The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 24

MACGREGOR.

SONNET x.x.xIX.

_Io sentia dentr' al cor gia venir meno._

HE DESIRES AGAIN TO GAZE ON THE EYES Of LAURA.

I now perceived that from within me fled Those spirits to which you their being lend; And since by nature's dictates to defend Themselves from death all animals are made, The reins I loosed, with which Desire I stay'd, And sent him on his way without a friend; There whither day and night my course he'd bend, Though still from thence by me reluctant led.

And me ashamed and slow along he drew To see your eyes their matchless influence shower, Which much I shun, afraid to give you pain.

Yet for myself this once I'll live; such power Has o'er this wayward life one look from you:-- Then die, unless Desire prevails again.

ANON., OX., 1795.

Because the powers that take their life from you Already had I felt within decay, And because Nature, death to shield or slay, Arms every animal with instinct true, To my long-curb'd desire the rein I threw, And turn'd it in the old forgotten way, Where fondly it invites me night and day, Though 'gainst its will, another I pursue.

And thus it led me back, ashamed and slow, To see those eyes with love's own l.u.s.tre rife Which I am watchful never to offend: Thus may I live perchance awhile below; One glance of yours such power has o'er my life Which sure, if I oppose desire, shall end.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XL.

_Se mai foco per foco non si spense._

HIS HEART IS ALL IN FLAMES, BUT HIS TONGUE IS MUTE, IN HER PRESENCE.

If fire was never yet by fire subdued, If never flood fell dry by frequent rain, But, like to like, if each by other gain, And contraries are often mutual food; Love, who our thoughts controllest in each mood, Through whom two bodies thus one soul sustain, How, why in her, with such unusual strain Make the want less by wishes long renewed?

Perchance, as falleth the broad Nile from high, Deafening with his great voice all nature round, And as the sun still dazzles the fix'd eye, So with itself desire in discord found Loses in its impetuous object force, As the too frequent spur oft checks the course.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XLI.

_Perch' io t' abbia guardato di menzogna._

IN HER PRESENCE HE CAN NEITHER SPEAK, WEEP, NOR SIGH.

Although from falsehood I did thee restrain With all my power, and paid thee honour due, Ungrateful tongue; yet never did accrue Honour from thee, but shame, and fierce disdain: Most art thou cold, when most I want the strain Thy aid should lend while I for pity sue; And all thy utterance is imperfect too, When thou dost speak, and as the dreamer's vain.

Ye too, sad tears, throughout each lingering night Upon me wait, when I alone would stay; But, needed by my peace, you take your flight: And, all so prompt anguish and grief t' impart, Ye sighs, then slow, and broken breathe your way: My looks alone truly reveal my heart.

NOTT.

With all my power, lest falsehood should invade, I guarded thee and still thy honour sought, Ungrateful tongue! who honour ne'er hast brought, But still my care with rage and shame repaid: For, though to me most requisite, thine aid, When mercy I would ask, availeth nought, Still cold and mute, and e'en to words if wrought They seem as sounds in sleep by dreamers made.

And ye, sad tears, o' nights, when I would fain Be left alone, my sure companions, flow, But, summon'd for my peace, ye soon depart: Ye too, mine anguish'd sighs, so prompt to pain, Then breathe before her brokenly and slow, And my face only speaks my suffering heart.

MACGREGOR.

CANZONE V.

_Nella stagion che 'l ciel rapido inchina._

NIGHT BRINGS REPOSE TO OTHERS, BUT NOT TO HIM.

In that still season, when the rapid sun Drives down the west, and daylight flies to greet Nations that haply wait his kindling flame; In some strange land, alone, her weary feet The time-worn pilgrim finds, with toil fordone, Yet but the more speeds on her languid frame; Her solitude the same, When night has closed around; Yet has the wanderer found A deep though short forgetfulness at last Of every woe, and every labour past.

But ah! my grief, that with each moment grows, As fast, and yet more fast, Day urges on, is heaviest at its close.

When Phoebus rolls his everlasting wheels To give night room; and from encircling wood, Broader and broader yet descends the shade; The labourer arms him for his evening trade, And all the weight his burthen'd heart conceals Lightens with glad discourse or descant rude; Then spreads his board with food, Such as the forest h.o.a.r To our first fathers bore, By us disdain'd, yet praised in hall and bower, But, let who will the cup of joyance pour, I never knew, I will not say of mirth, But of repose, an hour, When Phoebus leaves, and stars salute the earth.

Yon shepherd, when the mighty star of day He sees descending to its western bed, And the wide Orient all with shade embrown'd, Takes his old crook, and from the fountain head, Green mead, and beechen bower, pursues his way, Calling, with welcome voice, his flocks around; Then far from human sound, Some desert cave he strows With leaves and verdant boughs, And lays him down, without a thought, to sleep.

Ah, cruel Love!--then dost thou bid me keep My idle chase, the airy steps pursuing Of her I ever weep, Who flies me still, my endless toil renewing.

E'en the rude seaman, in some cave confined, Pillows his head, as daylight quits the scene, On the hard deck, with vilest mat o'erspread; And when the Sun in orient wave serene Bathes his resplendent front, and leaves behind Those antique pillars of his boundless bed; Forgetfulness has shed O'er man, and beast, and flower, Her mild restoring power: But my determined grief finds no repose; And every day but aggravates the woes Of that remorseless flood, that, ten long years, Flowing, yet ever flows, Nor know I what can check its ceaseless tears.

MERIVALE.

What time towards the western skies The sun with parting radiance flies, And other climes gilds with expected light, Some aged pilgrim dame who strays Alone, fatigued, through pathless ways, Hastens her step, and dreads the approach of night Then, the day's journey o'er, she'll steep Her sense awhile in grateful sleep; Forgetting all the pain, and peril past; But I, alas! find no repose, Each sun to me brings added woes, While light's eternal orb rolls from us fast.

When the sun's wheels no longer glow, And hills their lengthen'd shadows throw, The hind collects his tools, and carols gay; Then spreads his board with frugal fare, Such as those homely acorns were, Which all revere, yet casting them away, Let those, who pleasure can enjoy, In cheerfulness their hours employ; While I, of all earth's wretches most unblest, Whether the sun fierce darts his beams, Whether the moon more mildly gleams, Taste no delight, no momentary rest!

When the swain views the star of day Quench in the pillowing waves its ray, And scatter darkness o'er the eastern skies Rising, his custom'd crook he takes, The beech-wood, fountain, plain forsakes, As calmly homeward with his flock he hies Remote from man, then on his bed In cot, or cave, with fresh leaves spread, He courts soft slumber, and suspense from care, While thou, fell Love, bidst me pursue That voice, those footsteps which subdue My soul; yet movest not th' obdurate fair!

Lock'd in some bay, to taste repose On the hard deck, the sailor throws His coa.r.s.e garb o'er him, when the car of light Granada, with Marocco leaves, The Pillars famed, Iberia's waves, And the world's hush'd, and all its race, in night.

But never will my sorrows cease, Successive days their sum increase, Though just ten annual suns have mark'd my pain; Say, to this bosom's poignant grief Who shall administer relief?

Say, who at length shall free me from my chain?

And, since there's comfort in the strain, I see at eve along each plain.

And furrow'd hill, the unyoked team return: Why at that hour will no one stay My sighs, or bear my yoke away?

Why bathed in tears must I unceasing mourn?

Wretch that I was, to fix my sight First on that face with such delight, Till on my thought its charms were strong imprest, Which force shall not efface, nor art, Ere from this frame my soul dispart!

Nor know I then if pa.s.sion's votaries rest.