The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch

SONNET XVII

Son animali al mondo di sì altera

HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A MOTH

Creatures there are in life of such keen sight

That no defence they need from noonday sun,

And others dazzled by excess of light

Who issue not abroad till day is done,

And, with weak fondness, some because 'tis bright,

Who in the death-flame for enjoyment run,

Thus proving theirs a different virtue quite—

Alas! of this last kind myself am one;

For, of this fair the splendour to regard,

I am but weak and ill—against late hours

And darkness gath'ring round—myself to ward.

Wherefore, with tearful eyes of failing powers,

My destiny condemns me still to turn

Where following faster I but fiercer burn.

Macgregor.

SONNET XVIII

Vergognando talor ch' ancor si taccia

THE PRAISES OF LAURA TRANSCEND HIS POETIC POWERS

Ashamed sometimes thy beauties should remain

As yet unsung, sweet lady, in my rhyme;

When first I saw thee I recall the time,

Pleasing as none shall ever please again.

But no fit polish can my verse attain,

Not mine is strength to try the task sublime:

My genius, measuring its power to climb,

From such attempt doth prudently refrain.

Full oft I oped my lips to chant thy name;

Then in mid utterance the lay was lost:

But say what muse can dare so bold a flight?

Full oft I strove in measure to indite;

But ah, the pen, the hand, the vein I boast,

At once were vanquish'd by the mighty theme!

Nott.

Ashamed at times that I am silent, yet,

Lady, though your rare beauties prompt my rhyme,

When first I saw thee I recall the time

Such as again no other can be met.

But, with such burthen on my shoulders set.

My mind, its frailty feeling, cannot climb,

And shrinks alike from polish'd and sublime,

While my vain utterance frozen terrors let.

Often already have I sought to sing,

But midway in my breast the voice was stay'd,

For ah! so high what praise may ever spring?

And oft have I the tender verse essay'd,

But still in vain; pen, hand, and intellect

In the first effort conquer'd are and check'd.

Macgregor.

SONNET XIX

Mille fiate, o dolce mia guerrera

HIS HEART, REJECTED BY LAURA, WILL PERISH, UNLESS SHE RELENT

A thousand times, sweet warrior, have I tried,

Proffering my heart to thee, some peace to gain

From those bright eyes, but still, alas! in vain,

To such low level stoops not thy chaste pride.

If others seek the love thus thrown aside,

Vain were their hopes and labours to obtain;

The heart thou spurnest I alike disdain,

To thee displeasing, 'tis by me denied.

But if, discarded thus, it find not thee

Its joyless exile willing to befriend,

Alone, untaught at others' will to wend,

Soon from life's weary burden will it flee.

How heavy then the guilt to both, but more

To thee, for thee it did the most adore.

Macgregor.

A thousand times, sweet warrior, to obtain

Peace with those beauteous eyes I've vainly tried,

Proffering my heart; but with that lofty pride

To bend your looks so lowly you refrain:

Expects a stranger fair that heart to gain,

In frail, fallacious hopes will she confide:

It never more to me can be allied;

Since what you scorn, dear lady, I disdain.

In its sad exile if no aid you lend

Banish'd by me; and it can neither stay

Alone, nor yet another's call obey;

Its vital course must hasten to its end:

Ah me, how guilty then we both should prove,

But guilty you the most, for you it most doth love.

Nott.

SESTINA I

A qualunque animale alberga in terra

NIGHT BRINGS HIM NO REST. HE IS THE PREY OF DESPAIR

To every animal that dwells on earth,

Except to those which have in hate the sun,

Their time of labour is while lasts the day;

But when high heaven relumes its thousand stars,

This seeks his hut, and that its native wood,

Each finds repose, at least until the dawn.

But I, when fresh and fair begins the dawn

To chase the lingering shades that cloak'd the earth,

Wakening the animals in every wood,

No truce to sorrow find while rolls the sun;

And, when again I see the glistening stars,

Still wander, weeping, wishing for the day.

When sober evening chases the bright day,

And this our darkness makes for others dawn,

Pensive I look upon the cruel stars

Which framed me of such pliant passionate earth,

And curse the day that e'er I saw the sun,

Which makes me native seem of wildest wood.

And yet methinks was ne'er in any wood,

So wild a denizen, by night or day,

As she whom thus I blame in shade and sun:

Me night's first sleep o'ercomes not, nor the dawn,

For though in mortal coil I tread the earth,

My firm and fond desire is from the stars.

Ere up to you I turn, O lustrous stars,

Or downwards in love's labyrinthine wood,

Leaving my fleshly frame in mouldering earth,

Could I but pity find in her, one day

Would many years redeem, and to the dawn

With bliss enrich me from the setting sun!

