The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 55

SONNET CL.

_Se 'l dolce sguardo di costei m' ancide._

HE IS CONTINUALLY IN FEAR OF DISPLEASING HER.

If thus the dear glance of my lady slay, On her sweet sprightly speech if dangers wait, If o'er me Love usurp a power so great, Oft as she speaks, or when her sun-smiles play; Alas! what were it if she put away, Or for my fault, or by my luckless fate, Her eyes from pity, and to death's full hate, Which now she keeps aloof, should then betray.

Thus if at heart with terror I am cold, When o'er her fair face doubtful shadows spring, The feeling has its source in sufferings old.

Woman by nature is a fickle thing, And female hearts--time makes the proverb sure-- Can never long one state of love endure.

MACGREGOR.

If the soft glance, the speech, both kind and wise, Of that beloved one can wound me so, And if, whene'er she lets her accents flow, Or even smiles, Love gains such victories; Alas! what should I do, were those dear eyes, Which now secure my life through weal and woe, From fault of mine, or evil fortune, slow To shed on me their light in pity's guise?

And if my trembling spirit groweth cold Whene'er I see change to her aspect spring, This fear is only born of trials old; (Woman by nature is a fickle thing,) And hence I know her heart hath power to hold But a brief s.p.a.ce Love's sweet imagining!

WROTTESLEY.

SONNET CLI.

_Amor, Natura, e la bell' alma umile._

DURING A SERIOUS ILLNESS OF LAURA.

Love, Nature, Laura's gentle self combines, She where each lofty virtue dwells and reigns, Against my peace: To pierce with mortal pains Love toils--such ever are his stern designs.

Nature by bonds so slight to earth confines Her slender form, a breath may break its chains; And she, so much her heart the world disdains, Longer to tread life's wearying round repines.

Hence still in her sweet frame we view decay All that to earth can joy and radiance lend, Or serve as mirror to this laggard age; And Death's dread purpose should not Pity stay, Too well I see where all those hopes must end, With which I fondly soothed my lingering pilgrimage.

WRANGHAM.

Love, Nature, and that gentle soul as bright, Where every lofty virtue dwells and reigns, Are sworn against my peace. As wont, Love strains His every power that I may perish quite.

Nature her delicate form by bonds so slight Holds in existence, that no help sustains; She is so modest that she now disdains Longer to brook this vile life's painful fight.

Thus fades and fails the spirit day by day, Which on those dear and lovely limbs should wait, Our mirror of true grace which wont to give: And soon, if Mercy turn not Death away, Alas! too well I see in what sad state Are those vain hopes wherein I loved to live.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLII.

_Questa Fenice dell' aurata piuma._

HE COMPARES HER TO THE PHOENIX.

This wondrous Phoenix with the golden plumes Forms without art so rare a ring to deck That beautiful and soft and snowy neck, That every heart it melts, and mine consumes: Forms, too, a natural diadem which lights The air around, whence Love with silent steel Draws liquid subtle fire, which still I feel Fierce burning me though sharpest winter bites; Border'd with azure, a rich purple vest, Sprinkled with roses, veils her shoulders fair: Rare garment hers, as grace unique, alone!

Fame, in the opulent and odorous breast Of Arab mountains, buries her sole lair, Who in our heaven so high a pitch has flown.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLIII.

_Se Virgilio ed Omero avessin visto._

THE MOST FAMOUS POETS OF ANTIQUITY WOULD HAVE SUNG HER ONLY, HAD THEY SEEN HER.

Had tuneful Maro seen, and Homer old, The living sun which here mine eyes behold, The best powers they had join'd of either lyre, Sweetness and strength, that fame she might acquire; Unsung had been, with vex'd aeneas, then Achilles and Ulysses, G.o.dlike men, And for nigh sixty years who ruled so well The world; and who before aegysthus fell; Nay, that old flower of virtues and of arms, As this new flower of chast.i.ty and charms, A rival star, had scarce such radiance flung.

In rugged verse him honour'd Ennius sung, I her in mine. Grant, Heaven! on my poor lays She frown not, nor disdain my humble praise.

ANON.

SONNET CLIV.

_Giunto Alessandro alla famosa tomba._

HE FEARS THAT HE IS INCAPABLE OF WORTHILY CELEBRATING HER.

The son of Philip, when he saw the tomb Of fierce Achilles, with a sigh, thus said: "O happy, whose achievements erst found room From that ill.u.s.trious trumpet to be spread O'er earth for ever!"--But, beyond the gloom Of deep Oblivion shall that loveliest maid, Whose like to view seems not of earthly doom, By my imperfect accents be convey'd?

Her of the Homeric, the Orphean Lyre, Most worthy, or that shepherd, Mantua's pride, To be the theme of their immortal lays; Her stars and unpropitious fate denied This palm:--and me bade to such height aspire, Who, haply, dim her glories by my praise.

CAPEL LOFFT.

When Alexander at the famous tomb Of fierce Achilles stood, the ambitious sigh Burst from his bosom--"Fortunate! on whom Th' eternal bard shower'd honours bright and high."

But, ah! for so to each is fix'd his doom, This pure fair dove, whose like by mortal eye Was never seen, what poor and scanty room For her great praise can my weak verse supply?

Whom, worthiest Homer's line and Orpheus' song, Or his whom reverent Mantua still admires-- Sole and sufficient she to wake such lyres!

An adverse star, a fate here only wrong, Entrusts to one who worships her dear name, Yet haply injures by his praise her fame.

MACGREGOR.