The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 28

Not now my prayer--nor can such e'er have room-- That with more mercy he consume my heart, But in the fire that she may bear her part.

MACGREGOR.

SESTINA III.

_L' aere gravato, e l' importuna nebbia._

HE COMPARES LAURA TO WINTER, AND FORESEES THAT SHE WILL ALWAYS BE THE SAME.

The overcharged air, the impending cloud, Compress'd together by impetuous winds, Must presently discharge themselves in rain; Already as of crystal are the streams, And, for the fine gra.s.s late that clothed the vales, Is nothing now but the h.o.a.r frost and ice.

And I, within my heart, more cold than ice, Of heavy thoughts have such a hovering cloud, As sometimes rears itself in these our vales, Lowly, and landlock'd against amorous winds, Environ'd everywhere with stagnant streams, When falls from soft'ning heaven the smaller rain.

Lasts but a brief while every heavy rain; And summer melts away the snows and ice, When proudly roll th' acc.u.mulated streams: Nor ever hid the heavens so thick a cloud, Which, overtaken by the furious winds, Fled not from the first hills and quiet vales.

But ah! what profit me the flowering vales?

Alike I mourn in suns.h.i.+ne and in rain, Suffering the same in warm and wintry winds; For only then my lady shall want ice At heart, and on her brow th' accustom'd cloud, When dry shall be the seas, the lakes, and streams.

While to the sea descend the mountain streams, As long as wild beasts love umbrageous vales, O'er those bright eyes shall hang th' unfriendly cloud My own that moistens with continual rain; And in that lovely breast be harden'd ice Which forces still from mine so dolorous winds.

Yet well ought I to pardon all the winds But for the love of one, that 'mid two streams Shut me among bright verdure and pure ice; So that I pictured then in thousand vales The shade wherein I was, which heat or rain Esteemeth not, nor sound of broken cloud.

But fled not ever cloud before the winds, As I that day: nor ever streams with rain Nor ice, when April's sun opens the vales.

MACGREGOR.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CASTLE OF ST. ANGELO & ST. PETERS.]

SONNET LI.

_Del mar Tirreno alla sinistra riva._

THE FALL.

Upon the left sh.o.r.e of the Tyrrhene sea, Where, broken by the winds, the waves complain, Sudden I saw that honour'd green again, Written for whom so many a page must be: Love, ever in my soul his flame who fed, Drew me with memories of those tresses fair; Whence, in a rivulet, which silent there Through long gra.s.s stole, I fell, as one struck dead.

Lone as I was, 'mid hills of oak and fir, I felt ashamed; to heart of gentle mould Blushes suffice: nor needs it other spur.

'Tis well at least, breaking bad customs old, To change from eyes to feet: from these so wet By those if milder April should be met.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LII.

_L' aspetto sacro della terra vostra._

THE VIEW OF ROME PROMPTS HIM TO TEAR HIMSELF FROM LAURA, BUT LOVE WILL NOT ALLOW HIM.

The solemn aspect of this sacred sh.o.r.e Wakes for the misspent past my bitter sighs; 'Pause, wretched man! and turn,' as conscience cries, Pointing the heavenward way where I should soar.

But soon another thought gets mastery o'er The first, that so to palter were unwise; E'en now the time, if memory err not, flies, When we should wait our lady-love before.

I, for his aim then well I apprehend, Within me freeze, as one who, sudden, hears News unexpected which his soul offend.

Returns my first thought then, that disappears; Nor know I which shall conquer, but till now Within me they contend, nor hope of rest allow!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET LIII.

_Ben sapev' io che natural consiglio._

FLEEING FROM LOVE, HE FALLS INTO THE HANDS OF HIS MINISTERS.

Full well I know that natural wisdom nought, Love, 'gainst thy power, in any age prevail'd, For snares oft set, fond oaths that ever fail'd, Sore proofs of thy sharp talons long had taught; But lately, and in me it wonder wrought-- With care this new experience be detail'd-- 'Tween Tuscany and Elba as I sail'd On the salt sea, it first my notice caught.

I fled from thy broad hands, and, by the way, An unknown wanderer, 'neath the violence Of winds, and waves, and skies, I helpless lay, When, lo! thy ministers, I knew not whence, Who quickly made me by fresh stings to feel Ill who resists his fate, or would conceal.

MACGREGOR.

CANZONE VII.

_La.s.so me, ch i' non so in qual parte pieghi._

HE WOULD CONSOLE HIMSELF WITH SONG, BUT IS CONSTRAINED TO WEEP.

Me wretched! for I know not whither tend The hopes which have so long my heart betray'd: If none there be who will compa.s.sion lend, Wherefore to Heaven these often prayers for aid?

But if, belike, not yet denied to me That, ere my own life end, These sad notes mute shall be, Let not my Lord conceive the wish too free, Yet once, amid sweet flowers, to touch the string, "Reason and right it is that love I sing."

Reason indeed there were at last that I Should sing, since I have sigh'd so long and late, But that for me 'tis vain such art to try, Brief pleasures balancing with sorrows great; Could I, by some sweet verse, but cause to s.h.i.+ne Glad wonder and new joy Within those eyes divine, Bliss o'er all other lovers then were mine!

But more, if frankly fondly I could say, "My lady asks, I therefore wake the lay."

Delicious, dangerous thoughts! that, to begin A theme so high, have gently led me thus, You know I ne'er can hope to pa.s.s within Our lady's heart, so strongly steel'd from us; She will not deign to look on thing so low, Nor may our language win Aught of her care: since Heaven ordains it so, And vainly to oppose must irksome grow, Even as I my heart to stone would turn, "So in my verse would I be rude and stern."