The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 42

To match thy wish to please; Leaving these rocks and trees, Thou boldly might'st go forth, and dare th' a.s.sembled throng.

DACRE.

Clear, fresh, and dulcet streams, Which the fair shape, who seems To me sole woman, haunted at noon-tide; Fair bough, so gently fit, (I sigh to think of it,) Which lent a pillar to her lovely side; And turf, and flowers bright-eyed, O'er which her folded gown Flow'd like an angel's down; And you, O holy air and hush'd, Where first my heart at her sweet glances gush'd; Give ear, give ear, with one consenting, To my last words, my last and my lamenting.

If 'tis my fate below, And Heaven will have it so, That Love must close these dying eyes in tears, May my poor dust be laid In middle of your shade, While my soul, naked, mounts to its own spheres.

The thought would calm my fears, When taking, out of breath, The doubtful step of death; For never could my spirit find A stiller port after the stormy wind; Nor in more calm, abstracted bourne, Slip from my travail'd flesh, and from my bones outworn.

Perhaps, some future hour, To her accustom'd bower Might come the untamed, and yet the gentle she; And where she saw me first, Might turn with eyes athirst And kinder joy to look again for me; Then, oh! the charity!

Seeing amidst the stones The earth that held my bones, A sigh for very love at last Might ask of Heaven to pardon me the past: And Heaven itself could not say nay, As with her gentle veil she wiped the tears away.

How well I call to mind, When from those boughs the wind Shook down upon her bosom flower on flower; And there she sat, meek-eyed, In midst of all that pride, Sprinkled and blus.h.i.+ng through an amorous shower Some to her hair paid dower, And seem'd to dress the curls, Queenlike, with gold and pearls; Some, snowing, on her drapery stopp'd, Some on the earth, some on the water dropp'd; While others, fluttering from above, Seem'd wheeling round in pomp, and saying, "Here reigns Love."

How often then I said, Inward, and fill'd with dread, "Doubtless this creature came from Paradise!"

For at her look the while, Her voice, and her sweet smile, And heavenly air, truth parted from mine eyes; So that, with long-drawn sighs, I said, as far from men, "How came I here, and when?"

I had forgotten; and alas!

Fancied myself in heaven, not where I was; And from that time till this, I bear Such love for the green bower, I cannot rest elsewhere.

LEIGH HUNT.

CANZONE XV.

_In quella parte dov' Amor mi sp.r.o.na._

HE FINDS HER IMAGE EVERYWHERE.

When Love, fond Love, commands the strain, The coyest muse must sure obey; Love bids my wounded breast complain, And whispers the melodious lay: Yet when such griefs restrain the muse's wing, How shall she dare to soar, or how attempt to sing?

Oh! could my heart express its woe, How poor, how wretched should I seem!

But as the plaintive accents flow, Soft comfort spreads her golden gleam; And each gay scene, that Nature holds to view, Bids Laura's absent charms to memory bloom anew.

Though Fate's severe decrees remove Her gladsome beauties from my sight, Yet, urged by pity, friendly Love Bids fond reflection yield delight; If lavish spring with flowerets strews the mead, Her lavish beauties all to fancy are displayed!

When to this globe the solar beams Their full meridian blaze impart, It pictures Laura, that inflames With pa.s.sion's fires each human heart: And when the sun completes his daily race, I see her riper age complete each growing grace.

When milder planets, warmer skies O'er winter's frozen reign prevail; When groves are tinged with vernal dyes, And violets scent the wanton gale; Those flowers, the verdure, then recall that day, In which my Laura stole this heedless heart away.

The blush of health, that crimson'd o'er Her youthful cheek; her modest mien; The gay-green garment that she wore, Have ever dear to memory been; More dear they grow as time the more inflames This tender breast o'ercome by pa.s.sion's wild extremes!

The sun, whose cheering l.u.s.tre warms The bosom of yon snow-clad hill, Seems a just emblem of the charms, Whose power controls my vanquish'd will; When near, they gild with joy this frozen heart, Where ceaseless winter reigns, whene'er those charms depart.

Yon sun, too, paints the locks of gold, That play around her face so fair-- Her face which, oft as I behold, Prompts the soft sigh of amorous care!

While Laura smiles, all-conscious of that love Which from this faithful breast no time can e'er remove.

If to the transient storm of night Succeeds a star-bespangled sky, And the clear rain-drops catch the light, Glittering on all the foliage nigh; Methinks her eyes I view, as on that day When through the envious veil they shot their magic ray.