Oh! might I be with her where sinks the sun,

No other eyes upon us but the stars,

Alone, one sweet night, ended by no dawn,

Nor she again transfigured in green wood,

To cheat my clasping arms, as on the day,

When Phœbus vainly follow'd her on earth.

I shall lie low in earth, in crumbling wood.

And clustering stars shall gem the noon of day,

Ere on so sweet a dawn shall rise that sun.

Macgregor.

Each creature on whose wakeful eyes

The bright sun pours his golden fire,

By day a destined toil pursues;

And, when heaven's lamps illume the skies,

All to some haunt for rest retire,

Till a fresh dawn that toil renews.

But I, when a new morn doth rise,

Chasing from earth its murky shades,

While ring the forests with delight,

Find no remission of my sighs;

And, soon as night her mantle spreads,

I weep, and wish returning light

Again when eve bids day retreat,

O'er other climes to dart its rays;

Pensive those cruel stars I view,

Which influence thus my amorous fate;

And imprecate that beauty's blaze,

Which o'er my form such wildness threw.

No forest surely in its glooms

Nurtures a savage so unkind

As she who bids these sorrows flow:

Me, nor the dawn nor sleep o'ercomes;

For, though of mortal mould, my mind

Feels more than passion's mortal glow.

Ere up to you, bright orbs, I fly,

Or to Love's bower speed down my way,

While here my mouldering limbs remain;

Let me her pity once espy;

Thus, rich in bliss, one little day

Shall recompense whole years of pain.

Be Laura mine at set of sun;

Let heaven's fires only mark our loves,

And the day ne'er its light renew;

My fond embrace may she not shun;

Nor Phœbus-like, through laurel groves,

May I a nymph transform'd pursue!

But I shall cast this mortal veil on earth,

And stars shall gild the noon, ere such bright scenes have birth.

Nott.

CANZONE I

Nel dolce tempo della prima etade

HIS SUFFERINGS SINCE HE BECAME THE SLAVE OF LOVE

In the sweet season when my life was new,

Which saw the birth, and still the being sees

Of the fierce passion for my ill that grew,

Fain would I sing—my sorrow to appease—

How then I lived, in liberty, at ease,

While o'er my heart held slighted Love no sway;

And how, at length, by too high scorn, for aye,

I sank his slave, and what befell me then,

Whereby to all a warning I remain;

Although my sharpest pain

Be elsewhere written, so that many a pen

Is tired already, and, in every vale,

The echo of my heavy sighs is rife,

Some credence forcing of my anguish'd life;

And, as her wont, if here my memory fail,

Be my long martyrdom its saving plea,

And the one thought which so its torment made,

As every feeling else to throw in shade,

And make me of myself forgetful be—

Ruling life's inmost core, its bare rind left for me.

Long years and many had pass'd o'er my head,

Since, in Love's first assault, was dealt my wound,

And from my brow its youthful air had fled,

While cold and cautious thoughts my heart around

Had made it almost adamantine ground,

To loosen which hard passion gave no rest:

No sorrow yet with tears had bathed my breast,

Nor broke my sleep: and what was not in mine

A miracle to me in others seem'd.

Life's sure test death is deem'd,

As cloudless eve best proves the past day fine;

Ah me! the tyrant whom I sing, descried

Ere long his error, that, till then, his dart

Not yet beneath the gown had pierced my heart,

And brought a puissant lady as his guide,

'Gainst whom of small or no avail has been

Genius, or force, to strive or supplicate.

These two transform'd me to my present state,

Making of breathing man a laurel green,

Which loses not its leaves though wintry blasts be keen.

What my amaze, when first I fully learn'd

The wondrous change upon my person done,

And saw my thin hairs to those green leaves turn'd

(Whence yet for them a crown I might have won);

My feet wherewith I stood, and moved, and run—

Thus to the soul the subject members bow—

Become two roots upon the shore, not now

Of fabled Peneus, but a stream as proud,

And stiffen'd to a branch my either arm!

Nor less was my alarm,

When next my frame white down was seen to shroud,

While, 'neath the deadly leven, shatter'd lay

My first green hope that soar'd, too proud, in air,

Because, in sooth, I knew not when nor where

I left my latter state; but, night and day,

Where it was struck, alone, in tears, I went,

Still seeking it alwhere, and in the wave;

And, for its fatal fall, while able, gave

My tongue no respite from its one lament,

For the sad snowy swan both form and language lent.

