The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 16

HE HOPES THAT TIME WILL RENDER HER MORE MERCIFUL.

If o'er each bitter pang, each hidden throe Sadly triumphant I my years drag on, Till even the radiance of those eyes is gone, Lady, which star-like now illume thy brow; And silver'd are those locks of golden glow, And wreaths and robes of green aside are thrown, And from thy cheek those hues of beauty flown, Which check'd so long the utterance of my woe, Haply my bolder tongue may then reveal The bosom'd annals of my heart's fierce fire, The martyr-throbs that now in night I veil: And should the chill Time frown on young Desire.

Still, still some late remorse that breast may feel, And heave a tardy sigh--ere love with life expire.

WRANGHAM.

Lady, if grace to me so long be lent From love's sharp tyranny and trials keen, Ere my last days, in life's far vale, are seen, To know of thy bright eyes the l.u.s.tre spent, The fine gold of thy hair with silver sprent, Neglected the gay wreaths and robes of green, Pale, too, and thin the face which made me, e'en 'Gainst injury, slow and timid to lament: Then will I, for such boldness love would give, Lay bare my secret heart, in martyr's fire Years, days, and hours that yet has known to live; And, though the time then suit not fair desire, At least there may arrive to my long grief, Too late of tender sighs the poor relief.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XII.

_Quando fra l' altre donne ad ora ad ora._

THE BEAUTY OF LAURA LEADS HIM TO THE CONTEMPLATION OF THE SUPREME GOOD.

Throned on her angel brow, when Love displays His radiant form among all other fair, Far as eclipsed their choicest charms appear, I feel beyond its wont my pa.s.sion blaze.

And still I bless the day, the hour, the place, When first so high mine eyes I dared to rear; And say, "Fond heart, thy grat.i.tude declare, That then thou had'st the privilege to gaze.

'Twas she inspired the tender thought of love, Which points to heaven, and teaches to despise The earthly vanities that others prize: She gave the soul's light grace, which to the skies Bids thee straight onward in the right path move; Whence buoy'd by hope e'en, now I soar to worlds above."

WRANGHAM.

When Love, whose proper throne is that sweet face, At times escorts her 'mid the sisters fair, As their each beauty is than hers less rare, So swells in me the fond desire apace.

I bless the hour, the season and the place, So high and heavenward when my eyes could dare; And say: "My heart! in grateful memory bear This lofty honour and surpa.s.sing grace: From her descends the tender truthful thought, Which follow'd, bliss supreme shall thee repay, Who spurn'st the vanities that win the crowd: From her that gentle graceful love is caught, To heaven which leads thee by the right-hand way, And crowns e'en here with hopes both pure and proud."

MACGREGOR.

BALLATA II.

_Occhi miei la.s.si, mentre ch' io vi giro._

HE INVITES HIS EYES TO FEAST THEMSELVES ON LAURA.

My wearied eyes! while looking thus On that fair fatal face to us, Be wise, be brief, for--hence my sighs-- Already Love our bliss denies.

Death only can the amorous track Shut from my thoughts which leads them back To the sweet port of all their weal; But lesser objects may conceal Our light from you, that meaner far In virtue and perfection are.

Wherefore, poor eyes! ere yet appears, Already nigh, the time of tears, Now, after long privation past, Look, and some comfort take at last.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XIII.

_Io mi rivolgo indietro a ciascun pa.s.so._

ON QUITTING LAURA.

With weary frame which painfully I bear, I look behind me at each onward pace, And then take comfort from your native air, Which following fans my melancholy face; The far way, my frail life, the cherish'd fair Whom thus I leave, as then my thoughts retrace, I fix my feet in silent pale despair, And on the earth my tearful eyes abase.

At times a doubt, too, rises on my woes, "How ever can this weak and wasted frame Live from life's spirit and one source afar?"

Love's answer soon the truth forgotten shows-- "This high pure privilege true lovers claim, Who from mere human feelings franchised are!"

MACGREGOR.

I look behind each step I onward trace, Scarce able to support my wearied frame, Ah, wretched me! I pantingly exclaim, And from her atmosphere new strength embrace; I think on her I leave--my heart's best grace-- My lengthen'd journey--life's capricious flame-- I pause in withering fear, with purpose tame, Whilst down my cheek tears quick each other chase.

My doubting heart thus questions in my grief: "Whence comes it that existence thou canst know When from thy spirit thou dost dwell entire?"

Love, holy Love, my heart then answers brief: "Such privilege I do on all bestow Who feed my flame with nought of earthly fire!"

WOLLASTON.

SONNET XIV.

_Movesi 'l vecchierel canuto e bianco._

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.

As parts the aged pilgrim, worn and gray, From the dear spot his life where he had spent, From his poor family by sorrow rent, Whose love still fears him fainting in decay: Thence dragging heavily, in life's last day, His suffering frame, on pious journey bent, p.r.i.c.king with earnest prayers his good intent, Though bow'd with years, and weary with the way, He reaches Rome, still following his desire The likeness of his Lord on earth to see, Whom yet he hopes in heaven above to meet; So I, too, seek, nor in the fond quest tire, Lady, in other fair if aught there be That faintly may recall thy beauties sweet.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XV.

_Piovonmi amare lagrime dal viso._