The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 71

SONNET CCXXI.

_Cercato ho sempre solitaria vita._

THINKING ALWAYS OF LAURA, IT PAINS HIM TO REMEMBER WHERE SHE IS LEFT.

Still have I sought a life of solitude; The streams, the fields, the forests know my mind; That I might 'scape the sordid and the blind, Who paths forsake trod by the wise and good: Fain would I leave, were mine own will pursued, These Tuscan haunts, and these soft skies behind, Sorga's thick-wooded hills again to find; And sing and weep in concert with its flood.

But Fortune, ever my sore enemy, Compels my steps, where I with sorrow see Cast my fair treasure in a worthless soil: Yet less a foe she justly deigns to prove, For once, to me, to Laura, and to love; Favouring my song, my pa.s.sion, with her smile.

NOTT.

Still have I sought a life of solitude-- This know the rivers, and each wood and plain-- That I might 'scape the blind and sordid train Who from the path have flown of peace and good: Could I my wish obtain, how vainly would This cloudless climate woo me to remain; Sorga's embowering woods I'd seek again, And sing, weep, wander, by its friendly flood.

But, ah! my fortune, hostile still to me, Compels me where I must, indignant, find Amid the mire my fairest treasure thrown: Yet to my hand, not all unworthy, she Now proves herself, at least for once, more kind, Since--but alone to Love and Laura be it known.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXXII.

_In tale Stella duo begli occhi vidi._

THE BEAUTY OF LAURA IS PEERLESS.

In one fair star I saw two brilliant eyes, With sweetness, modesty, so glistening o'er, That soon those graceful nests of Love before My worn heart learnt all others to despise: Equall'd not her whoever won the prize In ages gone on any foreign sh.o.r.e; Not she to Greece whose wondrous beauty bore Unnumber'd ills, to Troy death's anguish'd cries: Not the fair Roman, who, with ruthless blade Piercing her chaste and outraged bosom, fled Dishonour worse than death, like charms display'd; Such excellence should brightest glory shed On Nature, as on me supreme delight, But, ah! too lately come, too soon it takes its flight.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXXIII.

_Qual donna attende a gloriosa fama._

THE EYES OF LAURA ARE THE SCHOOL OF VIRTUE.

Feels any fair the glorious wish to gain Of sense, of worth, of courtesy, the praise?

On those bright eyes attentive let her gaze Of her miscall'd my love, but sure my foe.

Honour to gain, with love of G.o.d to glow, Virtue more bright how native grace displays, May there be learn'd; and by what surest ways To heaven, that for her coming pants, to go.

The converse sweet, beyond what poets write, Is there; the winning silence, and the meek And saint-like manners man would paint in vain.

The matchless beauty, dazzling to the sight, Can ne'er be learn'd; for bootless 'twere to seek By art, what by kind chance alone we gain.

ANON., OX., 1795.

SONNET CCXXIV.

_Cara la vita, e dopo lei mi pare._

HONOUR TO BE PREFERRED TO LIFE.

Methinks that life in lovely woman first, And after life true honour should be dear; Nay, wanting honour--of all wants the worst-- Friend! nought remains of loved or lovely here.

And who, alas! has honour's barrier burst, Uns.e.x'd and dead, though fair she yet appear, Leads a vile life, in shame and torment curst, A lingering death, where all is dark and drear.

To me no marvel was Lucretia's end, Save that she needed, when that last disgrace Alone sufficed to kill, a sword to die.

Sophists in vain the contrary defend: Their arguments are feeble all and base, And truth alone triumphant mounts on high!

MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXXV.

_Arbor vittoriosa e trionfale._

HE EXTOLS THE VIRTUE OF LAURA.

Tree, victory's bright guerdon, wont to crown Heroes and bards with thy triumphal leaf, How many days of mingled joy and grief Have I from thee through life's short pa.s.sage known.

Lady, who, reckless of the world's renown, Reapest in virtue's field fair honour's sheaf; Nor fear'st Love's limed snares, "that subtle thief,"

While calm discretion on his wiles looks down.

The pride of birth, with all that here we deem Most precious, gems and gold's resplendent grace.

Abject alike in thy regard appear: Nay, even thine own unrivall'd beauties beam No charm to thee--save as their circling blaze Clasps fitly that chaste soul, which still thou hold'st most dear.

WRANGHAM.

Blest laurel! fadeless and triumphant tree!

Of kings and poets thou the fondest pride!

How much of joy and sorrow's changing tide In my short breath hath been awaked by thee!

Lady, the will's sweet sovereign! thou canst see No bliss but virtue, where thou dost preside; Love's chain, his snare, thou dost alike deride; From man's deceit thy wisdom sets thee free.

Birth's native pride, and treasure's precious store, (Whose bright possession we so fondly hail) To thee as burthens valueless appear: Thy beauty's excellence--(none viewed before) Thy soul had wearied--but thou lov'st the veil, That shrine of purity adorneth here.

WOLLASTON.