
The sighs, the tears, the languishment, the love:
And blest those sonnets, sources of my fame;
And blest that thought – Oh! never to remove!
Which turns to her alone, from her alone which came.
P122: Dicessette anni à già rivolto il cielo
97. E’en in our Ashes Live our Wonted Fires
THE seventeenth summer now, alas! is gone,
And still with ardour unconsumed I glow;
Yet find, whene’er myself I seek to know,
Amidst the fire a frosty chill come on.
Truly’tis said, ‘Ere Habit quits her throne,
Years bleach the hair.’ The senses feel life’s snow,
But not less hot the tides of passion flow:
Such is our earthly nature’s malison!
Oh! come the happy day, when doom’d to smart
10 No more from flames and lingering sorrows free,
Calm I may note how fast youth’s minutes flew!
Ah! will it e’er be mine the hour to see,
When with delight, nor duty nor my heart
Can blame, these eyes once more that angel face may view?
P123: Quel vago impallidir che ’l dolce riso
98. Leave-Taking
THAT witching paleness, which with cloud of love
Veil’d her sweet smile, majestically bright,
So thrill’d my heart, that from the bosom’s night
Midway to meet it on her face it strove.
Then learnt I how, ’mid realms of joy above,
The blest behold the blest: in such pure light
I scann’d her tender thought, to others’ sight
Viewless! – but my fond glances would not rove.
Each angel grace, each lowly courtesy,
10 E’er traced in dame by Love’s soft power inspired,
Would seem but foils to those which prompt my lay:
Upon the ground was cast her gentle eye,
And still methought, though silent, she inquired,
‘What bears my faithful friend so soon, so far away?’
P163: Amor, che vedi ogni pensero aperto
130. He Cares Not for Sufferings, So That He Displease Not Laura
LOVE, thou who seest each secret thought display’d,
And the sad steps I take, with thee sole guide;
This throbbing breast, to thee thrown open wide,
To others’ prying barr’d, thine eyes pervade.
Thou know’st what efforts, following thee, I made,
While still from height to height thy pinions glide;
Nor deign’st one pitying look to turn aside
On him who, fainting, treads a trackless glade.
I mark from far the mildly-beaming ray
10 To which thou goad’st me through the devious maze;
Alas! I want thy wings, to speed my way –
Henceforth, a distant homager, I’ll gaze,
Content by silent longings to decay,
So that my sighs for her in her no anger raise.
P224: S’una fede amorosa, un cor non finto
188. The Misery of His Love
If fondest faith, a heart to guile unknown,
By melting languors the soft wish betray’d;
If chaste desires, with temper’d warmth display’d;
If weary wanderings, comfortless and lone;
If every thought in every feature shown,
Or in faint tones and broken sounds convey’d,
As fear or shame my pallid cheek array’d
In violet hues, with Love’s thick blushes strown;
If more than self another to hold dear;
10 If still to weep and heave incessant sighs,
To feed on passion, or in grief to pine,
To glow when distant, and to freeze when near, –
If hence my bosom’s anguish takes its rise,
Thine, lady, is the crime, the punishment is mine.
P243: Fresco, ombroso, fiorito e verde colle
205. He Congratulates His Heart on its Remaining With Her
O HILL with green o’erspread, with groves o’erhung!
Where musing now, now trilling her sweet lay,
Most like what bards of heavenly spirits say,
Sits she by fame through every region sung:
My heart, which wisely unto her has clung –
More wise, if there, in absence blest, it stay!
Notes now the turf o’er which her soft steps stray,
Now where her angel-eyes’ mild beam is flung;
Then throbs and murmurs, as they onward rove,
10 ‘Ah! were he here, that man of wretched lot,
Doom’d but to taste the bitterness of love!’
She, conscious, smiles: our feelings tally not:
Heartless am I, mere stone; heaven is thy grove –
O dear delightful shade, O consecrated spot!
Nineteenth Century
BARBARINA OGLE BRAND, LADY DACRE (1768–1854)
See headnote on p. 43. Text of P129 from Bohn; the others from the edition of her poems (1821).
P128: Italia mia, benché ’l parlar sia indarno
O MY own Italy! though words are vain
The mortal wounds to close,
Unnumber’d, that thy beauteous bosom
stain,
Yet may it soothe my pain
To sigh forth Tyber’s woes,
And Arno’s wrongs, as on Po’s sadden’d shore
Sorrowing I wander, and my numbers pour.
Ruler of heaven! By the all-pitying love
That could thy Godhead move
10 To dwell a lowly sojourner on earth,
Turn, Lord! on this thy chosen land thine eye:
See, God of Charity!
From what light cause this cruel war has birth;
And the hard hearts by savage discord steel’d,
Thou, Father! from on high,
Touch by my humble voice, that stubborn wrath may yield!
Ye, to whose sovereign hands the fates confide
Of this fair land the reins, –
(This land for which no pity wrings your breast) –
20 Why does the stranger’s sword her plains invest?
That her green fields be dyed,
Hope ye, with blood from the Barbarians’ veins?
Beguiled by error weak,
Ye see not, though to pierce so deep ye boast,
Who love, or faith, in venal bosoms seek:
When throng’d your standards most,
Ye are encompass’d most by hostile bands.
O hideous deluge gather’d in strange lands,
That rushing down amain
30 O’erwhelms our every native lovely plain!
Alas! if our own hands
Have thus our weal betray’d, who shall our cause sustain?
Well did kind Nature, guardian of our state,
Rear her rude alpine heights,
A lofty rampart against German hate;
But blind ambition, seeking his own ill,
With ever restless will,
To the pure gales contagion foul invites:
Within the same strait fold
40 The gentle flocks and wolves relentless throng,
Petrarch in English Page 20
