Studies in the Poetry of Italy Part 9

Whence came so many graces to adorn That brow more fair than summer skies unfold?

Oh! say what angels lead, what spheres control The song divine which wastes my life away?

(Who can with trifles now my senses move?) What sun gave birth unto the lofty soul Of those enchanting eyes, whose glances stray To burn and freeze my heart--the sport of Love?"

Wrottesley.

He is especially fond of describing the scenes where she is, thus combining with her own charms those of lovely nature. Thus he sees her on the banks of clear streams, sitting on the green gra.s.s, with blossoms falling upon her from the trees in springtime, as in the following lines from one of his most beautiful songs:

"Clear, fresh, and dulcet streams, Which the fair shape, who seems To me sole woman, haunted at noontide; Fair bough, so gently fit, (I sigh to think of it), Which lent a pillar to her lovely side; And turf, and flowers bright-eyed, O'er which her folded gown Flow'd like an angel's down; And you, O holy air and hushed, Where first my heart at her sweet glances gushed: Give ear, give ear, with one consenting, To my last words, my last and my lamenting.

"How well I call to mind, When from those boughs the wind Shook down upon her bosom flower on flower; And there she sat, meek-eyed, In midst of all that pride, Sprinkled and blushing through an amorous shower Some to her hair paid dower, And seemed to dress the curls, Queenlike, with gold and pearls; Some, snowing, on her drapery stopped, Some on the earth, some on the water dropped; While others, fluttering from above, Seemed wheeling round in pomp, and saying, 'Here reigns Love.'

How often then I said, Inward, and filled with dread, 'Doubtless this creature came from Paradise!'

For at her look the while, Her voice, and her sweet smile, And heavenly air, truth parted from mine eyes; So that, with long-drawn sighs, I said, as far from men, 'How came I here, and when?'

I had forgotten; and alas!

Fancied myself in heaven, not where I was; And from that time till this, I bear Such love for the green bower, I cannot rest elsewhere."

Leigh Hunt.

Yet, in spite of all her beauty, he is not happy; the thought of her never leaves him. When absent from her he is most miserable:

"Never was bird, spoiled of its young, more sad, Nor wild beast in his lair more lone than me, Now that no more that lovely face I see, The only sun my fond eyes ever had.

In ceaseless sorrow is my chief delight: My food to poison turns, to grief my joy; The night is torture, dark the clearest sky, And my lone pillow a hard field of fight.

Sleep is indeed, as has been well expressed, Akin to death, for it the heart removes From the dear thought in which alone I live.

Land above all with plenty, beauty blessed!

Ye flowery plains, green banks, and shady groves!

Ye hold the treasure for whose loss I grieve!"

Macgregor.

Above all, his torment is increased by the contest between his religious feelings and his love, which, earthly as it was, seemed to be inconsistent with his duty as a Christian. Yet he cannot tear his heart away from the object of his affection. Hence arises a constant warring of the flesh against the spirit, and a vacillation which finds expression in sentiments diametrically opposite. Thus at times he declares that his love for Laura is a blessing to him, leading him to a virtuous and religious life:

"Lady, in your bright eyes Soft glancing round, I mark a holy light, Pointing the arduous way that heavenward lies; And to my practised sight, From thence, where Love enthroned, a.s.serts his might, Visibly, palpably, the soul beams forth.

This is the beacon guides to deeds of worth, And urges me to seek the glorious goal; This bids me leave behind the vulgar throng, Nor can the human tongue Tell how those orbs divine o'er all my soul Exert their sweet control, Both when h.o.a.r winter's frosts around are flung, And when the year puts on his youth again, Jocund, as when this bosom first knew pain."

Dacre.

Then comes another mood, in which his love seems sinful and he prays G.o.d to lead him to a better life:

"Father of heaven! after the days misspent, After the nights of wild tumultuous thought, In that fierce pa.s.sion's strong entanglement, One, for my peace too lovely fair, had wrought; Vouchsafe that, by thy grace, my spirit bent On n.o.bler aims, to holier ways be brought; That so my foe, spreading with dark intent His mortal snares, be foiled, and held at nought.

E'en now th' eleventh year its course fulfils, That I have bowed me to the tyranny Relentless most to fealty most tried.

Have mercy, Lord! on my unworthy ills: Fix all my thoughts in contemplation high; How on the cross this day a Savior died."

Dacre.