Thus that loved wave—my mortal speech put by

For birdlike song—I track'd with constant feet,

Still asking mercy with a stranger cry;

But ne'er in tones so tender, nor so sweet,

Knew I my amorous sorrow to repeat,

As might her hard and cruel bosom melt:

Judge, still if memory sting, what then I felt!

But ah! not now the past, it rather needs

Of her my lovely and inveterate foe

The present power to show,

Though such she be all language as exceeds.

She with a glance who rules us as her own,

Opening my breast my heart in hand to take,

Thus said to me: "Of this no mention make."

I saw her then, in alter'd air, alone,

So that I recognised her not—O shame

Be on my truant mind and faithless sight!

And when the truth I told her in sore fright,

She soon resumed her old accustom'd frame,

While, desperate and half dead, a hard rock mine became.

As spoke she, o'er her mien such feeling stirr'd,

That from the solid rock, with lively fear,

"Haply I am not what you deem," I heard;

And then methought, "If she but help me here,

No life can ever weary be, or drear;

To make me weep, return, my banish'd Lord!"

I know not how, but thence, the power restored,

Blaming no other than myself, I went,

And, nor alive, nor dead, the long day past.

But, because time flies fast,

And the pen answers ill my good intent,

Full many a thing long written in my mind

I here omit; and only mention such

Whereat who hears them now will marvel much.

Death so his hand around my vitals twined,

Not silence from its grasp my heart could save,

Or succour to its outraged virtue bring:

As speech to me was a forbidden thing,

To paper and to ink my griefs I gave—

Life, not my own, is lost through you who dig my grave.

I fondly thought before her eyes, at length,

Though low and lost, some mercy to obtain;

And this the hope which lent my spirit strength.

Sometimes humility o'ercomes disdain,

Sometimes inflames it to worse spite again;

This knew I, who so long was left in night,

That from such prayers had disappear'd my light;

Till I, who sought her still, nor found, alas!

Even her shade, nor of her feet a sign,

Outwearied and supine,

As one who midway sleeps, upon the grass

Threw me, and there, accusing the brief ray,

Of bitter tears I loosed the prison'd flood,

To flow and fall, to them as seem'd it good.

Ne'er vanish'd snow before the sun away,

As then to melt apace it me befell,

Till, 'neath a spreading beech a fountain swell'd;

Long in that change my humid course I held,—

Who ever saw from Man a true fount well?

And yet, though strange it sound, things known and sure I tell.

The soul from God its nobler nature gains

(For none save He such favour could bestow)

And like our Maker its high state retains,

To pardon who is never tired, nor slow,

If but with humble heart and suppliant show,

For mercy for past sins to Him we bend;

And if, against his wont, He seem to lend,

Awhile, a cold ear to our earnest prayers,

'Tis that right fear the sinner more may fill;

For he repents but ill

His old crime for another who prepares.

Thus, when my lady, while her bosom yearn'd

With pity, deign'd to look on me, and knew

That equal with my fault its penance grew,

To my old state and shape I soon return'd.

But nought there is on earth in which the wise

May trust, for, wearying braving her afresh,

To rugged stone she changed my quivering flesh.

So that, in their old strain, my broken cries

In vain ask'd death, or told her one name to deaf skies.

A sad and wandering shade, I next recall,

Through many a distant and deserted glen,

That long I mourn'd my indissoluble thrall.

At length my malady seem'd ended, when

I to my earthly frame return'd again,

Haply but greater grief therein to feel;

Still following my desire with such fond zeal

That once (beneath the proud sun's fiercest blaze,

Returning from the chase, as was my wont)

Naked, where gush'd a font,

My fair and fatal tyrant met my gaze;

I whom nought else could pleasure, paused to look,

While, touch'd with shame as natural as intense,

Herself to hide or punish my offence,

She o'er my face the crystal waters shook

—I still speak true, though truth may seem a lie—

Instantly from my proper person torn,

A solitary stag, I felt me borne

In wingèd terrors the dark forest through,

As still of my own dogs the rushing storm I flew

My song! I never was that cloud of gold

Which once descended in such precious rain,

Easing awhile with bliss Jove's amorous pain;

I was a flame, kindled by one bright eye,

I was the bird which gladly soar'd on high,

Exalting her whose praise in song I wake;

Nor, for new fancies, knew I to forsake

My first fond laurel, 'neath whose welcome shade

Ever from my firm heart all meaner pleasures fade.

Macgregor.

