Song and Legend from the Middle Ages Part 23

In that abyss Of radiance, clear and lofty, seem'd, methought, Three orbs of triple hue,[1] clipt in one bound: And, from another, one reflected seem'd, As rainbow is from rainbow: and the third Seem'd fire, breathed equally from both.

O speech! How feeble and how faint art thou, to give Conception birth. Yet this to what I saw Is less than little.

O eternal light!

Sole in thyself that dwell'st; and of thyself Sole understood' past' present, or to come; Thou smile'st, on that circling, which in thee Seem'd as reflected splendour, while I mused; For I therein, methought, in its own hue Beheld our image painted: stedfastly I therefore pored upon the view. As one, Who versed in geometric lore, would fain Measure the circle; and, though pondering long And deeply, that beginning, which he needs, Finds not: e'en such was I, intent to scan The novel wonder, and trace out the form, How to the circle fitted, and therein How placed: but the flight was not for my wing: Had not a flash darted athwart my mind, And, in the spleen, unfolded what is sought.

Here vigour fail'd the towering fantasy: But yet the will roll'd onward, like a wheel In even motion' by the love impell'd, That moves the sun in heaven and all the stars.

[1] Three orbs of triple hue. The Trinity.

Next after Dante, the first name of importance in Italian literature is that of Francesca Petrarca, called Petrarch in English. He was the son of a Florentine exile, was born at Aruzzo in 1304, and died at Padua in 1374. He was a scholar and a diplomat, and was entrusted with many public services. Most of his active life he spent at Avignon, at the papal court, or in Vaucluse near by. When he was twenty-three, he met Laura, the beautiful woman with whom he was always after in love, and who was the inspiration of all his lyric poetry. She was the daughter of a citizen of Avignon, and was married, probably to Ugo de Sade of Avignon. She was a good woman whose character was ever above reproach. Petrarch was a very industrious writer. He produced many letters and treatises in Latin, besides a long Latin epic Africa. But his great and deserved fame rests upon his Italian lyric poetry--the Canzoniere. The Canzoniere is divided into three parts: the poems to Laura in life; to Laura in death; and the Triumphs. The Triumphs are inferior in merit to the other two parts. He had studied closely the Provencall poets, and had something of their spirit.

I. To Laura in Life.

SONNET III. HE BLAMES LOVE FOR WOUNDING HIM ON A HOLY DAY (GOOD FRIDAY).

'Twas on the morn' when heaven its blessed ray In pity to its suffering master veil'd, First did I, Lady, to your beauty yield, Of your victorious eyes th' unguarded prey.

Ah! little reck'd I that, on such a day, Needed against Love's arrows any s.h.i.+eld; And trod' securely trod, the fatal field: Whence, with the world's, began my heart's dismay.

On every side Love found his victim bare, And through mine eyes transfix'd my throbbing heart; Those eyes, which now with constant sorrows flow: But poor the triumph of his boasted art, Who thus could pierce a naked youth nor dare To you in armour mail'd even to display his bow!

--Wrangham.

SONNET XIV. HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A PILGRIM.

The palmer bent, with locks of silver gray, Quits the sweet spot where he has pa.s.s'd his years, Quits his poor family, whose anxious fears Paint the loved father fainting on his way; And trembling, on his aged limbs slow borne, In these last days that close his earthly course, He, in his soul's strong purpose, finds new force, Though weak with age, though by long travel worn: Thus reaching Rome, led on by pious love, He seeks the image of that Saviour Lord Whom soon he hopes to meet in bliss above: So, oft in other forms I seek to trace Some charm, that to my heart may yet afford A faint resemblance of thy matchless grace.

--Dacre

SONNET XCVIII. LEAVE-TAKING.

There was a touching paleness on her face, Which chased her smiles, but such sweet union made Of pensive majesty and heavenly grace, As if a pa.s.sing cloud had veil'd her with its shade; Then knew I how the blessed ones above Gaze on each other in their perfect bliss, For never yet was look of mortal love So pure, so tender, so serene as this.

The softest glance fond woman ever sent To him she loved, would cold and rayless be Compared to this, which she divinely bent Earthward, with angel sympathy, on me, That seem'd with speechless tenderness to say, "Who takes from me my faithful friend away?"

-E.(New Monthly Magazine.)

SESTINA VII. HE DESPAIRS OF ESCAPING FROM HIS TORMENTS.

Count the ocean's finny droves; Count the twinkling host of stars, Round the night's pale orb that moves; Count the groves' wing'd choristers; Count each verdant blade that grows; Counted then will be my woes.

Sad my nights; from morn till eve, Tenanting the woods, I sigh: But, ere I shall cease to grieve, Ocean's vast bed shall be dry, Suns their light from moons shall gain, And spring wither on each plain.

