The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 88

O ye, who fondly sigh for better nights, Who listen to love's will, or sing in rhyme, Pray that for me be no delay in death, The port of misery, the goal of tears, But let him change for me his ancient song, Since what makes others sad fills me with joy!

Ay! for such joy, in one or in few nights, I pray in rude song and in anguish'd rhyme, That soon my tears may ended be in death!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LX.

_Ite, rime dolenti, al duro sa.s.so._

HE PRAYS THAT SHE WILL BE NEAR HIM AT HIS DEATH, WHICH HE FEELS APPROACHING.

Go, plaintive verse, to the cold marble go, Which hides in earth my treasure from these eyes; There call on her who answers from yon skies, Although the mortal part dwells dark and low.

Of life how I am wearied make her know, Of stemming these dread waves that round me rise: But, copying all her virtues I so prize, Her track I follow, yet my steps are slow.

I sing of her, living, or dead, alone; (Dead, did I say? She is immortal made!) That by the world she should be loved, and known.

Oh! in my pa.s.sage hence may she be near, To greet my coming that's not long delay'd; And may I hold in heaven the rank herself holds there!

NOTT.

Go, melancholy rhymes! your tribute bring To that cold stone, which holds the dear remains Of all that earth held precious;--uttering, If heaven should deign to hear them, earthly strains.

Tell her, that sport of tempests, fit no more To stem the troublous ocean,--here at last Her votary treads the solitary sh.o.r.e; His only pleasure to recall the past.

Tell her, that she who living ruled his fate, In death still holds her empire: all his care, So grant the Muse her aid,--to celebrate Her every word, and thought, and action fair.

Be this my meed, that in the hour of death Her kindred spirit may hail, and bless my parting breath!

WOODHOUSELEE.

SONNET LXI.

_S' onesto amor pu meritar mercede._

HE PRAYS THAT, IN REWARD FOR HIS LONG AND VIRTUOUS ATTACHMENT, SHE WILL VISIT HIM IN DEATH.

If Mercy e'er rewardeth virtuous love, If Pity still can do, as she has done, I shall have rest, for clearer than the sun My lady and the world my faith approve.

Who fear'd me once, now knows, yet scarce believes I am the same who wont her love to seek, Who seek it still; where she but heard me speak, Or saw my face, she now my soul perceives.

Wherefore I hope that e'en in heaven she mourns My heavy anguish, and on me the while Her sweet face eloquent of pity turns, And that when shuffled off this mortal coil, Her way to me with that fair band she'll wend, True follower of Christ and virtue's friend.

MACGREGOR.

If virtuous love doth merit recompense-- If pity still maintain its wonted sway-- I that reward shall win, for bright as day To earth and Laura breathes my faith's incense.

She fear'd me once--now heavenly confidence Reveals my heart's first hope's unchanging stay; A word, a look, could this alone convey, My heart she reads now, stripp'd of earth's defence.

And thus I hope, she for my heavy sighs To heaven complains, to me she pity shows By sympathetic visits in my dream: And when this mortal temple breathless lies, Oh! may she greet my soul, enclosed by those Whom heaven and virtue love--our friends supreme.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET LXII.

_Vidi fra mille donne una gia tale._

BEAUTY SHOWED ITSELF IN, AND DISAPPEARED WITH, LAURA.

'Mid many fair one such by me was seen That amorous fears my heart did instant seize, Beholding her--nor false the images-- Equal to angels in her heavenly mien.

Nothing in her was mortal or terrene, As one whom nothing short of heaven can please; My soul well train'd for her to burn and freeze Sought in her wake to mount the blue serene.

But ah! too high for earthly wings to rise Her pitch, and soon she wholly pa.s.s'd from sight: The very thought still makes me cold and numb; O beautiful and high and l.u.s.trous eyes, Where Death, who fills the world with grief and fright, Found entrance in so fair a form to come.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXIII.

_Tornami a mente, anzi v' e dentro quella._

SHE IS SO FIXED IN HIS HEART THAT AT TIMES HE BELIEVES HER STILL ALIVE, AND IS FORCED TO RECALL THE DATE OF HER DEATH.

Oh! to my soul for ever she returns; Or rather Lethe could not blot her thence, Such as she was when first she struck my sense, In that bright blushing age when beauty burns: So still I see her, bashful as she turns Retired into herself, as from offence: I cry--"'Tis she! she still has life and sense: Oh, speak to me, my love!"--Sometimes she spurns My call; sometimes she seems to answer straight: Then, starting from my waking dream, I say,-- "Alas! poor wretch, thou art of mind bereft!

Forget'st thou the first hour of the sixth day Of April, the three hundred, forty eight, And thousandth year,--when she her earthly mansion left?"

MOREHEAD.

My mind recalls her; nay, her home is there, Nor can Lethean draught drive thence her form, I see that star's pure ray her spirit warm, Whose grace and spring-time beauty she doth wear.

As thus my vision paints her charms so rare, That none to such perfection may conform, I cry, "'Tis she! death doth to life transform!"

And then to hear that voice, I wake my prayer.

She now replies, and now doth mute appear, Like one whose tottering mind regains its power; I speak my heart: "Thou must this cheat resign; The thirteen hundred, eight and fortieth year, The sixth of April's suns, his first bright hour, Thou know'st that soul celestial fled its shrine!"

WOLLASTON.

SONNET LXIV.

_Questo nostro caduco e fragil bene._