The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 23

_Quando dal proprio sito si rimove._

WHEN LAURA DEPARTS, THE HEAVENS GROW DARK WITH STORMS.

When from its proper soil the tree is moved Which Phoebus loved erewhile in human form, Grim Vulcan at his labour sighs and sweats, Renewing ever the dread bolts of Jove, Who thunders now, now speaks in snow and rain, Nor Julius honoureth than Ja.n.u.s more: Earth moans, and far from us the sun retires Since his dear mistress here no more is seen.

Then Mars and Saturn, cruel stars, resume Their hostile rage: Orion arm'd with clouds The helm and sails of storm-tost seamen breaks.

To Neptune and to Juno and to us Vext aeolus proves his power, and makes us feel How parts the fair face angels long expect.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET x.x.xIV.

_Ma poi che 'l dolce riso umile e piano._

HER RETURN GLADDENS THE EARTH AND CALMS THE SKY.

But when her sweet smile, modest and benign, No longer hides from us its beauties rare, At the spent forge his stout and sinewy arms Plieth that old Sicilian smith in vain, For from the hands of Jove his bolts are taken Temper'd in aetna to extremest proof; And his cold sister by degrees grows calm And genial in Apollo's kindling beams.

Moves from the rosy west a summer breath, Which safe and easy wafts the seaward bark, And wakes the sweet flowers in each gra.s.sy mead.

Malignant stars on every side depart, Dispersed before that bright enchanting face, For which already many tears are shed.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET x.x.xV.

_Il figliuol di Latona avea gia nove._

THE GRIEF OF PHOEBUS AT THE LOSS OF HIS LOVE.

Nine times already had Latona's son Look'd from the highest balcony of heaven For her, who whilom waked his sighs in vain, And sighs as vain now wakes in other b.r.e.a.s.t.s; Then seeking wearily, nor knowing where She dwelt, or far or near, and why delay'd, He show'd himself to us as one, insane For grief, who cannot find some loved lost thing: And thus, for clouds of sorrow held aloof, Saw not the fair face turn, which, if I live, In many a page shall praised and honour'd be, The misery of her loss so changed her mien That her bright eyes were dimm'd, for once, with tears, Thereon its former gloom the air resumed.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET x.x.xVI.

_Quel che 'n Tessaglia ebbe le man s p.r.o.nte._

SOME HAVE WEPT FOR THEIR WORST ENEMIES, BUT LAURA DEIGNS HIM NOT A SINGLE TEAR.

He who for empire at Pharsalia threw, Reddening its beauteous plain with civil gore, As Pompey's corse his conquering soldiers bore, Wept when the well-known features met his view: The shepherd youth, who fierce Goliath slew, Had long rebellious children to deplore, And bent, in generous grief, the brave Saul o'er His shame and fall when proud Gilboa knew: But you, whose cheek with pity never paled, Who still have s.h.i.+elds at hand to guard you well Against Love's bow, which shoots its darts in vain, Behold me by a thousand deaths a.s.sail'd, And yet no tears of thine compa.s.sion tell, But in those bright eyes anger and disdain.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET x.x.xVII.

_Il mio avversario, in cui veder solete._

LAURA AT HER LOOKING-GLa.s.s.

My foe, in whom you see your own bright eyes, Adored by Love and Heaven with honour due, With beauties not its own enamours you, Sweeter and happier than in mortal guise.

Me, by its counsel, lady, from your breast, My chosen cherish'd home, your scorn expell'd In wretched banishment, perchance not held Worthy to dwell where you alone should rest.

But were I fasten'd there with strongest keys, That mirror should not make you, at my cost, Severe and proud yourself alone to please.

Remember how Narcissus erst was lost!

His course and thine to one conclusion lead, Of flower so fair though worthless here the mead.

MACGREGOR.

My mirror'd foe reflects, alas! so fair Those eyes which Heaven and Love have honour'd too!

Yet not his charms thou dost enamour'd view, But all thine own, and they beyond compare: O lady! thou hast chased me at its prayer From thy heart's throne, where I so fondly grew; O wretched exile! though too well I knew A reign with thee I were unfit to share.

But were I ever fix'd thy bosom's mate, A flattering mirror should not me supplant, And make thee scorn me in thy self-delight; Thou surely must recall Narcissus' fate, But if like him thy doom should thee enchant, What mead were worthy of a flower so bright?

WOLLASTON.

SONNET x.x.xVIII.

_L' oro e le perle, e i fior vermigli e i bianchi._

HE INVEIGHS AGAINST LAURA'S MIRROR, BECAUSE IT MAKES HER FORGET HIM.

Those golden tresses, teeth of pearly white, Those cheeks' fair roses blooming to decay, Do in their beauty to my soul convey The poison'd arrows from my aching sight.

Thus sad and briefly must my days take flight, For life with woe not long on earth will stay; But more I blame that mirror's flattering sway, Which thou hast wearied with thy self-delight.

Its power my bosom's sovereign too hath still'd, Who pray'd thee in my suit--now he is mute, Since thou art captured by thyself alone: Death's seeds it hath within my heart instill'd, For Lethe's stream its form doth const.i.tute, And makes thee lose each image but thine own.

WOLLASTON.

The gold and pearls, the lily and the rose Which weak and dry in winter wont to be, Are rank and poisonous arrow-shafts to me, As my sore-stricken bosom aptly shows: Thus all my days now sadly shortly close, For seldom with great grief long years agree; But in that fatal gla.s.s most blame I see, That weary with your oft self-liking grows.

It on my lord placed silence, when my suit He would have urged, but, seeing your desire End in yourself alone, he soon was mute.

'Twas fas.h.i.+on'd in h.e.l.l's wave and o'er its fire, And tinted in eternal Lethe: thence The spring and secret of my death commence.