MACGREGOR.

[Illustration:  PETRARCH’S HOUSE AT ARQUA.]

PETRARCH’S TRIUMPHS.

THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE.

PART I.

Nel tempo che rinova i miei sospiri.

      It was the time when I do sadly pay
    My sighs, in tribute to that sweet-sour day,
    Which first gave being to my tedious woes;
    The sun now o’er the Bull’s horns proudly goes,
    And Phaeton had renew’d his wonted race;
    When Love, the season, and my own ill case,
    Drew me that solitary place to find,
    In which I oft unload my charged mind: 
    There, tired with raving thoughts and helpless moan,
    Sleep seal’d my eyes up, and, my senses gone,
    My waking fancy spied a shining light,
    In which appear’d long pain, and short delight. 
    A mighty General I then did see,
    Like one, who, for some glorious victory,
    Should to the Capitol in triumph go: 
    I (who had not been used to such a show
    In this soft age, where we no valour have,
    But pride) admired his habit, strange and brave,
    And having raised mine eyes, which wearied were,
    To understand this sight was all my care. 
    Four snowy steeds a fiery chariot drew;
    There sat the cruel boy; a threatening yew
    His right hand bore, his quiver arrows held,
    Against whose force no helm or shield prevail’d. 
    Two party-colour’d wings his shoulders ware;
    All naked else; and round about his chair
    Were thousand mortals:  some in battle ta’en,
    Many were hurt with darts, and many slain. 
    Glad to learn news, I rose, and forward press’d
    So far, that I was one amongst the rest;
    As if I had been kill’d with loving pain
    Before my time; and looking through the train
    Of this tear-thirsty king, I would have spied
    Some of my old acquaintance, but descried
    No face I knew:  if any such there were,
    They were transform’d with prison, death, and care. 
    At last one ghost, less sad than th’ others, came,
    Who, near approaching, call’d me by my name,
    And said:  “This comes of Love.”  “What may you be,”
    I answer’d, wondering much, “that thus know me? 
    For I remember not t’ have seen your face.” 
    He thus replied:  “It is the dusky place
    That dulls thy sight, and this hard yoke I bear: 
    Else I a Tuscan am; thy friend, and dear
    To thy remembrance.”  His wonted phrase
    And voice did then discover what he was. 
    So we retired aside, and left the throng,
    When thus he spake:  “I have expected long
    To see you here with us; your face did seem
    To threaten you no less.  I do esteem
    Your prophesies; but I have seen what care
    Attends a lover’s life;