The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch

SONNET CXXXI

Or che 'l ciel e la terra e 'l vento tace

NIGHT BRINGS PEACE TO ALL SAVE HIM

 
O'er earth and sky her lone watch silence keeps,
And bird and beast in stirless slumber lie,
Her starry chariot Night conducts on high,
And in its bed the waveless ocean sleeps.
I wake, muse, burn, and weep; of all my pain
The one sweet cause appears before me still;
War is my lot, which grief and anger fill,
And thinking but of her some rest I gain.
Thus from one bright and living fountain flows
The bitter and the sweet on which I feed;
One hand alone can harm me or can heal:
And thus my martyrdom no limit knows,
A thousand deaths and lives each day I feel,
So distant are the paths to peace which lead.
 

Macgregor.

 
'Tis now the hour when midnight silence reigns
O'er earth and sea, and whispering Zephyr dies
Within his rocky cell; and Morpheus chains
Each beast that roams the wood, and bird that wings the skies.
More blest those rangers of the earth and air,
Whom night awhile relieves from toil and pain;
Condemn'd to tears and sighs, and wasting care.
To me the circling sun descends in vain!
Ah me! that mingling miseries and joys,
Too near allied, from one sad fountain flow!
The magic hand that comforts and annoys
Can hope, and fell despair, and life, and death bestow!
Too great the bliss to find in death relief:
Fate has not yet fill'd up the measure of my grief.
 

Woodhouselee.

SONNET CXXXII

Come 'l candido piè per l' erba fresca

HER WALK, LOOKS, WORDS, AND AIR

 
As o'er the fresh grass her fair form its sweet
And graceful passage makes at evening hours,
Seems as around the newly-wakening flowers
Found virtue issue from her delicate feet.
Love, which in true hearts only has his seat,
Nor elsewhere deigns to prove his certain powers,
So warm a pleasure from her bright eyes showers,
No other bliss I ask, no better meat.
And with her soft look and light step agree
Her mild and modest, never eager air,
And sweetest words in constant union rare.
From these four sparks—nor only these we see—
Springs the great fire wherein I live and burn,
Which makes me from the sun as night-birds turn.
 

Macgregor.

SONNET CXXXIII

S' io fossi stato fermo alla spelunca

TO ONE WHO DESIRED LATIN VERSE OF HIM

 
Still had I sojourn'd in that Delphic cave
Where young Apollo prophet first became,
Verona, Mantua were not sole in fame,
But Florence, too, her poet now might have:
But since the waters of that spring no more
Enrich my land, needs must that I pursue
Some other planet, and, with sickle new,
Reap from my field of sticks and thorns its store.
Dried is the olive: elsewhere turn'd the stream
Whose source from famed Parnassus was derived.
Whereby of yore it throve in best esteem.
Me fortune thus, or fault perchance, deprived
Of all good fruit—unless eternal Jove
Shower on my head some favour from above.
 

Macgregor.

SONNET CXXXIV

Quando Amor i begli occhi a terra inchina

LAURA SINGS

 
If Love her beauteous eyes to earth incline,
And all her soul concentring in a sigh,
Then breathe it in her voice of melody,
Floating clear, soft, angelical, divine;
My heart, forth-stolen so gently, I resign,
And, all my hopes and wishes changed, I cry,—
"Oh, may my last breath pass thus blissfully,
If Heaven so sweet a death for me design!"
But the rapt sense, by such enchantment bound,
And the strong will, thus listening to possess
Heaven's joys on earth, my spirit's flight delay.
And thus I live; and thus drawn out and wound
Is my life's thread, in dreamy blessedness,
By this sole syren from the realms of day.
 

Dacre.

 
Her bright and love-lit eyes on earth she bends—
Concentres her rich breath in one full sigh—
A brief pause—a fond hush—her voice on high,
Clear, soft, angelical, divine, ascends.
Such rapine sweet through all my heart extends,
New thoughts and wishes so within me vie,
Perforce I say,—"Thus be it mine to die,
If Heaven to me so fair a doom intends!"
But, ah! those sounds whose sweetness laps my sense,
The strong desire of more that in me yearns,
Restrain my spirit in its parting hence.
Thus at her will I live; thus winds and turns
The yarn of life which to my lot is given,
Earth's single siren, sent to us from heaven.
 

Macgregor.