SONNET XX

Se l' onorata fronde, che prescrive

TO STRAMAZZO OF PERUGIA, WHO INVITED HIM TO WRITE POETRY

If the world-honour'd leaf, whose green defies

The wrath of Heaven when thunders mighty Jove,

Had not to me prohibited the crown

Which wreathes of wont the gifted poet's brow,

I were a friend of these your idols too,

Whom our vile age so shamelessly ignores:

But that sore insult keeps me now aloof

From the first patron of the olive bough:

For Ethiop earth beneath its tropic sun

Ne'er burn'd with such fierce heat, as I with rage

At losing thing so comely and beloved.

Resort then to some calmer fuller fount,

For of all moisture mine is drain'd and dry,

Save that which falleth from mine eyes in tears.

Macgregor.

SONNET XXI

Amor piangeva, ed io con lui talvolta

HE CONGRATULATES BOCCACCIO ON HIS RETURN TO THE RIGHT PATH

Love grieved, and I with him at times, to see

By what strange practices and cunning art,

You still continued from his fetters free,

From whom my feet were never far apart.

Since to the right way brought by God's decree,

Lifting my hands to heaven with pious heart,

I thank Him for his love and grace, for He

The soul-prayer of the just will never thwart:

And if, returning to the amorous strife,

Its fair desire to teach us to deny,

Hollows and hillocks in thy path abound,

'Tis but to prove to us with thorns how rife

The narrow way, the ascent how hard and high,

Where with true virtue man at last is crown'd.

Macgregor.

SONNET XXII

Più di me lieta non si vede a terra

ON THE SAME SUBJECT

Than me more joyful never reach'd the shore

A vessel, by the winds long tost and tried,

Whose crew, late hopeless on the waters wide,

To a good God their thanks, now prostrate, pour;

Nor captive from his dungeon ever tore,

Around whose neck the noose of death was tied,

More glad than me, that weapon laid aside

Which to my lord hostility long bore.

All ye who honour love in poet strain,

To the good minstrel of the amorous lay

Return due praise, though once he went astray;

For greater glory is, in Heaven's blest reign,

Over one sinner saved, and higher praise,

Than e'en for ninety-nine of perfect ways.

Macgregor.

SONNET XXIII

Il successor di Carlo, che la chioma

ON THE MOVEMENT OF THE EMPEROR AGAINST THE INFIDELS, AND THE RETURN OF THE POPE TO ROME

The high successor of our Charles,

16

16

  Charlemagne.

 whose hair

The crown of his great ancestor adorns,

Already has ta'en arms, to bruise the horns

Of Babylon, and all her name who bear;

Christ's holy vicar with the honour'd load

Of keys and cloak, returning to his home,

Shall see Bologna and our noble Rome,

If no ill fortune bar his further road.

Best to your meek and high-born lamb belongs

To beat the fierce wolf down: so may it be

With all who loyalty and love deny.

Console at length your waiting country's wrongs,

And Rome's, who longs once more her spouse to see,

And gird for Christ the good sword on thy thigh.

Macgregor.

CANZONE II

O aspettata in ciel, beata e bella

IN SUPPORT OF THE PROPOSED CRUSADE AGAINST THE INFIDELS

O spirit wish'd and waited for in heaven,

That wearest gracefully our human clay,

Not as with loading sin and earthly stain,

Who lov'st our Lord's high bidding to obey,—

Henceforth to thee the way is plain and even

By which from hence to bliss we may attain.

To waft o'er yonder main

Thy bark, that bids the world adieu for aye

To seek a better strand,

The western winds their ready wings expand;

Which, through the dangers of that dusky way,

Where all deplore the first infringed command,

Will guide her safe, from primal bondage free,

Reckless to stop or stay,

To that true East, where she desires to be.

Haply the faithful vows, and zealous prayers,

And pious tears by holy mortals shed,

Have come before the mercy-seat above:

Yet vows of ours but little can bestead,

Nor human orison such merit bears

As heavenly justice from its course can move.

But He, the King whom angels serve and love,

His gracious eyes hath turn'd upon the land

Where on the cross He died;

And a new Charlemagne hath qualified

To work the vengeance that on high was plann'd,

For whose delay so long hath Europe sigh'd.

Such mighty aid He brings his faithful spouse,

That at its sound the pride

Of Babylon with trembling terror bows.

All dwellers 'twixt the hills and wild Garonne,

The Rhodanus, and Rhine, and briny wave,

Are banded under red-cross banners brave;

And all who honour'd guerdon fain would have

From Pyrenees to the utmost west, are gone,

Leaving Iberia lorn of warriors keen,

And Britain, with the islands that are seen

Between the columns and the starry wain,

(Even to that land where shone

The far-famed lore of sacred Helicon,)

Diverse in language, weapon, garb and strain,

Of valour true, with pious zeal rush on.

