The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 58

SONNET CLXV.

_L' aura soave ch' al sol spiega e vibra._

HIS HEART LIES TANGLED IN HER HAIR.

The pleasant gale, that to the sun unplaits And spreads the gold Love's fingers weave, and braid O'er her fine eyes, and all around her head, Fetters my heart, the wishful sigh creates: No nerve but thrills, no artery but beats, Approaching my fair arbiter with dread, Who in her doubtful scale hath ofttimes weigh'd Whether or death or life on me awaits; Beholding, too, those eyes their fires display, And on those shoulders shine such wreaths of hair, Whose witching tangles my poor heart ensnare.

But how this magic's wrought I cannot say; For twofold radiance doth my reason blind, And sweetness to excess palls and o'erpowers my mind.

NOTT.

The soft gale to the sun which shakes and spreads The gold which Love's own hand has spun and wrought.

There, with her bright eyes and those fairy threads, Binds my poor heart and sifts each idle thought.

My veins of blood, my bones of marrow fail, Thrills all my frame when I, to hear or gaze, Draw near to her, who oft, in balance frail, My life and death together holds and weighs, And see those love-fires shine wherein I burn, And, as its snow each sweetest shoulder heaves, Flash the fair tresses right and left by turn; Verse fails to paint what fancy scarce conceives.

From two such lights is intellect distress'd, And by such sweetness weary and oppress'd.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXVI.

_O bella man, che mi distringi 'l core._

THE STOLEN GLOVE.

O beauteous hand! that dost my heart subdue, And in a little s.p.a.ce my life confine; Hand where their skill and utmost efforts join Nature and Heaven, their plastic powers to show!

Sweet fingers, seeming pearls of orient hue, To my wounds only cruel, fingers fine!

Love, who towards me kindness doth design, For once permits ye naked to our view.

Thou glove most dear, most elegant and white, Encasing ivory tinted with the rose; More precious covering ne'er met mortal sight.

Would I such portion of thy veil had gain'd!

O fleeting gifts which fortune's hand bestows!

'Tis justice to restore what theft alone obtain'd.

NOTT.

O beauteous hand! which robb'st me of my heart, And holdest all my life in little s.p.a.ce; Hand! which their utmost effort and best art Nature and Heaven alike have join'd to grace; O sister pearls of orient hue, ye fine And fairy fingers! to my wounds alone Cruel and cold, does Love awhile incline In my behalf, that naked ye are shown?

O glove! most snowy, delicate, and dear, Which spotless ivory and fresh roses set, Where can on earth a sweeter spoil be met, Unless her fair veil thus reward us here?

Inconstancy of human things! the theft Late won and dearly prized too soon from me is reft!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXVII.

_Non pur quell' una bella ignuda mano._

HE RETURNS THE GLOVE, BEWAILING THE EFFECT OF HER BEAUTY.

Not of one dear hand only I complain, Which hides it, to my loss, again from view, But its fair fellow and her soft arms too Are prompt my meek and pa.s.sive heart to pain.

Love spreads a thousand toils, nor one in vain, Amid the many charms, bright, pure, and new, That so her high and heavenly part endue, No style can equal it, no mind attain.

That starry forehead and those tranquil eyes, The fair angelic mouth, where pearl and rose Contrast each other, whence rich music flows, These fill the gazer with a fond surprise, The fine head, the bright tresses which defied The sun to match them in his noonday pride.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXVIII.

_Mia ventura ed Amor m' avean s adorno._

HE REGRETS HAVING RETURNED HER GLOVE.

Me Love and Fortune then supremely bless'd!

Her glove which gold and silken broidery bore!

I seem'd to reach of utmost bliss the crest, Musing within myself on her who wore.

Ne'er on that day I think, of days the best, Which made me rich, then beggar'd as before, But rage and sorrow fill mine aching breast.

With slighted love and self-shame boiling o'er; That on my precious prize in time of need I kept not hold, nor made a firmer stand 'Gainst what at best was merely angel force, That my feet were not wings their flight to speed, And so at last take vengeance on the hand, Make my poor eyes of tears the too oft source.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXIX.

_D' un bel, chiaro, polito e vivo ghiaccio._

THOUGH RACKED BY AGONY, HE DOES NOT COMPLAIN OF HER.

The flames that ever on my bosom prey From living ice or cold fair marble pour, And so exhaust my veins and waste my core, Almost insensibly I melt away.

Death, his stern arm already rear'd to slay, As thunders angry heaven or lions roar, Pursues my life that vainly flies before, While I with terror shake, and mute obey.

And yet, were Love and Pity friends, they might A double column for my succour throw Between my worn soul and the mortal blow: It may not be; such feelings in the sight Of my loved foe and mistress never stir; The fault is in my fortune, not in her.

MACGREGOR.