SONNET CXXXV

Amor mi manda quel dolce pensero

LIFE WILL FAIL HIM BEFORE HOPE

 
Love to my mind recalling that sweet thought,
The ancient confidant our lives between,
Well comforts me, and says I ne'er have been
So near as now to what I hoped and sought.
I, who at times with dangerous falsehood fraught,
At times with partial truth, his words have seen,
Live in suspense, still missing the just mean,
'Twixt yea and nay a constant battle fought.
Meanwhile the years pass on: and I behold
In my true glass the adverse time draw near
Her promise and my hope which limits here.
So let it be: alone I grow not old;
Changes not e'en with age my loving troth;
My fear is this—the short life left us both.
 

Macgregor.

SONNET CXXXVI

Pien d' un vago pensier, che me desvia

HIS TONGUE IS TIED BY EXCESS OF PASSION

 
Such vain thought as wonted to mislead me
In desert hope, by well-assurèd moan,
Makes me from company to live alone,
In following her whom reason bids me flee.
She fleeth as fast by gentle cruelty;
And after her my heart would fain be gone,
But armèd sighs my way do stop anon,
'Twixt hope and dread locking my liberty;
Yet as I guess, under disdainful brow
One beam of ruth is in her cloudy look:
Which comforteth the mind, that erst for fear shook:
And therewithal bolded I seek the way how
To utter the smart I suffer within;
But such it is, I not how to begin.
 

Wyatt.

 
Full of a tender thought, which severs me
From all my kind, a lonely musing thing,
From my breast's solitude I sometimes spring,
Still seeking her whom most I ought to flee;
And see her pass though soft, so adverse she,
That my soul spreads for flight a trembling wing:
Of armèd sighs such legions does she bring,
The fair antagonist of Love and me.
Yet from beneath that dark disdainful brow,
Or much I err, one beam of pity flows,
Soothing with partial warmth my heart's distress:
Again my bosom feels its wonted glow!
But when my simple hope I would disclose,
My o'er-fraught faltering tongue the crowded thoughts oppress.
 

Wrangham.

SONNET CXXXVII

Più volte già dal bel sembiante umano

LOVE UNMANS HIS RESOLUTION

 
Oft as her angel face compassion wore,
With tears whose eloquence scarce fails to move,
With bland and courteous speech, I boldly strove
To soothe my foe, and in meek guise implore:
But soon her eyes inspire vain hopes no more;
For all my fortune, all my fate in love,
My life, my death, the good, the ills I prove,
To her are trusted by one sovereign power.
Hence 'tis, whene'er my lips would silence break,
Scarce can I hear the accents which I vent,
By passion render'd spiritless and weak.
Ah! now I find that fondness to excess
Fetters the tongue, and overpowers intent:
Faint is the flame that language can express!
 

Nott.

 
Oft have I meant my passion to declare,
When fancy read compliance in her eyes;
And oft with courteous speech, with love-lorn sighs,
Have wish'd to soften my obdurate fair:
But let that face one look of anger wear,
The intention fades; for all that fate supplies,
Or good, or ill, all, all that I can prize,
My life, my death, Love trusts to her dear care.
E'en I can scarcely hear my amorous moan,
So much my voice by passion is confined;
So faint, so timid are my accents grown!
Ah! now the force of love I plainly see;
What can the tongue, or what the impassion'd mind?
He that could speak his love, ne'er loved like me.
 

Anon. 1777.

SONNET CXXXVIII

Giunto m' ha Amor fra belle e crude braccia

HE CANNOT END HER CRUELTY, NOR SHE HIS HOPE

 
Me Love has left in fair cold arms to lie,
Which kill me wrongfully: if I complain,
My martyrdom is doubled, worse my pain:
Better in silence love, and loving die!
For she the frozen Rhine with burning eye
Can melt at will, the hard rock break in twain,
So equal to her beauty her disdain
That others' pleasure wakes her angry sigh.
A breathing moving marble all the rest,
Of very adamant is made her heart,
So hard, to move it baffles all my art.
Despite her lowering brow and haughty breast,
One thing she cannot, my fond heart deter
From tender hopes and passionate sighs for her.
 

Macgregor.

SONNET CXXXIX

O Invidia, nemica di virtute

ENVY MAY DISTURB, BUT CANNOT DESTROY HIS HOPE

 
O deadly Envy, virtue's constant foe,
With good and lovely eager to contest!
Stealthily, by what way, in that fair breast
Hast entrance found? by what arts changed it so?
Thence by the roots my weal hast thou uptorn,
Too blest in love hast shown me to that fair
Who welcomed once my chaste and humble prayer,
But seems to treat me now with hate and scorn.
But though you may by acts severe and ill
Sigh at my good and smile at my distress,
You cannot change for me a single thought.
Not though a thousand times each day she kill
Can I or hope in her or love her less.
For though she scare, Love confidence has taught.
 

