The following sections of this BookRags Literature Study Guide is offprint from Gale's For Students Series: Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Works: Introduction, Author Biography, Plot Summary, Characters, Themes, Style, Historical Context, Critical Overview, Criticism and Critical Essays, Media Adaptations, Topics for Further Study, Compare & Contrast, What Do I Read Next?, For Further Study, and Sources.
(c)1998-2002; (c)2002 by Gale. Gale is an imprint of The Gale Group, Inc., a division of Thomson Learning, Inc. Gale and Design and Thomson Learning are trademarks used herein under license.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Encyclopedia of Popular Fiction: "Social Concerns", "Thematic Overview", "Techniques", "Literary Precedents", "Key Questions", "Related Titles", "Adaptations", "Related Web Sites". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
All other sections in this Literature Study Guide are owned and copyrighted by BookRags, Inc.
The present translation of Petrarch completes the Illustrated Library series of the Italian Poets emphatically distinguished as “I Quattro Poeti Italiani.”
It is rather a singular fact that, while the other three Poets of this world-famed series—Dante, Ariosto, and Tasso—have each found several translators, no complete version of the fourth, and in Italy the most popular, has hitherto been presented to the English reader. This lacune becomes the more remarkable when we consider the great influence which Petrarch has undoubtedly exercised on our poetry from the time of Chaucer downwards.
The plan of the present volume has been to select from all the known versions those most distinguished for fidelity and rhythm. Of the more favourite poems, as many as three or four are occasionally given; while of others, and those by no means few, it has been difficult to find even one. Indeed, many must have remained entirely unrepresented but for the spirited efforts of Major Macgregor, who has recently translated nearly the whole, and that with great closeness both as to matter and form. To this gentleman we have to return our especial thanks for his liberal permission to make free use of his labours.
Among the translators will be found Chaucer, Spenser, Sir Thomas Wyatt, Anna Hume, Sir John Harington, Basil Kennett, Anne Bannerman, Drummond of Hawthornden, R. Molesworth, Hugh Boyd, Lord Woodhouselee, the Rev. Francis Wrangham, the Rev. Dr. Nott, Dr. Morehead, Lady Dacre, Lord Charlemont, Capel Lofft, John Penn, Charlotte Smith, Mrs. Wrottesley, Miss Wollaston, J.H. Merivale, the Rev. W. Shepherd, and Leigh Hunt, besides many anonymous.
The order of arrangement is that adopted by Marsand and other recent editors; but to prevent any difficulty in identification, the Italian first lines have been given throughout, and repeated in an alphabetical index.
The Life of Petrarch prefixed is a condensation of the poet Campbell’s two octavo volumes, and includes all the material part of that work.
York Street, Covent Garden,
June 28, 1869.
Page
1. Portrait of petrarch to face title.
2. View of Naples xliv
3. View of nice li
4. Coast of Genoa lxvi
5. Bridge of sighs, Venice lxxviii
6. Vicenza lxxxiii
7. Milan Cathedral cvi
8. Library of st. Mark’s, Venice cxv
9. Ferrara. The old ducal palace cxxiii
10. Portrait of Laura 1
11. View of Rome—st. Peter’s in the distance 66
12. Solitudes of Vaucluse (where Petrarch wrote most of his Sonnets) 105
13. Genoa and the apennines 124
14. Avignon (where Laura resided) 189
15. Selva PIANA (where Petrarch received the news of Laura’s death) 232
16. Petrarch’s house at Arqua (where he wrote his Triumphs) 322
A.D. Page
1304. Born at Arezzo, the 20th of July. ix
1305. Is taken to Incisa at the age of seven
months, where
he
remains seven years.
x
1312. Is removed to Pisa, where he remains seven months. x
1313. Accompanies his parents to Avignon. xi
1315. Goes to live at Carpentras. xi
1319. Is sent to Montpelier. xi
1323. Is removed to Bologna. xii
1326. Returns to Avignon—loses his
parents—contracts a
friendship
with James Colonna. xiii
1327. Falls in love with Laura. xvii
1330. Goes to Lombes with James Colonna—forms
acquaintance
with
Socrates and Laelius—and returns to Avignon
to
live
in the house of Cardinal Colonna. xviii
1331. Travels to Paris—travels through
Flanders and Brabant,
and
visits a part of Germany.