With brightness making heaven more bright, As then they did, I see them now; I see them, when the morning light Purples the misty mountain's brow: When day declines, and darkness spreads the pole; Methinks 'tis Laura flies, and sadness wraps my soul.

In stately jars of burnish'd gold Should lilies spread their silvery pride, With fresh-blown roses that unfold Their leaves, in heaven's own crimson dyed; Then Laura's bloom I see, and sunny hair Flowing adown her neck than ivory whiter far.

The flowerets brush'd by zephyr's wing, Waving their heads in frolic play, Oft to my fond remembrance bring The happy spot, the happier day, In which, disporting with the gale, I view'd Those sweet unbraided locks, that all my heart subdued.

Oh! could I count those orbs that s.h.i.+ne Nightly o'er yon ethereal plain, Or in some scanty vase confine Each drop that ocean's bounds contain, Then might I hope to fly from beauty's rays, Laura o'er flaming worlds can spread bright beauty's blaze.

Should I all heaven, all earth explore, I still should lovely Laura find; Laura, whose beauties I adore, Is ever present to my mind: She's seen in all that strikes these partial eyes, And her dear name still dwells in all my tender sighs.

But soft, my song,--not thine the power To paint that never-dying flame, Which gilds through life the gloomy hour, Which nurtures this love-wasted frame; For since with Laura dwells my wander'd heart, Cheer'd by that fostering flame, I brave Death's ebon dart.

ANON 1777.

[Ill.u.s.tration: GENOA.]

CANZONE XVI.

_Italia mia, benche 'l parlar sia indarno._

TO THE PRINCES OF ITALY, EXHORTING THEM TO SET HER FREE.

O my own Italy! though words are vain The mortal wounds to close, Unnumber'd, that thy beauteous bosom stain, Yet may it soothe my pain To sigh forth Tyber's woes, And Arno's wrongs, as on Po's sadden'd sh.o.r.e Sorrowing I wander, and my numbers pour.

Ruler of heaven! By the all-pitying love That could thy G.o.dhead move To dwell a lowly sojourner on earth, Turn, Lord! on this thy chosen land thine eye: See, G.o.d of Charity!

From what light cause this cruel war has birth; And the hard hearts by savage discord steel'd, Thou, Father! from on high, Touch by my humble voice, that stubborn wrath may yield!

Ye, to whose sovereign hands the fates confide Of this fair land the reins,-- (This land for which no pity wrings your breast)-- Why does the stranger's sword her plains invest?

That her green fields be dyed, Hope ye, with blood from the Barbarians' veins?

Beguiled by error weak, Ye see not, though to pierce so deep ye boast, Who love, or faith, in venal bosoms seek: When throng'd your standards most, Ye are encompa.s.s'd most by hostile bands.

O hideous deluge gather'd in strange lands, That rus.h.i.+ng down amain O'erwhelms our every native lovely plain!

Alas! if our own hands Have thus our weal betray'd, who shall our cause sustain?

Well did kind Nature, guardian of our state, Rear her rude Alpine heights, A lofty rampart against German hate; But blind ambition, seeking his own ill, With ever restless will, To the pure gales contagion foul invites: Within the same strait fold The gentle flocks and wolves relentless throng, Where still meek innocence must suffer wrong: And these,--oh, shame avow'd!-- Are of the lawless hordes no tie can hold: Fame tells how Marius' sword Erewhile their bosoms gored,-- Nor has Time's hand aught blurr'd the record proud!

When they who, thirsting, stoop'd to quaff the flood, With the cool waters mix'd, drank of a comrade's blood!

Great Caesar's name I pa.s.s, who o'er our plains Pour'd forth the ensanguin'd tide, Drawn by our own good swords from out their veins; But now--nor know I what ill stars preside-- Heaven holds this land in hate!

To you the thanks!--whose hands control her helm!-- You, whose rash feuds despoil Of all the beauteous earth the fairest realm!

Are ye impell'd by judgment, crime, or fate, To oppress the desolate?

From broken fortunes, and from humble toil, The hard-earn'd dole to wring, While from afar ye bring Dealers in blood, bartering their souls for hire?

In truth's great cause I sing.

Nor hatred nor disdain my earnest lay inspire.

Nor mark ye yet, confirm'd by proof on proof, Bavaria's perfidy, Who strikes in mockery, keeping death aloof?