Macgregor.

SONNET CXL

Mirando 'l sol de' begli occhi sereno

THE SWEETS AND BITTERS OF LOVE

 
Marking of those bright eyes the sun serene
Where reigneth Love, who mine obscures and grieves,
My hopeless heart the weary spirit leaves
Once more to gain its paradise terrene;
Then, finding full of bitter-sweet the scene,
And in the world how vast the web it weaves.
A secret sigh for baffled love it heaves,
Whose spurs so sharp, whose curb so hard have been.
By these two contrary and mix'd extremes,
With frozen or with fiery wishes fraught,
To stand 'tween misery and bliss she seems:
Seldom in glad and oft in gloomy thought,
But mostly contrite for its bold emprize,
For of like seed like fruit must ever rise!
 

Macgregor.

SONNET CXLI

Fera stella (se 'l cielo ha forza in noi)

TO PINE FOR HER IS BETTER THAN TO ENJOY HAPPINESS WITH ANY OTHER

 
Ill-omen'd was that star's malignant gleam
That ruled my hapless birth; and dim the morn
That darted on my infant eyes the beam;
And harsh the wail, that told a man was born;
And hard the sterile earth, which first was worn
Beneath my infant feet; but harder far,
And harsher still, the tyrant maid, whose scorn,
In league with savage Love, inflamed the war
Of all my passions.—Love himself more tame,
With pity soothes my ills; while that cold heart,
Insensible to the devouring flame
Which wastes my vitals, triumphs in my smart.
One thought is comfort—that her scorn to bear,
Excels e'er prosperous love, with other earthly fair.
 

Woodhouselee.

 
An evil star usher'd my natal morn
(If heaven have o'er us power, as some have said),
Hard was the cradle where I lay when born,
And hard the earth where first my young feet play'd;
Cruel the lady who, with eyes of scorn
And fatal bow, whose mark I still was made,
Dealt me the wound, O Love, which since I mourn
Whose cure thou only, with those arms, canst aid.
But, ah! to thee my torments pleasure bring:
She, too, severer would have wished the blow,
A spear-head thrust, and not an arrow-sting.
One comfort rests—better to suffer so
For her, than others to enjoy: and I,
Sworn on thy golden dart, on this for death rely.
 

Macgregor.

SONNET CXLII

Quando mi vene innanzi il tempo e 'l loco

RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY LOVE

 
The time and scene where I a slave became
When I remember, and the knot so dear
Which Love's own hand so firmly fasten'd here,
Which made my bitter sweet, my grief a game;
My heart, with fuel stored, is, as a flame
Of those soft sighs familiar to mine ear,
So lit within, its very sufferings cheer;
On these I live, and other aid disclaim.
That sun, alone which beameth for my sight,
With his strong rays my ruin'd bosom burns
Now in the eve of life as in its prime,
And from afar so gives me warmth and light,
Fresh and entire, at every hour, returns
On memory the knot, the scene, the time.
 

Macgregor.

SONNET CXLIII

Per mezzo i boschi inospiti e selvaggi

EVER THINKING ON HER, HE PASSES FEARLESS AND SAFE THROUGH THE FOREST OF ARDENNES

 
Through woods inhospitable, wild, I rove,
Where armèd travellers bend their fearful way;
Nor danger dread, save from that sun of love,
Bright sun! which darts a soul-enflaming ray.
Of her I sing, all-thoughtless as I stray,
Whose sweet idea strong as heaven's shall prove:
And oft methinks these pines, these beeches, move
Like nymphs; 'mid which fond fancy sees her play
I seem to hear her, when the whispering gale
Steals through some thick-wove branch, when sings a bird,
When purls the stream along yon verdant vale.
How grateful might this darksome wood appear,
Where horror reigns, where scarce a sound is heard;
But, ah! 'tis far from all my heart holds dear.
 

Anon. 1777.

 
Amid the wild wood's lone and difficult ways,
Where travel at great risk e'en men in arms,
I pass secure—for only me alarms
That sun, which darts of living love the rays—
Singing fond thoughts in simple lays to her
Whom time and space so little hide from me;
E'en here her form, nor hers alone, I see,
But maids and matrons in each beech and fir:
Methinks I hear her when the bird's soft moan,
The sighing leaves I hear, or through the dell
Where its bright lapse some murmuring rill pursues.
Rarely of shadowing wood the silence lone,
The solitary horror pleased so well,
Except that of my sun too much I lose.
 

