The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 26

That fire for ever which I thought at rest, Quench'd in the chill blood of my ripen'd years, Awakes new flames and torment in my breast.

Its sparks were never all, from what I see, Extinct, but merely slumbering, smoulder'd o'er; Haply this second error worse may be, For, by the tears, which I, in torrents, pour, Grief, through these eyes, distill'd from my heart's core, Which holds within itself the spark and bait, Remains not as it was, but grows more great.

What fire, save mine, had not been quench'd and kill'd Beneath the flood these sad eyes ceaseless shed?

Struggling 'mid opposites--so Love has will'd-- Now here, now there, my vain life must be led, For in so many ways his snares are spread, When most I hope him from my heart expell'd Then most of her fair face its slave I'm held.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XLIII.

_Se col cieco desir che 'l cor distrugge._

BLIGHTED HOPE.

Either that blind desire, which life destroys Counting the hours, deceives my misery, Or, even while yet I speak, the moment flies, Promised at once to pity and to me.

Alas! what baneful shade o'erhangs and dries The seed so near its full maturity?

'Twixt me and hope what brazen walls arise?

From murderous wolves not even my fold is free.

Ah, woe is me! Too clearly now I find That felon Love, to aggravate my pain, Mine easy heart hath thus to hope inclined; And now the maxim sage I call to mind, That mortal bliss must doubtful still remain Till death from earthly bonds the soul unbind.

CHARLEMONT.

Counting the hours, lest I myself mislead By blind desire wherewith my heart is torn, E'en while I speak away the moments speed, To me and pity which alike were sworn.

What shade so cruel as to blight the seed Whence the wish'd fruitage should so soon be born?

What beast within my fold has leap'd to feed?

What wall is built between the hand and corn?

Alas! I know not, but, if right I guess, Love to such joyful hope has only led To plunge my weary life in worse distress; And I remember now what once I read, Until the moment of his full release Man's bliss begins not, nor his troubles cease.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XLIV.

_Mie venture al venir son tarde e pigre._

FEW ARE THE SWEETS, BUT MANY THE BITTERS OF LOVE.

Ever my hap is slack and slow in coming, Desire increasing, ay my hope uncertain With doubtful love, that but increaseth pain; For, tiger-like, so swift it is in parting.

Alas! the snow black shall it be and scalding, The sea waterless, and fish upon the mountain, The Thames shall back return into his fountain, And where he rose the sun shall take [his] lodging, Ere I in this find peace or quietness; Or that Love, or my Lady, right wisely, Leave to conspire against me wrongfully.

And if I have, after such bitterness, One drop of sweet, my mouth is out of taste, That all my trust and travail is but waste.

WYATT.

Late to arrive my fortunes are and slow-- Hopes are unsure, desires ascend and swell, Suspense, expectancy in me rebel-- But swifter to depart than tigers go.

Tepid and dark shall be the cold pure snow, The ocean dry, its fish on mountains dwell, The sun set in the East, by that old well Alike whence Tigris and Euphrates flow, Ere in this strife I peace or truce shall find, Ere Love or Laura practise kinder ways, Sworn friends, against me wrongfully combined.

After such bitters, if some sweet allays, Balk'd by long fasts my palate spurns the fare, Sole grace from them that falleth to my share.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XLV.

_La guancia che fu gia piangendo stanca._

TO HIS FRIEND AGAPITO, WITH A PRESENT.

Thy weary cheek that channell'd sorrow shows, My much loved lord, upon the one repose; More careful of thyself against Love be, Tyrant who smiles his votaries wan to see; And with the other close the left-hand path Too easy entrance where his message hath; In sun and storm thyself the same display, Because time faileth for the lengthen'd way.

And, with the third, drink of the precious herb Which purges every thought that would disturb, Sweet in the end though sour at first in taste: But me enshrine where your best joys are placed, So that I fear not the grim bark of Styx, If with such prayer of mine pride do not mix.

MACGREGOR.

BALLATA IV.

_Perche quel che mi tra.s.se ad amar prima._

HE WILL ALWAYS LOVE HER, THOUGH DENIED THE SIGHT OF HER.

Though cruelty denies my view Those charms which led me first to love; To pa.s.sion yet will I be true, Nor shall my will rebellious prove.

Amid the curls of golden hair That wave those beauteous temples round, Cupid spread craftily the snare With which my captive heart he bound: And from those eyes he caught the ray Which thaw'd the ice that fenced my breast, Chasing all other thoughts away, With brightness suddenly imprest.

But now that hair of sunny gleam, Ah me! is ravish'd from my sight; Those beauteous eyes withdraw their beam, And change to sadness past delight.

A glorious death by all is prized; Tis death alone shall break my chain: Oh! be Love's timid wail despised.

Lovers should n.o.bly suffer pain.

NOTT.

Though barr'd from all which led me first to love By coldness or caprice, Not yet from its firm bent can pa.s.sion cease!

The snare was set amid those threads of gold, To which Love bound me fast; And from those bright eyes melted the long cold Within my heart that pa.s.s'd; So sweet the spell their sudden splendour cast, Its single memory still Deprives my soul of every other will.

But now, alas! from me of that fine hair Is ravish'd the dear sight; The lost light of those twin stars, chaste as fair, Saddens me in her flight; But, since a glorious death wins honour bright, By death, and not through grief, Love from such chain shall give at last relief.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XLVI.