The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 33

Love now is paramount my heart to bind, And, save that with desire increases hope, Dead should I lie alive where I would dwell.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXV.

_Io avr sempre in odio la fenestra._

BETTER IS IT TO DIE HAPPY THAN TO LIVE IN PAIN.

Always in hate the window shall I bear, Whence Love has shot on me his shafts at will, Because not one of them sufficed to kill: For death is good when life is bright and fair, But in this earthly jail its term to outwear Is cause to me, alas! of infinite ill; And mine is worse because immortal still, Since from the heart the spirit may not tear.

Wretched! ere this who surely ought'st to know By long experience, from his onward course None can stay Time by flattery or by force.

Oft and again have I address'd it so: Mourner, away! he parteth not too soon Who leaves behind him far his life's calm June.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXVI.

_S tosto come avvien che l' arco scocchi._

HE CALLS THE EYES OF LAURA FOES, BECAUSE THEY KEEP HIM IN LIFE ONLY TO TORMENT HIM.

Instantly a good archer draws his bow Small skill it needs, e'en from afar, to see Which shaft, less fortunate, despised may be, Which to its destined sign will certain go: Lady, e'en thus of your bright eyes the blow, You surely felt pa.s.s straight and deep in me, Searching my life, whence--such is fate's decree-- Eternal tears my stricken heart overflow; And well I know e'en then your pity said: Fond wretch! to misery whom pa.s.sion leads, Be this the point at once to strike him dead.

But seeing now how sorrow sorrow breeds, All that my cruel foes against me plot, For my worse pain, and for my death is not.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXVII.

_Poi che mia speme e lunga a venir troppo._

HE COUNSELS LOVERS TO FLEE, RATHER THAN BE CONSUMED BY THE FLAMES OF LOVE.

Since my hope's fruit yet faileth to arrive, And short the s.p.a.ce vouchsafed me to survive, Betimes of this aware I fain would be, Swifter than light or wind from Love to flee: And I do flee him, weak albeit and lame O' my left side, where pa.s.sion racked my frame.

Though now secure yet bear I on my face Of the amorous encounter signal trace.

Wherefore I counsel each this way who comes, Turn hence your footsteps, and, if Love consumes, Think not in present pain his worst is done; For, though I live, of thousand scapes not one!

'Gainst Love my enemy was strong indeed-- Lo! from his wounds e'en she is doom'd to bleed.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXVIII.

_Fuggendo la prigione ov' Amor m' ebbe._

HE LONGS TO RETURN TO THE CAPTIVITY OF LOVE.

Fleeing the prison which had long detain'd, Where Love dealt with me as to him seem'd well, Ladies, the time were long indeed to tell, How much my heart its new-found freedom pain'd.

I felt within I could not, so bereaved, Live e'en a day: and, midway, on my eyes That traitor rose in so complete disguise, A wiser than myself had been deceived: Whence oft I've said, deep sighing for the past, Alas! the yoke and chains of old to me Were sweeter far than thus released to be.

Me wretched! but to learn mine ill at last; With what sore trial must I now forget Errors that round my path myself have set.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXIX.

_Erano i capei d' oro all' aura sparsi._

HE PAINTS THE BEAUTIES OF LAURA, PROTESTING HIS UNALTERABLE LOVE.

Loose to the breeze her golden tresses flow'd Wildly in thousand mazy ringlets blown, And from her eyes unconquer'd glances shone, Those glances now so sparingly bestow'd.

And true or false, meseem'd some signs she show'd As o'er her cheek soft pity's hue was thrown; I, whose whole breast with love's soft food was sown, What wonder if at once my bosom glow'd?

Graceful she moved, with more than mortal mien, In form an angel: and her accents won Upon the ear with more than human sound.

A spirit heavenly pure, a living sun, Was what I saw; and if no more 'twere seen, T' unbend the bow will never heal the wound.

ANON., OX., 1795.

Her golden tresses on the wind she threw, Which twisted them in many a beauteous braid; In her fine eyes the burning glances play'd, With lovely light, which now they seldom show: Ah! then it seem'd her face wore pity's hue, Yet haply fancy my fond sense betray'd; Nor strange that I, in whose warm heart was laid Love's fuel, suddenly enkindled grew!

Not like a mortal's did her step appear, Angelic was her form; her voice, methought, Pour'd more than human accents on the ear.

A living sun was what my vision caught, A spirit pure; and though not such still found, Unbending of the bow ne'er heals the wound.

NOTT.

Her golden tresses to the gale were streaming, That in a thousand knots did them entwine, And the sweet rays which now so rarely shine From her enchanting eyes, were brightly beaming, And--was it fancy?--o'er that dear face gleaming Methought I saw Compa.s.sion's tint divine; What marvel that this ardent heart of mine Blazed swiftly forth, impatient of Love's dreaming?

There was nought mortal in her stately tread But grace angelic, and her speech awoke Than human voices a far loftier sound, A spirit of heaven,--a living sun she broke Upon my sight;--what if these charms be fled?-- The slackening of the bow heals not the wound.

WROTTESLEY.