Macgregor.

SONNET CXLIV

Mille piagge in un giorno e mille rivi

TO BE NEAR HER RECOMPENSES HIM FOR ALL THE PERILS OF THE WAY

 
Love, who his votary wings in heart and feet,
To the third heaven that lightly he may soar,
In one short day has many a stream and shore
Given to me, in famed Ardennes, to meet.
Unarm'd and single to have pass'd is sweet
Where war in earnest strikes, nor tells before—
A helmless, sail-less ship 'mid ocean's roar—
My breast with dark and fearful thoughts replete;
But reach'd my dangerous journey's far extreme,
Remembering whence I came, and with whose wings,
From too great courage conscious terror springs.
But this fair country and belovèd stream
With smiling welcome reassures my heart,
Where dwells its sole light ready to depart.
 

Macgregor.

SONNET CXLV

Amor mi sprona in un tempo ed affrena

HE HEARS THE VOICE OF REASON, BUT CANNOT OBEY

 
Love in one instant spurs me and restrains,
Assures and frightens, freezes me and burns,
Smiles now and scowls, now summons me and spurns,
In hope now holds me, plunges now in pains:
Now high, now low, my weary heart he hurls,
Until fond passion loses quite the path,
And highest pleasure seems to stir but wrath—
My harass'd mind on such strange errors feeds!
A friendly thought there points the proper track,
Not of such grief as from the full eye breaks,
To go where soon it hopes to be at ease,
But, as if greater power thence turn'd it back,
Despite itself, another way it takes,
And to its own slow death and mine agrees.
 

Macgregor.

SONNET CXLVI

Geri, quando talor meco s' adira

HE APPEASES HER BY HUMILITY, AND EXHORTS A FRIEND TO DO LIKEWISE

 
When my sweet foe, so haughty oft and high,
Moved my brief ire no more my sight can thole,
One comfort is vouchsafed me lest I die,
Through whose sole strength survives my harass'd soul;
Where'er her eyes—all light which would deny
To my sad life—in scorn or anger roll,
Mine with such true humility reply,
Soon their meek glances all her rage control,
Were it not so, methinks I less could brook
To gaze on hers than on Medusa's mien,
Which turn'd to marble all who met her look.
My friend, act thus with thine, for closed I ween
All other aid, and nothing flight avails
Against the wings on which our master sails.
 

Macgregor.

SONNET CXLVII

Po, ben puo' tu portartene la scorza

TO THE RIVER PO, ON QUITTING LAURA

 
Thou Po to distant realms this frame mayst bear,
On thy all-powerful, thy impetuous tide;
But the free spirit that within doth bide
Nor for thy might, nor any might doth care:
Not varying here its course, nor shifting there,
Upon the favouring gale it joys to glide;
Plying its wings toward the laurel's pride,
In spite of sails or oars, of sea or air.
Monarch of floods, magnificent and strong,
That meet'st the sun as he leads on the day,
But in the west dost quit a fairer light;
Thy curvèd course this body wafts along;
My spirit on Love's pinions speeds its way,
And to its darling home directs its flight!
 

Nott.

 
Po, thou upon thy strong and rapid tide,
This frame corporeal mayst onward bear:
But a free spirit is concealèd there,
Which nor thy power nor any power can guide.
That spirit, light on breeze auspicious buoy'd,
With course unvarying backward cleaves the air—
Nor wave, nor wind, nor sail, nor oar its care—
And plies its wings, and seeks the laurel's pride.
'Tis thine, proud king of rivers, eastward borne
To meet the sun, as he leads on the day;
And from a brighter west 'tis thine to turn:
Thy hornèd flood these passive limbs obey—
But, uncontrollèd, to its sweet sojourn
On Love's untiring plumes my spirit speeds its way.
 

Wrangham.

SONNET CXLVIII

Amor fra l' orbe una leggiadra rete

HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A BIRD CAUGHT IN A NET

 
Love 'mid the grass beneath a laurel green—
The plant divine which long my flame has fed,
Whose shade for me less bright than sad is seen—
A cunning net of gold and pearls had spread:
Its bait the seed he sows and reaps, I ween
Bitter and sweet, which I desire, yet dread:
Gentle and soft his call, as ne'er has been
Since first on Adam's eyes the day was shed:
And the bright light which disenthrones the sun
Was flashing round, and in her hand, more fair
Than snow or ivory, was the master rope.
So fell I in the snare; their slave so won
Her speech angelical and winning air,
Pleasure, and fond desire, and sanguine hope.
 