Pensive, weeping, night and day, From this sh.o.r.e to that I fly, Changeful as the lunar ray; And, when evening veils the sky, Then my tears might swell the floods, Then my sighs might bow the woods!

Towns I hate, the shades I love; For relief to yon green height, Where the rill resounds, I rove At the grateful calm of night; There I wait the day's decline, For the welcome moon to s.h.i.+ne.

Song, that on the wood-hung stream In the silent hour wert born, Witness'd but by Cynthia's beam, Soon as breaks to-morrow's morn, Thou shalt seek a glorious plain, There with Laura to remain!

--Nott.

II. To Laura in Death.

SONNET 1. ON THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE DEATH OF LAURA.

Woe for the 'witching look of that fair face!

The port where ease with dignity combined!

Woe for those accents' that each savage mind To softness tuned, to n.o.blest thoughts the base!

And the sweet smile, from whence the dart I trace, Which now leaves death my only hope behind!

Exalted soul, most fit on thrones to 've s.h.i.+ned, But that too late she came this earth to grace!

For you I still must burn, and breathe in you; For I was ever yours; of you bereft, Full little now I reck all other care.

With hope and with desire you thrill'd me through, When last my only joy on earth I left-- But caught by winds each word was lost in air.

--Anon, Ox., 1795.

SONNET XLII. THE SPRING ONLY RENEWS HIS GRIEF.

The soft west wind, returning, brings again Its lovely family of herbs and flowers; Progne's gay notes and Philomela's strain Vary the dance of springtide's rosy hours; And joyously o'er every field and plain Glows the bright smile that greets them from above, And the warm spirit of reviving love Breathes in the air and murmurs from the main.

But tears and sorrowing sighs, which gus.h.i.+ngly Pour from the secret chambers of my heart, Are all that spring returning brings to me; And in the modest smile, or glance of art, The song of birds, the bloom of heath and tree, A desert's rugged tract and savage forms I see.

--Greene.

SONNET LII. HE REVISITS VAUCLUSE.

I feel the well-known breeze, and the sweet hill Again appears, where rose that beauteous light, Which, while Heaven willed it, met my eyes, then bright With gladness, but now dimmed with many an ill.

Vain hopes! weak thoughts! Now, turbid is the rill; The flowers have drooped; and she hath ta'en her flight From the cold nest, which once, in proud delight, Living and dying, I had hoped to fill: I hoped, in these retreats, and in the blaze Of her fair eyes, which have consumed my heart, To taste the sweet reward of troubled days.

Thou, whom I serve, how hard and proud thou art!

Erewhile, thy flame consumed me; now, I mourn Over the ashes which have ceased to burn.

--Roscoe.

CANZONE III. UNDER VARIOUS ALLEGORIES HE PAINTS THE VIRTUE, BEAUTY, AND UNTIMELY DEATH OF LAURA.

While at my window late I stood alone, So new and many things there cross'd my sight, To view them I had almost weary grown.

A dappled mind appear'd upon the right, In aspect gentle, yet of stately stride, By two swift greyhounds chased, a black and white, Who tore in the poor side Of that fair creature wounds so deep and wide, That soon they forced her where ravine and rock The onward pa.s.sage block: Then triumph'd Death her matchless beauties o'er, And left me lonely there her sad fate to deplore.

In a fair grove a bright young laurel made-- Surely to Paradise the plant belongs!-- Of sacred boughs a pleasant summer shade, From whose green depths there issued so sweet songs Of various birds, and many a rare delight Of eye and ear, what marvel from the world They stole my senses quite!

While still I gazed, the heavens grew black around, The fatal lightning flash'd, and sudden hurl'd, Uprooted to the ground, That blessied birth.

Alas! for it laid low, And its dear shade whose like we ne'er again shall know.

A lovely and rare bird within the wood, Whose crest with gold, whose wings with purple gleam'd, Alone, but proudly soaring, next I view'd, Of heavenly and immortal birth which seem'd, Flitting now here, now there, until it stood Where buried fount and broken laurel lay, And sadly seeing there The fallen trunk, the boughs all stripp'd and bare, The channel dried--for all things to decay So tend-it turn'd away As if in angry scorn, and instant fled, While through me for her loss new love and pity spread.

At length along the flowery award I saw So sweet and fair a lady pensive move That her mere thought inspires a tender awe; Meek in herself, but haughty against Love, Flow'd from her waist a robe so fair and fine Seem'd gold and snow together there to join: But, ah! each charm above Was veil'd from sight in an unfriendly cloud: Stung by a lurking shake, as flowers that pine Her head she gently bow'd, And joyful pa.s.s'd on high, perchance secure: Alas I that in the world grief only should endure.