The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 74

Thy arms were then her eyes, unrivall'd, whence Live darts were freely shot of viewless flame; No help from reason came, For against Heaven avails not man's defence; Thought, Silence, Feeling, Gaiety, Wit, Sense, Modest demeanour, affable discourse, In words of sweetest force Whence every grosser nature gentle grew, That angel air, humble to all and kind, Whose praise, it needs not mine, from all we find; Stood she, or sat, a grace which often threw Doubt on the gazer's mind To which the meed of highest praise was due-- O'er hardest hearts thy victory was sure, With arms like these, which lost I am secure.

The minds which Heaven abandons to thy reign, Haply are bound in many times and ways, But mine one only chain, Its wisdom shielding me from more, obeys; Yet freedom brings no joy, though that he burst.

Rather I mournful ask, "Sweet pilgrim mine, Alas! what doom divine Me earliest bound to life yet frees thee first: G.o.d, who has s.n.a.t.c.h'd thee from the world so soon, Only to kindle our desires, the boon Of virtue, so complete and lofty, gave Now, Love, I may deride Thy future wounds, nor fear to be thy slave; In vain thy bow is bent, its bolts fall wide, When closed her brilliant eyes their virtue died.

"Death from thy every law my heart has freed; She who my lady was is pa.s.s'd on high, Leaving me free to count dull hours drag by, To solitude and sorrow still decreed."

MACGREGOR.

SONNET III.

_L' ardente nodo ov' io fui, d' ora in ora._

ON THE DEATH OF ANOTHER LADY.

That burning toil, in which I once was caught, While twice ten years and one I counted o'er, Death has unloosed: like burden I ne'er bore; That grief ne'er fatal proves I now am taught.

But Love, who to entangle me still sought, Spread in the treacherous gra.s.s his net once more, So fed the fire with fuel as before, That my escape I hardly could have wrought.

And, but that my first woes experience gave, Snared long since and kindled I had been, And all the more, as I'm become less green: My freedom death again has come to save, And break my bond; that flame now fades, and fails, 'Gainst which nor force nor intellect prevails.

NOTT.

SONNET IV.

_La vita fugge, e non s' arresta un' ora._

PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE ARE NOW ALIKE PAINFUL TO HIM.

Life pa.s.ses quick, nor will a moment stay, And death with hasty journeys still draws near; And all the present joins my soul to tear, With every past and every future day: And to look back or forward, so does prey On this distracted breast, that sure I swear, Did I not to myself some pity bear, I were e'en now from all these thoughts away.

Much do I muse on what of pleasures past This woe-worn heart has known; meanwhile, t' oppose My pa.s.sage, loud the winds around me roar.

I see my bliss in port, and torn my mast And sails, my pilot faint with toil, and those Fair lights, that wont to guide me, now no more.

ANON., OX., 1795.

Life ever flies with course that nought may stay, Death follows after with gigantic stride; Ills past and present on my spirit prey, And future evils threat on every side: Whether I backward look or forward fare, A thousand ills my bosom's peace molest; And were it not that pity bids me spare My n.o.bler part, I from these thoughts would rest.

If ever aught of sweet my heart has known, Remembrance wakes its charms, while, tempest tost, I mark the clouds that o'er my course still frown; E'en in the port I see the storm afar; Weary my pilot, mast and cable lost, And set for ever my fair polar star.

DACRE.

SONNET V.

_Che fai? che pensi? che pur dietro guardi._

HE ENCOURAGES HIS SOUL TO LIFT ITSELF TO G.o.d, AND TO ABANDON THE VANITIES OF EARTH.

What dost thou? think'st thou? wherefore bend thine eye Back on the time that never shall return?

The raging fire, where once 'twas thine to burn, Why with fresh fuel, wretched soul, supply?

Those thrilling tones, those glances of the sky, Which one by one thy fond verse strove to adorn, Are fled; and--well thou knowest, poor forlorn!-- To seek them here were bootless industry.

Then toil not bliss so fleeting to renew; To chase a thought so fair, so faithless, cease: Thou rather that unwavering good pursue, Which guides to heaven; since nought below can please.

Fatal for us that beauty's torturing view, Living or dead alike which desolates our peace.

WRANGHAM.

SONNET VI.

_Datemi pace, o duri miei pensieri._

HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A BESIEGED CITY, AND ACCUSES HIS OWN HEART OF TREASON.

O tyrant thoughts, vouchsafe me some repose!

Sufficeth not that Love, and Death, and Fate, Make war all round me to my very gate, But I must in me armed hosts enclose?

And thou, my heart, to me alone that shows Disloyal still, what cruel guides of late In thee find shelter, now the chosen mate Of my most mischievous and bitter foes?

Love his most secret emba.s.sies in thee, In thee her worst results hard Fate explains, And Death the memory of that blow, to me Which shatters all that yet of hope remains; In thee vague thoughts themselves with error arm, And thee alone I blame for all my harm.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET VII.

_Occhi miei, oscurato e 'l nostro sole._

HE ENDEAVOURS TO FIND PEACE IN THE THOUGHT THAT SHE IS IN HEAVEN.

Mine eyes! our glorious sun is veil'd in night, Or set to us, to rise 'mid realms of love; There we may hail it still, and haply prove It mourn'd that we delay'd our heavenward flight.

Mine ears! the music of her tones delight Those, who its harmony can best approve; My feet! who in her track so joy'd to move.

Ye cannot penetrate her regions bright!

But wherefore should your wrath on me descend?

No spell of mine hath hush'd for ye the joy Of seeing, hearing, feeling, she was near: Go, war with Death--yet, rather let us bend To Him who can create--who can destroy-- And bids the ready smile succeed the tear.

WOLLASTON.