Macgregor.

SONNET CXLIX

Amor che 'ncende 'l cor d' ardente zelo

LOVE AND JEALOUSY

 
'Tis Love's caprice to freeze the bosom now
With bolts of ice, with shafts of flame now burn;
And which his lighter pang, I scarce discern—
Or hope or fear, or whelming fire or snow.
In heat I shiver, and in cold I glow,
Now thrill'd with love, with jealousy now torn:
As if her thin robe by a rival worn,
Or veil, had screen'd him from my vengeful blow
But more 'tis mine to burn by night, by day;
And how I love the death by which I die,
Nor thought can grasp, nor tongue of bard can sing:
Not so my freezing fire—impartially
She shines to all; and who would speed his way
To that high beam, in vain expands his fluttering wing.
 

Wrangham.

 
Love with hot zeal now burns the heart within,
Now holds it fetter'd with a frozen fear,
Leaving it doubtful to our judgment here
If hope or dread, if flame or frost, shall win.
In June I shiver, burn December in,
Full of desires, from jealousy ne'er clear;
E'en as a lady who her loving fee
Hides 'neath a little veil of texture thin.
Of the two ills the first is all mine own,
By day, by night to burn; how sweet that pain
Dwells not in thought, nor ever poet sings:
Not so the other, my fair flame, is shown,
She levels all: who hopes the crest to gain
Of that proud light expands in vain his wings.
 

Macgregor.

SONNET CL

Se 'l dolce sguardo di costei m' ancide

HE IS CONTINUALLY IN FEAR OF DISPLEASING HER

 
If thus the dear glance of my lady slay,
On her sweet sprightly speech if dangers wait,
If o'er me Love usurp a power so great,
Oft as she speaks, or when her sun-smiles play;
Alas! what were it if she put away,
Or for my fault, or by my luckless fate,
Her eyes from pity, and to death's full hate,
Which now she keeps aloof, should then betray.
Thus if at heart with terror I am cold,
When o'er her fair face doubtful shadows spring,
The feeling has its source in sufferings old.
Woman by nature is a fickle thing,
And female hearts—time makes the proverb sure—
Can never long one state of love endure.
 

Macgregor.

 
If the soft glance, the speech, both kind and wise,
Of that beloved one can wound me so,
And if, whene'er she lets her accents flow,
Or even smiles, Love gains such victories;
Alas! what should I do, were those dear eyes,
Which now secure my life through weal and woe,
From fault of mine, or evil fortune, slow
To shed on me their light in pity's guise?
And if my trembling spirit groweth cold
Whene'er I see change to her aspect spring,
This fear is only born of trials old;
(Woman by nature is a fickle thing,)
And hence I know her heart hath power to hold
But a brief space Love's sweet imagining!
 

Wrottesley.

SONNET CLI

Amor, Natura, e la bell' alma umile

DURING A SERIOUS ILLNESS OF LAURA

 
Love, Nature, Laura's gentle self combines,
She where each lofty virtue dwells and reigns,
Against my peace: To pierce with mortal pains
Love toils—such ever are his stern designs.
Nature by bonds so slight to earth confines
Her slender form, a breath may break its chains;
And she, so much her heart the world disdains,
Longer to tread life's wearying round repines.
Hence still in her sweet frame we view decay
All that to earth can joy and radiance lend,
Or serve as mirror to this laggard age;
And Death's dread purpose should not Pity stay,
Too well I see where all those hopes must end,
With which I fondly soothed my lingering pilgrimage.
 

Wrangham.

 
Love, Nature, and that gentle soul as bright,
Where every lofty virtue dwells and reigns,
Are sworn against my peace. As wont, Love strains
His every power that I may perish quite.
Nature her delicate form by bonds so slight
Holds in existence, that no help sustains;
She is so modest that she now disdains
Longer to brook this vile life's painful fight.
Thus fades and fails the spirit day by day,
Which on those dear and lovely limbs should wait,
Our mirror of true grace which wont to give:
And soon, if Mercy turn not Death away,
Alas! too well I see in what sad state
Are those vain hopes wherein I loved to live.
 

Macgregor.