The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 43

(Shame, worse than aught of loss, in honour's eye!) While ye, with honest rage, devoted pour Your inmost bosom's gore!-- Yet give one hour to thought, And ye shall own, how little he can hold Another's glory dear, who sets his own at nought O Latin blood of old!

Arise, and wrest from obloquy thy fame, Nor bow before a name Of hollow sound, whose power no laws enforce!

For if barbarians rude Have higher minds subdued, Ours! ours the crime!--not such wise Nature's course.

Ah! is not this the soil my foot first press'd?

And here, in cradled rest, Was I not softly hush'd?--here fondly rear'd?

Ah! is not this my country?--so endear'd By every filial tie!

In whose lap shrouded both my parents lie!

Oh! by this tender thought, Your torpid bosoms to compa.s.sion wrought, Look on the people's grief!

Who, after G.o.d, of you expect relief; And if ye but relent, Virtue shall rouse her in embattled might, Against blind fury bent, Nor long shall doubtful hang the unequal fight; For no,--the ancient flame Is not extinguish'd yet, that raised the Italian name!

Mark, sovereign Lords! how Time, with pinion strong, Swift hurries life along!

E'en now, behold! Death presses on the rear.

We sojourn here a day--the next, are gone!

The soul disrobed--alone, Must shuddering seek the doubtful pa.s.s we fear.

Oh! at the dreaded bourne, Abase the lofty brow of wrath and scorn, (Storms adverse to the eternal calm on high!) And ye, whose cruelty Has sought another's harm, by fairer deed Of heart, or hand, or intellect, aspire To win the honest meed Of just renown--the n.o.ble mind's desire!

Thus sweet on earth the stay!

Thus to the spirit pure, unbarr'd is Heaven's way!

My song! with courtesy, and numbers sooth, Thy daring reasons grace, For thou the mighty, in their pride of place, Must woo to gentle ruth, Whose haughty will long evil customs nurse, Ever to truth averse!

Thee better fortunes wait, Among the virtuous few--the truly great!

Tell them--but who shall bid my terrors cease?

Peace! Peace! on thee I call! return, O heaven-born Peace!

DACRE.

See Time, that flies, and spreads his hasty wing!

See Life, how swift it runs the race of years, And on its weary shoulders death appears!

Now all is life and all is spring: Think on the winter and the darker day When the soul, naked and alone, Must prove the dubious step, the still unknown, Yet ever beaten way.

And through this fatal vale Would you be wafted with some gentle gale?

Put off that eager strife and fierce disdain, Clouds that involve our life's serene, And storms that ruffle all the scene; Your precious hours, misspent in others' pain, On n.o.bler deeds, worthy yourselves, bestow; Whether with hand or wit you raise Some monument of peaceful praise, Some happy labour of fair love: 'Tis all of heaven that you can find below, And opens into all above.

BASIL KENNET.

CANZONE XVII.

_Di pensier in pensier, di monte in monte._

DISTANCE AND SOLITUDE.

From hill to hill I roam, from thought to thought, With Love my guide; the beaten path I fly, For there in vain the tranquil life is sought: If 'mid the waste well forth a lonely rill, Or deep embosom'd a low valley lie, In its calm shade my trembling heart's still; And there, if Love so will, I smile, or weep, or fondly hope, or fear.

While on my varying brow, that speaks the soul, The wild emotions roll, Now dark, now bright, as shifting skies appear; That whosoe'er has proved the lover's state Would say, He feels the flame, nor knows his future fate.

On mountains high, in forests drear and wide, I find repose, and from the throng'd resort Of man turn fearfully my eyes aside; At each lone step thoughts ever new arise Of her I love, who oft with cruel sport Will mock the pangs I bear, the tears, the sighs; Yet e'en these ills I prize, Though bitter, sweet, nor would they were removed For my heart whispers me, Love yet has power To grant a happier hour: Perchance, though self-despised, thou yet art loved: E'en then my breast a pa.s.sing sigh will heave, Ah! when, or how, may I a hope so wild believe?

Where shadows of high rocking pines dark wave I stay my footsteps, and on some rude stone With thought intense her beauteous face engrave; Roused from the trance, my bosom bathed I find With tears, and cry, Ah! whither thus alone Hast thou far wander'd, and whom left behind?

But as with fixed mind On this fair image I impa.s.sion'd rest, And, viewing her, forget awhile my ills, Love my rapt fancy fills; In its own error sweet the soul is blest, While all around so bright the visions glide; Oh! might the cheat endure, I ask not aught beside.

Her form portray'd within the lucid stream Will oft appear, or on the verdant lawn, Or glossy beech, or fleecy cloud, will gleam So lovely fair, that Leda's self might say, Her Helen sinks eclipsed, as at the dawn A star when cover'd by the solar ray: And, as o'er wilds I stray Where the eye nought but savage nature meets, There Fancy most her brightest tints employs; But when rude truth destroys The loved illusion of those dreamed sweets, I sit me down on the cold rugged stone, Less coid, less dead than I, and think, and weep alone.

Where the huge mountain rears his brow sublime, On which no neighbouring height its shadow flings, Led by desire intense the steep I climb; And tracing in the boundless s.p.a.ce each woe, Whose sad remembrance my torn bosom wrings, Tears, that bespeak the heart o'erfraught, will flow: While, viewing all below, From me, I cry, what worlds of air divide The beauteous form, still absent and still near!

Then, chiding soft the tear, I whisper low, haply she too has sigh'd That thou art far away: a thought so sweet Awhile my labouring soul will of its burthen cheat.

Go thou, my song, beyond that Alpine bound, Where the pure smiling heavens are most serene, There by a murmuring stream may I be found, Whose gentle airs around Waft grateful odours from the laurel green; Nought but my empty form roams here unblest, There dwells my heart with her who steals it from my breast.

DACRE.

SONNET C.

_Poi che 'l cammin m' e chiuso di mercede._

THOUGH FAR FROM LAURA, SOLITARY AND UNHAPPY, ENVY STILL PURSUES HIM.

Since mercy's door is closed, alas! to me, And hopeless paths my poor life separate From her in whom, I know not by what fate, The guerdon lay of all my constancy, My heart that lacks not other food, on sighs I feed: to sorrow born, I live on tears: Nor therefore mourn I: sweeter far appears My present grief than others can surmise.

On thy dear portrait rests alone my view, Which nor Praxiteles nor Xeuxis drew, But a more bold and cunning pencil framed.

What sh.o.r.e can hide me, or what distance shield, If by my cruel exile yet untamed Insatiate Envy finds me here concealed?

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CI.

_Io canterei d' Amor s novamente._

REPLY TO A SONNET OF JACOPO DA LENTINO.

Ways apt and new to sing of love I'd find, Forcing from her hard heart full many a sigh, And re-enkindle in her frozen mind Desires a thousand, pa.s.sionate and high; O'er her fair face would see each swift change pa.s.s, See her fond eyes at length where pity reigns, As one who sorrows when too late, alas!

For his own error and another's pains; See the fresh roses edging that fair snow Move with her breath, that ivory descried, Which turns to marble him who sees it near; See all, for which in this brief life below Myself I weary not but rather pride That Heaven for later times has kept me here.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CII.

_S' Amor non e, che dunque e quel ch' i' sento?_