The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 89

NATURE DISPLAYED IN HER EVERY CHARM, BUT SOON WITHDREW HER FROM SIGHT.

This gift of beauty which a good men name, Frail, fleeting, fancied, false, a wind, a shade, Ne'er yet with all its spells one fair array'd, Save in this age when for my cost it came.

Not such is Nature's duty, nor her aim, One to enrich if others poor are made, But now on one is all her wealth display'd, --Ladies, your pardon let my boldness claim.

Like loveliness ne'er lived, or old or new, Nor ever shall, I ween, but hid so strange, Scarce did our erring world its marvel view, So soon it fled; thus too my soul must change The little light vouchsafed me from the skies Only for pleasure of her sainted eyes.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXV.

_O tempo, o ciel volubil che fuggendo._

HE NO LONGER CONTEMPLATES THE MORTAL, BUT THE IMMORTAL BEAUTIES OF LAURA.

O Time! O heavens! whose flying changes frame Errors and snares for mortals poor and blind; O days more swift than arrows or the wind, Experienced now, I know your treacherous aim.

You I excuse, myself alone I blame, For Nature for your flight who wings design'd To me gave eyes which still I have inclined To mine own ill, whence follow grief and shame.

An hour will come, haply e'en now is pa.s.s'd, Their sight to turn on my diviner part And so this infinite anguish end at last.

Rejects not your long yoke, O Love, my heart, But its own ill by study, sufferings vast: Virtue is not of chance, but painful art.

MACGREGOR.

O Time! O circling heavens! in your flight Us mortals ye deceive--so poor and blind; O days! more fleeting than the shaft or wind, Experience brings your treachery to my sight!

But mine the error--ye yourselves are right; Your flight fulfils but that your wings design'd: My eyes were Nature's gift, yet ne'er could find But one blest light--and hence their present blight.

It now is time (perchance the hour is pa.s.s'd) That they a safer dwelling should select, And thus repose might soothe my grief acute: Love's yoke the spirit may not from it cast, (With oh what pain!) it may its ill eject; But virtue is attain'd but by pursuit!

WOLLASTON.

SONNET LXVI.

_Quel, che d' odore e di color vincea._

THE LAUREL, IN WHOM HE PLACED ALL HIS JOY HAS BEEN TAKEN FROM HIM TO ADORN HEAVEN.

That which in fragrance and in hue defied The odoriferous and lucid East, Fruits, flowers and herbs and leaves, and whence the West Of all rare excellence obtain'd the prize, My laurel sweet, which every beauty graced, Where every glowing virtue loved to dwell, Beheld beneath its fair and friendly shade My Lord, and by his side my G.o.ddess sit.

Still have I placed in that beloved plant My home of choicest thoughts: in fire, in frost Shivering or burning, still I have been bless'd.

The world was of her perfect honours full When G.o.d, his own bright heaven therewith to grace, Reclaim'd her for Himself, for she was his.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXVII.

_Lasciato hai, Morte, senza sole il mondo._

HER TRUE WORTH WAS KNOWN ONLY TO HIM AND TO HEAVEN.

Death, thou the world, since that dire arrow sped, Sunless and cold hast left; Love weak and blind; Beauty and grace their brilliance have resign'd, And from my heavy heart all joy is fled; Honour is sunk, and softness banished.

I weep alone the woes which all my kind Should weep--for virtue's fairest flower has pined Beneath thy touch: what second blooms instead?

Let earth, sea, air, with common wail bemoan Man's hapless race; which now, since Laura died, A flowerless mead, a gemless ring appears.

The world possess'd, nor knew her worth, till flown!

I knew it well, who here in grief abide; And heaven too knows, which decks its forehead with my tears.

WRANGHAM.

Thou, Death, hast left this world's dark cheerless way Without a sun: Love blind and stripp'd of arms; Left mirth despoil'd; beauty bereaved of charms; And me self-wearied, to myself a prey; Left vanish'd, sunk, whate'er was courteous, gay: I only weep, yet all must feel alarms: If beauty's bud the hand of rapine harms It dies, and not a second views the day!

Let air, earth, ocean weep for human kind; For human kind, deprived of Laura, seems A flowerless mead, a ring whose gem is lost.

None knew her worth while to this...o...b..confined, Save me her bard, whose sorrow ceaseless streams, And heaven, that's made more beauteous at my cost.

NOTT.

SONNET LXVIII.

_Con.o.bbi, quanto il ciel gli occhi m' aperse._

HER PRAISES ARE, COMPARED WITH HER DESERTS, BUT AS A DROP TO THE OCEAN.

So far as to mine eyes its light heaven show'd, So far as love and study train'd my wings, Novel and beautiful but mortal things From every star I found on her bestow'd: So many forms in rare and varied mode Of heavenly beauty from immortal springs My panting intellect before me brings, Sunk my weak sight before their dazzling load.

Hence, whatsoe'er I spoke of her or wrote, Who, at G.o.d's right, returns me now her prayers, Is in that infinite abyss a mote: For style beyond the genius never dares; Thus, though upon the sun man fix his sight, He seeth less as fiercer burns its light.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LXIX.

_Dolce mio caro e prezioso pegno._

HE PRAYS HER TO APPEAR BEFORE HIM IN A VISION.

Dear precious pledge, by Nature s.n.a.t.c.h'd away, But yet reserved for me in realms undying; O thou on whom my life is aye relying, Why tarry thus, when for thine aid I pray?