xxiv
1333. His first journey to Rome—his
long navigation as
far
as the coast of England—his return to Avignon.
xxxiii
1337. Birth of his son John—he retires to Vaucluse. xxxv
1339. Commences writing his epic poem, “Africa.” xxxviii
1340. Receives an invitation from Rome to come
and be
crowned
as Laureate—and another invitation, to
the
same effect, from Paris.
xlii
1341. Goes to Naples, and thence to Rome, where
he is
crowned
in the Capitol—repairs to Parma—death
of
Tommaso da Messina and James Colonna.
xliii
1342. Goes as orator of the Roman people to Clement
vi.
at
Avignon—Studies the Greek language under
Barlaamo.
xlviii
1343. Birth of his daughter Francesca—he
writes his
dialogues
“De secreto conflictu curarum
suarum”—is
sent to Naples by Clement vi. and
Cardinal
Colonna—goes to Rome for a third and
a
fourth time—returns from Naples to Parma.
li
1344. Continues to reside in Parma. lviii
1345. Leaves Parma, goes to Bologna, and thence
to
Verona—returns
to Avignon. lviii
1346. Continues to live at Avignon—is
elected canon of
Parma.
lix
1347. Revolution at Rome—Petrarch’s
connection with the
Tribune—takes
his fifth journey to Italy—repairs
to
Parma.
lxiv
1348. Goes to Verona—death of Laura—he
returns again
to
Parma—his autograph memorandum in the
Milan
copy of Virgil—visits Manfredi, Lord of
Carpi,
and James Carrara at Padua. lxvii
1349. Goes from Parma to Mantua and Ferrara—returns
to
Padua, and receives, probably in this year, a
canonicate
in Padua. lxxiii
1350. Is raised to the Archdeaconry of Parma—writes
to
the
Emperor Charles IV.—goes to Rome, and, in
going
and returning, stops at Florence. lxxiii
1351. Writes to Andrea Dandolo with a view to
reconcile
the
Venetians and Florentines—the Florentines
decree
the restoration of his paternal property,
and
send John Boccaccio to recall him to his
country—he
returns, for the sixth time, to
Avignon—is
consulted by the four Cardinals, who
had
been deputed to reform the government of Rome.
lxxx
1352. Writes to Clement vi. the letter which
excites against
him
the enmity of the medical tribe—begins
writing
his treatise “De Vita Solitaria.”
lxxxvii
1353. Visits his brother in the Carthusian monastery
of
Monte
Rivo—writes his treatise “De Otio
Religiosorum”—returns
to Italy—takes up his
abode
with the Visconti—is sent by the Archbishop
Visconti
to Venice, to negotiate a peace between the
Venetians
and Genoese. xc
1354. Visits the Emperor at Mantua. xcix
1355. His embassy to the Emperor—publishes
his “Invective
against
a Physician.”
xcix
1360. His embassy to John, King of France. cxii
1361. Leaves Milan and settles at Venice—gives
his library
to
the Venetians.
cxiii
1364. Writes for Lucchino del Verme his treatise
“De Officio
et
Virtutibus Imperatoris.”
cxvii
1366. Writes to Urban V. imploring him to remove
the
Papal
residence to Rome—finishes his treatise
“De
Remediis utriusque Fortunae.”
cxviii
1368. Quits Venice—four young Venetians,
either in this
year
or the preceding, promulgate a critical judgment
against
Petrarch—repairs to Pavia to negotiate
peace
between the Pope’s Legate and the
Visconti.
cxix
1370. Sets out to visit the Pontiff—is
taken ill at Ferrara—
retires
to Arqua among the Euganean hills. cxxii
1371. Writes his “Invectiva contra Gallum,”
and his
“Epistle
to Posterity.”
cxxiii
1372. Writes for Francesco da Carrara his essay
“De Republica
optime
administranda.”
cxxx
1373. Is sent to Venice by Francesco da Carrara. cxxx
1374. Translates the Griseldis of Boccaccio—dies
on the
18th
of July in the same year. cxxxi
The family of Petrarch was originally of Florence, where his ancestors held employments of trust and honour. Garzo, his great-grandfather, was a notary universally respected for his integrity and judgment. Though he had never devoted himself exclusively to letters, his literary opinion was consulted by men of learning. He lived to be a hundred and four years old, and died, like Plato, in the same bed in which he had been born.