This state of his mind, divided against itself, finds its best expression in the song which is regarded as one of the most beautiful of his poems. In the various strophes conflicting sentiments arise, develop, and reach a climax, only to be overthrown by a sudden revulsion of feeling; fame, happiness, the sweetness of love beckon the poet on; then comes the chilling thought of death to show that all things earthly are nothing but vanity. Unfortunately this song is too long to be quoted here entire. We give the first strophe and the refrain:

"Ceaseless I think, and in each wasting thought So strong a pity for myself appears, That often it has brought My hara.s.s'd heart to new yet natural tears; Seeing each day my end of life draw nigh, Instant in prayer, I ask of G.o.d the wings With which the spirit springs, Freed from its mortal coil, to bliss on high; But nothing, to this hour, prayer, tear, or sigh, Whatever man could do, my hopes sustain: And so indeed in justice should it be; Able to stay, who went and fell, that he Should prostrate, in his own despite, remain.

But, lo! the tender arms In which I trust are open to me still, Though fears my bosom fill Of other's fate, and my own heart alarms, Which worldly feelings spur, haply, to utmost ill.

"Song! I am here, my heart the while more cold With fear than frozen snow, Feels in its certain core death's coming blow; For thus, in weak self-communing, has roll'd Of my vain life the better portion by: Worse burden surely ne'er Tried mortal man than that which now I bear; Though death be seated nigh, For future life still seeking councils new, I know and love the good, yet, ah! the worse pursue."

Macgregor.

The finest of Petrarch's sonnets are those written after the death of Laura. With this dread event he loses all joy in life; thought of her beauty returns softened by memory and the lapse of time:

"Where is the brow whose gentlest beckonings led My raptured heart at will, now here, now there?

Where the twin stars, lights of this lower sphere, Which o'er my darkling path their radiance shed?

Where is true worth, and wit, and wisdom fled?

The courteous phrase, the melting accent, where?

Where, grouped in one rich form, the beauties rare, Which long their magic influence o'er me shed?

Where is the shade, within whose sweet recess My wearied spirit still forgot its sighs, And all my thoughts their constant record found?

Where, where is she, my life's sole arbitress?-- Ah, wretched world! and wretched ye, mine eyes (Of her pure light bereft) which aye with tears are drowned."

Wrangham.

Yet, in his affliction there is a certain comfort, for now that she is dead she seems no longer cold to him, and he often sees and converses with her in heaven:

"Fond fancy raised me to the spot, where strays She, whom I seek but find on earth no more: There, fairer still and humbler than before, I saw her, in the third heaven's blessed maze.

She took me by the hand, and 'Thou shalt trace, If hope not errs,' she said, 'this happy sh.o.r.e; I, I am she, thy breast with slights who tore, And ere its evening closed my day's brief s.p.a.ce.

What human heart conceives, my joys exceed: Thee only I expect, and (what remain Below) the charms, once objects of thy love,'

Why ceased she? Ah! my captive hand why freed?

Such of her soft and hallowed tones the chain, From that delightful heaven my soul could scarcely move."

Wrangham.

But, when spring returns, it brings a renewal of his grief:

"The spring returns, with all her smiling train; The wanton Zephyrs breathe along the bowers, The glistening dewdrops hang on bending flowers, And tender green light-shadows o'er the plain: And thou, sweet Philomel, renew'st thy strain, Breathing thy wild notes to the midnight grove: All nature feels the kindling fire of love, The vital force of spring's returning reign.

But not to me returns the cheerful spring!

O heart! that know'st no period to thy grief, Nor nature's smiles to thee impart relief, Nor change of mind the varying seasons bring: She, she is gone! All that e'er pleased before, Adieu! ye birds, ye flowers, ye fields, that charm no more!"

Woodhouselee.

His only comfort now is in thinking that he, too, must soon die:

"Oh! swifter than the hart my life hath fled, A shadow'd dream; one winged glance hath seen Its only good; its hours (how few serene!) The sweet and bitter tide of thought have fed: Ephemeral world! in pride and sorrow bred, Who hope in thee, are blind as I have been; I hoped in thee, and thus my heart's loved queen Hath borne it mid her nerveless, kindred dead.

Her form decayed--its beauty still survives, For in high heaven that soul will ever bloom, With which each day I more enamored grow: Thus though my locks are blanched, my hope revives In thinking on her home--her soul's high doom: Alas! how changed the shrine she left below!"

Wollaston.

Weary of life, now that he is left alone, he devotes himself to G.o.d; he directs all his thought to heaven, where Laura awaits and beckons him:

"The chosen angels, and the spirits blest, Celestial tenants, on that glorious day My lady joined them, thronged in bright array Around her, with amaze and awe imprest.

'What splendor, what new beauty stands confest Unto our sight?'--among themselves they say; 'No soul, in this vile age, from sinful clay To our high realms has risen so fair a guest.'

Delighted to have changed her mortal state, She ranks amid the purest of her kind; And ever and anon she looks behind, To mark my progress and my coming wait; Now my whole thought, my wish to heaven I cast; 'Tis Laura's voice I hear, and hence she bids me haste."