The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch Part 92

SONNET LXXIX.

_L' aura mia sacra al mio stanco riposo._

HE TELLS HER IN SLEEP OF HIS SUFFERINGS, AND, OVERCOME BY HER SYMPATHY, AWAKES.

On my oft-troubled sleep my sacred air So softly breathes, at last I courage take, To tell her of my past and present ache, Which never in her life my heart did dare.

I first that glance so full of love declare Which served my lifelong torment to awake, Next, how, content and wretched for her sake, Love day by day my tost heart knew to tear.

She speaks not, but, with pity's dewy trace, Intently looks on me, and gently sighs, While pure and l.u.s.trous tears begem her face; My spirit, which her sorrow fiercely tries, So to behold her weep with anger burns, And freed from slumber to itself returns.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET Lx.x.x.

_Ogni giorno mi par piu di mill' anni._

FAR FROM FEARING, HE PRAYS FOR DEATH.

Each day to me seems as a thousand years, That I my dear and faithful star pursue, Who guided me on earth, and guides me too By a sure path to life without its tears.

For in the world, familiar now, appears No snare to tempt; so rare a light and true s.h.i.+nes e'en from heaven my secret conscience through, Of lost time and loved sin the gla.s.s it rears.

Not that I need the threats of death to dread, (Which He who loved us bore with greater pain) That, firm and constant, I his path should tread: 'Tis but a brief while since in every vein Of her he enter'd who my fate has been, Yet troubled not the least her brow serene.

MACGREGOR.

SONNET Lx.x.xI.

_Non pu far morte il dolce viso amaro._

SINCE HER DEATH HE HAS CEASED TO LIVE.

Death cannot make that beauteous face less fair, But that sweet face may lend to death a grace; My spirit's guide! from her each good I trace; Who learns to die, may seek his lesson there.

That holy one! who not his blood would spare, But did the dark Tartarean bolts unbrace; He, too, doth from my soul death's terrors chase: Then welcome, death! thy impress I would wear.

And linger not! 'tis time that I had fled; Alas! my stay hath little here avail'd, Since she, my Laura blest, resign'd her breath: Life's spring in me hath since that hour lain dead, In her I lived, my life in hers exhaled, The hour she died I felt within me death!

WOLLASTON.

CANZONE VI.

_Quando il suave mio fido conforto._

SHE APPEARS TO HIM, AND, WITH MORE THAN WONTED AFFECTION, ENDEAVOURS TO CONSOLE HIM.

When she, the faithful soother of my pain, This life's long weary pilgrimage to cheer, Vouchsafes beside my nightly couch to appear, With her sweet speech attempering reason's strain; O'ercome by tenderness, and terror vain, I cry, "Whence comest thou, O spirit blest?"

She from her beauteous breast A branch of laurel and of palm displays, And, answering, thus she says.

"From th' empyrean seat of holy love Alone thy sorrows to console I move."

In actions, and in words, in humble guise I speak my thanks, and ask, "How may it be That thou shouldst know my wretched state?" and she "Thy floods of tears perpetual, and thy sighs Breathed forth unceasing, to high heaven arise.

And there disturb thy blissful state serene; So grievous hath it been, That freed from this poor being, I at last To a better life have pa.s.s'd, Which should have joy'd thee hadst thou loved as well As thy sad brow, and sadder numbers tell."

"Oh! not thy ills, I but deplore my own, In darkness, and in grief remaining here, Certain that thou hast reach'd the highest sphere, As of a thing that man hath seen and known.

Would G.o.d and Nature to the world have shown Such virtue in a young and gentle breast, Were not eternal rest The appointed guerdon of a life so fair?

Thou! of the spirits rare, Who, from a course unspotted, pure and high, Are suddenly translated to the sky.

"But I! how can I cease to weep? forlorn, Without thee nothing, wretched, desolate!

Oh, in the cradle had I met my fate, Or at the breast! and not to love been born!"

And she: "Why by consuming grief thus worn?

Were it not better spread aloft thy wings, And now all mortal things, With these thy sweet and idle fantasies, At their just value prize, And follow me, if true thy tender vows, Gathering henceforth with me these honour'd boughs?"

Then answering her:--"Fain would I thou shouldst say What these two verdant branches signify."

"Methinks," she says, "thou may'st thyself reply, Whose pen has graced the one by many a lay.

The palm shows victory; and in youth's bright day I overcame the world, and my weak heart: The triumph mine in part, Glory to Him who made my weakness strength!

And thou, yet turn at length!

'Gainst other powers his gracious aid implore, That we may be with Him thy trial o'er!"

"Are these the crisped locks, and links of gold That bind me still? And these the radiant eyes.

To me the Sun?" "Err not with the unwise, Nor think," she says, "as they are wont. Behold In me a spirit, among the blest enroll'd; Thou seek'st what hath long been earth again: Yet to relieve thy pain 'Tis given me thus to appear, ere I resume That beauty from the tomb, More loved, that I, severe in pity, win Thy soul with mine to Heaven, from death and sin."

I weep; and she my cheek, Soft sighing, with her own fair hand will dry; And, gently chiding, speak In tones of power to rive hard rocks in twain; Then vanis.h.i.+ng, sleep follows in her train.

DACRE.

CANZONE VII.

_Quell' antiquo mio dolce empio signore._

LOVE, SUMMONED BY THE POET TO THE TRIBUNAL OF REASON, Pa.s.sES A SPLENDID EULOGIUM ON LAURA.

Long had I suffer'd, till--to combat more In strength, in hope too sunk--at last before Impartial Reason's seat, Whence she presides our n.o.bler nature o'er, I summon'd my old tyrant, stern and sweet; There, groaning 'neath a weary weight of grief, With fear and horror stung, Like one who dreads to die and prays relief, My plea I open'd thus: "When life was young, I, weakly, placed my peace within his power, And nothing from that hour Save wrong I've met; so many and so great The torments I have borne, That my once infinite patience is outworn, And my life worthless grown is held in very hate!

"Thus sadly has my time till now dragg'd by In flames and anguish: I have left each way Of honour, use, and joy, This my most cruel flatterer to obey.