The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 48

DRUMMOND.

BALLATA VI.

_Di tempo in tempo mi si fa men dura._

THOUGH SHE BE LESS SEVERE, HE IS STILL NOT CONTENTED AND TRANQUIL AT HEART.

From time to time more clemency for me In that sweet smile and angel form I trace; Seem too her lovely face And l.u.s.trous eyes at length more kind to be.

Yet, if thus honour'd, wherefore do my sighs In doubt and sorrow flow, Signs that too truly show My anguish'd desperate life to common eyes?

Haply if, where she is, my glance I bend, This hara.s.s'd heart to cheer, Methinks that Love I hear Pleading my cause, and see him succour lend.

Not therefore at an end the strife I deem, Nor in sure rest my heart at last esteem; For Love most burns within When Hope most p.r.i.c.ks us on the way to win.

MACGREGOR.

From time to time less cruelty I trace In her sweet smile and form divinely fair; Less clouded doth appear The heaven of her fine eyes and lovely face.

What then at last avail to me those sighs, Which from my sorrows flow, And in my semblance show The life of anguish and despair I lead?

If towards her perchance I bend mine eyes, Some solace to bestow Upon my bosom's woe, Methinks Love takes my part, and lends me aid: Yet still I cannot find the conflict stay'd, Nor tranquil is my heart in every state: For, ah! my pa.s.sion's heat More strongly glows within as my fond hopes increase.

NOTT.

SONNET CXVII.

_Che fai, alma? che pensi? avrem mai pace?_

DIALOGUE OF THE POET WITH HIS HEART.

_P._ What actions fire thee, and what musings fill?

Soul! is it peace, or truce, or war eterne?

_H._ Our lot I know not, but, as I discern, Her bright eyes favour not our cherish'd ill.

_P._ What profit, with those eyes if she at will Makes us in summer freeze, in winter burn?

_H._ From him, not her those orbs their movement learn.

_P._ What's he to us, she sees it and is still.

_H._ Sometimes, though mute the tongue, the heart laments Fondly, and, though the face be calm and bright, Bleeds inly, where no eye beholds its grief.

_P._ Nathless the mind not thus itself contents, Breaking the stagnant woes which there unite, For misery in fine hopes finds no relief.

MACGREGOR.

_P._ What act, what dream, absorbs thee, O my soul?

Say, must we peace, a truce, or warfare hail?

_H._ Our fate I know not; but her eyes unveil The grief our woe doth in her heart enrol.

_P._ But that is vain, since by her eyes' control With nature I no sympathy inhale.

_H._ Yet guiltless she, for Love doth there prevail.

_P._ No balm to me, since she will not condole.

_H._ When man is mute, how oft the spirit grieves, In clamorous woe! how oft the sparkling eye Belies the inward tear, where none can gaze!

_P._ Yet restless still, the grief the mind conceives Is not dispell'd, but stagnant seems to lie.

The wretched hope not, though hope aid might raise.

WOLLASTON.

SONNET CXVIII.

_Nom d' atra e tempestosa onda marina._

HE IS LED BY LOVE TO REASON.

No wearied mariner to port e'er fled From the dark billow, when some tempest's nigh, As from tumultuous gloomy thoughts I fly-- Thoughts by the force of goading pa.s.sion bred: Nor wrathful glance of heaven so surely sped Destruction to man's sight, as does that eye Within whose bright black orb Love's Deity Sharpens each dart, and tips with gold its head.

Enthroned in radiance there he sits, not blind, Quiver'd, and naked, or by shame just veil'd, A live, not fabled boy, with changeful wing; Thence unto me he lends instruction kind, And arts of verse from meaner bards conceal'd, Thus am I taught whate'er of love I write or sing.

NOTT.

Ne'er from the black and tempest-troubled brine The weary mariner fair haven sought, As shelter I from the dark restless thought Whereto hot wishes spur me and incline: Nor mortal vision ever light divine Dazzled, as mine, in their rare splendour caught Those matchless...o...b.., with pride and pa.s.sion fraught, Where Love aye haunts his darts to gild and fine.

Him, blind no more, but quiver'd, there I view, Naked, except so far as shame conceals, A winged boy--no fable--quick and true.

What few perceive he thence to me reveals; So read I clearly in her eyes' dear light Whate'er of love I speak, whate'er I write.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CXIX.

_Questa umil fera, un cor di tigre o d' orsa._

HE PRAYS HER EITHER TO WELCOME OR DISMISS HIM AT ONCE.

Fiercer than tiger, savager than bear, In human guise an angel form appears, Who between fear and hope, from smiles to tears So tortures me that doubt becomes despair.

Ere long if she nor welcomes me, nor frees, But, as her wont, between the two retains, By the sweet poison circling through my veins, My life, O Love! will soon be on its lees.

No longer can my virtue, worn and frail With such severe vicissitudes, contend, At once which burn and freeze, make red and pale: By flight it hopes at length its grief to end, As one who, hourly failing, feels death nigh: Powerless he is indeed who cannot even die!

MACGREGOR.