The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 76

Nowhere before could I so well have seen Her whom my soul most craves since lost to view; Nowhere in so great freedom could have been Breathing my amorous lays 'neath skies so blue; Never with depths of shade so calm and green A valley found for lover's sigh more true; Methinks a spot so lovely and serene Love not in Cyprus nor in Gnidos knew.

All breathes one spell, all prompts and prays that I Like them should love--the clear sky, the calm hour, Winds, waters, birds, the green bough, the gay flower-- But thou, beloved, who call'st me from on high, By the sad memory of thine early fate, Pray that I hold the world and these sweet snares in hate.

MACGREGOR.

Never till now so clearly have I seen Her whom my eyes desire, my soul still views; Never enjoy'd a freedom thus serene; Ne'er thus to heaven breathed my enamour'd muse, As in this vale sequester'd, darkly green; Where my soothed heart its pensive thought pursues, And nought intrusively may intervene, And all my sweetly-tender sighs renews.

To Love and meditation, faithful shade, Receive the breathings of my grateful breast!

Love not in Cyprus found so sweet a nest As this, by pine and arching laurel made!

The birds, breeze, water, branches, whisper love; Herb, flower, and verdant path the lay symphonious move.

CAPEL LOFFT.

SONNET XIII.

_Quante fiate al mio dolce ricetto._

HER FORM STILL HAUNTS HIM IN SOLITUDE.

How oft, all lonely, to my sweet retreat From man and from myself I strive to fly, Bathing with dewy eyes each much-loved seat, And swelling every blossom with a sigh!

How oft, deep musing on my woes complete, Along the dark and silent glens I lie, In thought again that dearest form to meet By death possess'd, and therefore wish to die!

How oft I see her rising from the tide Of Sorga, like some G.o.ddess of the flood; Or pensive wander by the river's side; Or tread the flowery mazes of the wood; Bright as in life; while angel pity throws O'er her fair face the impress of my woes.

MERIVALE.

SONNET XIV.

_Alma felice, che sovente torni._

HE THANKS HER THAT FROM TIME TO TIME SHE RETURNS TO CONSOLE HIM WITH HER PRESENCE.

O blessed spirit! who dost oft return, Ministering comfort to my nights of woe, From eyes which Death, relenting in his blow, Has lit with all the l.u.s.tres of the morn: How am I gladden'd, that thou dost not scorn O'er my dark days thy radiant beam to throw!

Thus do I seem again to trace below Thy beauties, hovering o'er their loved sojourn.

There now, thou seest, where long of thee had been My sprightlier strain, of thee my plaint I swell-- Of thee!--oh, no! of mine own sorrows keen.

One only solace cheers the wretched scene: By many a sign I know thy coming well-- Thy step, thy voice and look, and robe of favour'd green.

WRANGHAM.

When welcome slumber locks my torpid frame, I see thy spirit in the midnight dream; Thine eyes that still in living l.u.s.tre beam: In all but frail mortality the same.

Ah! then, from earth and all its sorrows free, Methinks I meet thee in each former scene: Once the sweet shelter of a heart serene; Now vocal only while I weep for thee.

For thee!--ah, no! From human ills secure.

Thy hallow'd soul exults in endless day; 'Tis I who linger on the toilsome way: No balm relieves the anguish I endure; Save the fond feeble hope that thou art near To soothe my sufferings with an angel's tear.

ANNE BANNERMAN.

SONNET XV.

_Discolorato hai, Morte, il piu bel volto._

HER PRESENCE IN VISIONS IS HIS ONLY CONSOLATION.

Death, thou of fairest face hast 'reft the hue, And quench'd in deep thick night the brightest eyes, And loosed from all its tenderest, closest ties A spirit to faith and ardent virtue true.

In one short hour to all my bliss adieu!

Hush'd are those accents worthy of the skies, Unearthly sounds, whose loss awakes my sighs; And all I hear is grief, and all I view.

Yet oft, to soothe this lone and anguish'd heart, By pity led, she comes my couch to seek, Nor find I other solace here below: And if her thrilling tones my strain could speak And look divine, with Love's enkindling dart Not man's sad breast alone, but fiercest beasts should glow.

WRANGHAM.

Thou hast despoil'd the fairest face e'er seen-- Thou hast extinguish'd, Death, the brightest eyes, And snapp'd the cord in sunder of the ties Which bound that spirit brilliantly serene: In one short moment all I love has been Torn from me, and dark silence now supplies Those gentle tones; my heart, which bursts with sighs, Nor sight nor sound from weariness can screen: Yet doth my lady, by compa.s.sion led, Return to solace my unfailing woe; Earth yields no other balm:--oh! could I tell How bright she seems, and how her accents flow, Not unto man alone Love's flames would spread, But even bears and tigers share the spell.

WROTTESLEY.

SONNET XVI.

_S breve e 'l tempo e 'l pensier s veloce._

THE REMEMBRANCE OF HER CHASES SADNESS FROM HIS HEART.

So brief the time, so fugitive the thought Which Laura yields to me, though dead, again, Small medicine give they to my giant pain; Still, as I look on her, afflicts me nought.

Love, on the rack who holds me as he brought, Fears when he sees her thus my soul retain, Where still the seraph face and sweet voice reign, Which first his tyranny and triumph wrought.

As rules a mistress in her home of right, From my dark heavy heart her placid brow Dispels each anxious thought and omen drear.

My soul, which bears but ill such dazzling light, Says with a sigh: "O blessed day! when thou Didst ope with those dear eyes thy pa.s.sage here!"

MACGREGOR.

SONNET XVII.

_Ne mai pietosa madre al caro figlio._