The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 27

_L' arbor gentil che forte amai molt' anni._

IMPRECATION AGAINST THE LAUREL.

The graceful tree I loved so long and well, Ere its fair boughs in scorn my flame declined, Beneath its shade encouraged my poor mind To bud and bloom, and 'mid its sorrow swell.

But now, my heart secure from such a spell, Alas, from friendly it has grown unkind!

My thoughts entirely to one end confined, Their painful sufferings how I still may tell.

What should he say, the sighing slave of love, To whom my later rhymes gave hope of bliss, Who for that laurel has lost all--but this?

May poet never pluck thee more, nor Jove Exempt; but may the sun still hold in hate On each green leaf till blight and blackness wait.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XLVII.

_Benedetto sia 'l giorno e 'l mese e l' anno._

HE BLESSES ALL THE CIRc.u.mSTANCES OF HIS Pa.s.sION.

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, 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.

WRANGHAM.

Blest be the year, the month, the hour, the day, The season and the time, and point of s.p.a.ce, And blest the beauteous country and the place Where first of two bright eyes I felt the sway: Blest the sweet pain of which I was the prey, When newly doom'd Love's sovereign law to embrace, And blest the bow and shaft to which I trace, The wound that to my inmost heart found way: Blest be the ceaseless accents of my tongue, Unwearied breathing my loved lady's name: Blest my fond wishes, sighs, and tears, and pains: Blest be the lays in which her praise I sung, That on all sides acquired to her fair fame, And blest my thoughts! for o'er them all she reigns.

DACRE.

SONNET XLVIII.

_Padre del ciel, dopo i perduti giorni._

CONSCIOUS OF HIS FOLLY, HE PRAYS G.o.d TO TURN 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 foil'd, and held at nought.

E'en now th' eleventh year its course fulfils, That I have bow'd 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 Saviour died.

DACRE.

Father of heaven! despite my days all lost, Despite my nights in doting folly spent With that fierce pa.s.sion which my bosom rent At sight of her, too lovely for my cost; Vouchsafe at length that, by thy grace, I turn To wiser life, and enterprise more fair, So that my cruel foe, in vain his snare Set for my soul, may his defeat discern.

Already, Lord, the eleventh year circling wanes Since first beneath his tyrant yoke I fell Who still is fiercest where we least rebel: Pity my undeserved and lingering pains, To holier thoughts my wandering sense restore, How on this day his cross thy Son our Saviour bore.

MACGREGOR.

BALLATA V.

_Volgendo gli occhi al mio novo colore._

HER KIND SALUTE SAVED HIM FROM DEATH.

Late as those eyes on my sunk cheek inclined, Whose paleness to the world seems of the grave, Compa.s.sion moved you to that greeting kind, Whose soft smile to my worn heart spirit gave.

The poor frail life which yet to me is left Was of your beauteous eyes the liberal gift, And of that voice angelical and mild; My present state derived from them I see; As the rod quickens the slow sullen child, So waken'd they the sleeping soul in me.

Thus, Lady, of my true heart both the keys You hold in hand, and yet your captive please: Ready to sail wherever winds may blow, By me most prized whate'er to you I owe.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XLIX.

_Se voi poteste per turbati segni._

HE ENTREATS LAURA NOT TO HATE THE HEART FROM WHICH SHE CAN NEVER BE ABSENT.

If, but by angry and disdainful sign, By the averted head and downcast sight, By readiness beyond thy s.e.x for flight, Deaf to all pure and worthy prayers of mine, Thou canst, by these or other arts of thine, 'Scape from my breast--where Love on slip so slight Grafts every day new boughs--of such despite A fitting cause I then might well divine: For gentle plant in arid soil to be Seems little suited: so it better were, And this e'en nature dictates, thence to stir.

But since thy destiny prohibits thee Elsewhere to dwell, be this at least thy care Not always to sojourn in hatred there.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET L.

_La.s.so, che mal accorto fui da prima._

HE PRAYS LOVE TO KINDLE ALSO IN HER THE FLAME BY WHICH HE IS UNCEASINGLY TORMENTED.

Alas! this heart by me was little known In those first days when Love its depths explored, Where by degrees he made himself the lord Of my whole life, and claim'd it as his own: I did not think that, through his power alone, A heart time-steel'd, and so with valour stored, Such proof of failing firmness could afford, And fell by wrong self-confidence o'erthrown.

Henceforward all defence too late will come, Save this, to prove, enough or little, here If to these mortal prayers Love lend his ear.