The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 39

NOTT.

From impious Babylon, where all shame is dead, And every good is banish'd to far climes, Nurse of rank errors, centre of worst crimes, Haply to lengthen life, I too am fled: Alone, at last alone, and here, as led At Love's sweet will, I posies weave or rhymes, Self-parleying, and still on better times Wrapt in fond thoughts whence only hope is fed.

Cares for the world or fortune I have none, Nor much for self, nor any common theme: Nor feel I in me, nor without, great heat.

Two friends alone I ask, and that the one More merciful and meek to me may seem, The other well as erst, and firm of feet.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XCII.

_In mezzo di duo amanti onesta altera._

LAURA TURNING TO SALUTE HIM, THE SUN, THROUGH JEALOUSY, WITHDREW BEHIND A CLOUD.

'Tween two fond lovers I a lady spied, Virtuous but haughty, and with her that lord, By G.o.ds above and men below adored-- The sun on this, myself upon that side-- Soon as she found herself the sphere denied Of her bright friend, on my fond eyes she pour'd A flood of life and joy, which hope restored Less cold to me will be her future pride.

Suddenly changed itself to cordial mirth The jealous fear to which at his first sight So high a rival in my heart gave birth; As suddenly his sad and rueful plight From further scrutiny a small cloud veil'd, So much it ruffled him that then he fail'd.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XCIII.

_Pien di quella ineffabile dolcezza._

WHEREVER HE IS, HE SEES ONLY LAURA.

O'erflowing with the sweets ineffable, Which from that lovely face my fond eyes drew, What time they seal'd, for very rapture, grew.

On meaner beauty never more to dwell, Whom most I love I left: my mind so well Its part, to muse on her, is train'd to do, None else it sees; what is not hers to view, As of old wont, with loathing I repel.

In a low valley shut from all around, Sole consolation of my heart-deep sighs, Pensive and slow, with Love I walk alone: Not ladies here, but rocks and founts are found, And of that day blest images arise, Which my thought shapes where'er I turn mine eyes.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XCIV.

_Se 'l sa.s.so ond' e piu chiusa questa valle._

COULD HE BUT SEE THE HOUSE OF LAURA, HIS SIGHS MIGHT REACH HER MORE QUICKLY.

If, which our valley bars, this wall of stone, From which its present name we closely trace, Were by disdainful nature rased, and thrown Its back to Babel and to Rome its face; Then had my sighs a better pathway known To where their hope is yet in life and grace: They now go singly, yet my voice all own; And, where I send, not one but finds its place.

There too, as I perceive, such welcome sweet They ever find, that none returns again, But still delightedly with her remain.

My grief is from the eyes, each morn to meet-- Not the fair scenes my soul so long'd to see-- Toil for my weary limbs and tears for me.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XCV.

_Rimansi addietro il sestodecim' anno._

THOUGH HE IS UNHAPPY, HIS LOVE REMAINS EVER UNCHANGED.

My sixteenth year of sighs its course has run, I stand alone, already on the brow Where Age descends: and yet it seems as now My time of trial only were begun.

'Tis sweet to love, and good to be undone; Though life be hard, more days may Heaven allow Misfortune to outlive: else Death may bow The bright head low my loving praise that won.

Here am I now who fain would be elsewhere; More would I wish and yet no more I would; I could no more and yet did all I could: And new tears born of old desires declare That still I am as I was wont to be, And that a thousand changes change not me.

MACGREGOR.

CANZONE XII.

_Una donna piu bella a.s.sai che 'l sole._

GLORY AND VIRTUE.

A lady, lovelier, brighter than the sun, Like him superior o'er all time and s.p.a.ce, Of rare resistless grace, Me to her train in early life had won: She, from that hour, in act, and word and thought, --For still the world thus covets what is rare-- In many ways though brought Before my search, was still the same coy fair: For her alone my plans, from what they were, Grew changed, since nearer subject to her eyes; Her love alone could spur My young ambition to each hard emprize: So, if in long-wish'd port I e'er arrive, I hope, for aye through her, When others deem me dead, in honour to survive.

Full of first hope, burning with youthful love, She, at her will, as plainly now appears, Has led me many years, But for one end, my nature best to prove: Oft showing me her shadow, veil, and dress, But never her sweet face, till I, who right Knew not her power to bless, All my green youth for these, contented quite, So spent, that still the memory is delight: Since onward yet some glimpse of her is seen, I now may own, of late, Such as till then she ne'er for me had been, She shows herself, shooting through all my heart An icy cold so great That save in her dear arms it ne'er can thence depart.

Not that in this cold fear I all did shrink, For still my heart was to such boldness strung That to her feet I clung, As if more rapture from her eyes to drink: And she--for now the veil was ta'en away Which barr'd my sight--thus spoke me, "Friend, you see How fair I am, and may Ask, for your years, whatever fittest be."

"Lady," I said, "so long my love on thee Has fix'd, that now I feel myself on fire, What, in this state, to shun, and what desire."

She, thereon, with a voice so wond'rous sweet And earnest look replied, By turns with hope and fear it made my quick heart beat:--

"Rarely has man, in this full crowd below, E'en partial knowledge of my worth possess'd Who felt not in his breast At least awhile some spark of spirit glow: But soon my foe, each germ of good abhorr'd, Quenches that light, and every virtue dies, While reigns some other lord Who promises a calmer life shall rise: Love, of your mind, to him that naked lies, So shows the great desire with which you burn, That safely I divine It yet shall win for you an honour'd urn; Already one of my few friends you are, And now shall see in sign A lady who shall make your fond eyes happier far."

"It may not, cannot be," I thus began; --When she, "Turn hither, and in yon calm nook Upon the lady look So seldom seen, so little sought of man!"

I turn'd, and o'er my brow the mantling shame, Within me as I felt that new fire swell, Of conscious treason came.

She softly smiled, "I understand you well; E'en as the sun's more powerful rays dispel And drive the meaner stars of heaven from sight, So I less fair appear, Dwindling and darken'd now in her more light; But not for this I bar you from my train, As one in jealous fear-- One birth, the elder she, produced us, sisters twain."

Meanwhile the cold and heavy chain was burst Of silence, which a sense of shame had flung Around my powerless tongue, When I was conscious of her notice first: And thus I spoke, "If what I hear be true, Bless'd be the sire, and bless'd the natal day Which graced our world with you!

Blest the long years pa.s.s'd in your search away!

From the right path if e'er I went astray, It grieves me more than, haply, I can show: But of your state, if I Deserve more knowledge, more I long to know."