What cause, what love, to this compared may be?

What spouse, or infant train

E'er kindled such a righteous enmity?

There is a portion of the world that lies

Far distant from the sun's all-cheering ray,

For ever wrapt in ice and gelid snows;

There under cloudy skies, in stinted day,

A people dwell, whose heart their clime outvies

By nature framed stern foemen of repose.

Now new devotion in their bosom glows,

With Gothic fury now they grasp the sword.

Turk, Arab, and Chaldee,

With all between us and that sanguine sea,

Who trust in idol-gods, and slight the Lord,

Thou know'st how soon their feeble strength would yield;

A naked race, fearful and indolent,

Unused the brand to wield,

Whose distant aim upon the wind is sent.

Now is the time to shake the ancient yoke

From off our necks, and rend the veil aside

That long in darkness hath involved our eyes;

Let all whom Heaven with genius hath supplied,

And all who great Apollo's name invoke,

With fiery eloquence point out the prize,

With tongue and pen call on the brave to rise;

If Orpheus and Amphion, legends old,

No marvel cause in thee,

It were small wonder if Ausonia see

Collecting at thy call her children bold,

Lifting the spear of Jesus joyfully.

Nor, if our ancient mother judge aright,

Doth her rich page unfold

Such noble cause in any former fight.

Thou who hast scann'd, to heap a treasure fair,

Story of ancient day and modern time,

Soaring with earthly frame to heaven sublime,

Thou know'st, from Mars' bold son, her ruler prime,

To great Augustus, he whose waving hair

Was thrice in triumph wreathed with laurel green,

How Rome hath of her blood still lavish been

To right the woes of many an injured land;

And shall she now be slow,

Her gratitude, her piety to show?

In Christian zeal to buckle on the brand,

For Mary's glorious Son to deal the blow?

What ills the impious foeman must betide

Who trust in mortal hand,

If Christ himself lead on the adverse side!

And turn thy thoughts to Xerxes' rash emprize,

Who dared, in haste to tread our Europe's shore,

Insult the sea with bridge, and strange caprice;

And thou shalt see for husbands then no more

The Persian matrons robed in mournful guise,

And dyed with blood the seas of Salamis,

Nor sole example this:

(The ruin of that Eastern king's design),

That tells of victory nigh:

See Marathon, and stern Thermopylæ,

Closed by those few, and chieftain leonine,

And thousand deeds that blaze in history.

Then bow in thankfulness both heart and knee

Before his holy shrine,

Who such bright guerdon hath reserved for thee.

Thou shalt see Italy and that honour'd shore,

O song! a land debarr'd and hid from me

By neither flood nor hill!

But love alone, whose power hath virtue still

To witch, though all his wiles be vanity,

Nor Nature to avoid the snare hath skill.

Go, bid thy sisters hush their jealous fears,

For other loves there be

Than that blind boy, who causeth smiles and tears.

Miss * * * (Foscolo's Essay).

O thou, in heaven expected, bright and blest,

Spirit! who, from the common frailty free

Of human kind, in human form art drest,

God's handmaid, dutiful and dear to thee

Henceforth the pathway easy lies and plain,

By which, from earth, we bless eternal gain:

Lo! at the wish, to waft thy venturous prore

From the blind world it fain would leave behind

And seek that better shore,

Springs the sweet comfort of the western wind,

Which safe amid this dark and dangerous vale,

Where we our own, the primal sin deplore,

Right on shall guide her, from her old chains freed,

And, without let or fail,

Where havens her best hope, to the true East shall lead.

Haply the suppliant tears of pious men,

Their earnest vows and loving prayers at last

Unto the throne of heavenly grace have past;

Yet, breathed by human helplessness, ah! when

Had purest orison the skill and force

To bend eternal justice from its course?

But He, heaven's bounteous ruler from on high,

On the sad sacred spot, where erst He bled,

Will turn his pitying eye,

And through the spirit of our new Charles spread

Thirst of that vengeance, whose too long delay

From general Europe wakes the bitter sigh;

To his loved spouse such aid will He convey,

That, his dread voice to hear,

Proud Babylon shall shrink assail'd with secret fear.

All, by the gay Garonne, the kingly Rhine,

Between the blue Rhone and salt sea who dwell,

All in whose bosoms worth and honour swell,

Eagerly haste the Christian cross to join;

Spain of her warlike sons, from the far west

Unto the Pyrenee, pours forth her best:

Britannia and the Islands, which are found

Northward from Calpe, studding Ocean's breast,

E'en to that land ren