Garzo left three sons, one of whom was the grandfather of Petrarch. Diminutives being customary to the Tuscan tongue, Pietro, the poet’s father, was familiarly called Petracco, or little Peter. He, like his ancestors, was a notary, and not undistinguished for sagacity. He had several important commissions from government. At last, in the increasing conflicts between the Guelphs and the Ghibellines—or, as they now called themselves, the Blacks and the Whites—Petracco, like Dante, was obliged to fly from his native city, along with the other Florentines of the White party. He was unjustly accused of having officially issued a false deed, and was condemned, on the 20th of October, 1302, to pay a fine of one thousand lire, and to have his hand cut off, if that sum was not paid within ten days from the time he should be apprehended. Petracco fled, taking with him his wife, Eletta Canigiani, a lady of a distinguished family in Florence, several of whom had held the office of Gonfalonier.
Petracco and his wife first settled at Arezzo, a very ancient city of Tuscany. Hostilities did not cease between the Florentine factions till some years afterwards; and, in an attempt made by the Whites to take Florence by assault, Petracco was present with his party. They were repulsed. This action, which was fatal to their cause, took place in the night between the 19th and 20th days of July, 1304,—the precise date of the birth of Petrarch.
During our poet’s infancy, his family had still to struggle with an adverse fate; for his proscribed and wandering father was obliged to separate himself from his wife and child, in order to have the means of supporting them.
As the pretext for banishing Petracco was purely personal, Eletta, his wife, was not included in the sentence. She removed to a small property of her husband’s, at Ancisa, fourteen miles from Florence, and took the little poet along with her, in the seventh month of his age. In their passage thither, both mother and child, together with their guide, had a narrow escape from being drowned in the Arno. Eletta entrusted her precious charge to a robust peasant, who, for fear of hurting the child, wrapt it in a swaddling cloth, and suspended it over his shoulder, in the same manner as Metabus is described by Virgil, in the eleventh book of the AEneid, to have carried his daughter Camilla. In passing the river, the horse of the guide, who carried Petrarch, stumbled, and sank down; and in their struggles to save him, both his sturdy bearer and the frantic parent were, like the infant itself, on the point of being drowned.
After Eletta had settled at Ancisa, Petracco often visited her by stealth, and the pledges of their affection were two other sons, one of whom died in childhood. The other, called Gherardo, was educated along with Petrarch. Petrarch remained with his mother at Ancisa for seven years.
The arrival of the Emperor, Henry VII., in Italy, revived the hopes of the banished Florentines; and Petracco, in order to wait the event, went to Pisa, whither he brought his wife and Francesco, who was now in his eighth year. Petracco remained with his family in Pisa for several months; but tired at last of fallacious hopes, and not daring to trust himself to the promises of the popular party, who offered to recall him to Florence, he sought an asylum in Avignon, a place to which many Italians were allured by the hopes of honours and gain at the papal residence. In this voyage, Petracco and his family were nearly shipwrecked off Marseilles.
But the numbers that crowded to Avignon, and its luxurious court, rendered that city an uncomfortable place for a family in slender circumstances. Petracco accordingly removed his household, in 1315, to Carpentras, a small quiet town, where living was cheaper than at Avignon. There, under the care of his mother, Petrarch imbibed his first instruction, and was taught by one Convennole da Prato as much grammar and logic as could be learned at his age, and more than could be learned by an ordinary disciple from so common-place a preceptor. This poor master, however, had sufficient intelligence to appreciate the genius of Petrarch, whom he esteemed and honoured beyond all his other pupils. On the other hand, his illustrious scholar aided him, in his old age and poverty, out of his scanty income.
Petrarch used to compare Convennole to a whetstone, which is blunt itself, but which sharpens others. His old master, however was sharp enough to overreach him in the matter of borrowing and lending. When the poet had collected a considerable library, Convennole paid him a visit, and, pretending to be engaged in something that required him to consult Cicero, borrowed a copy of one of the works of that orator, which was particularly valuable. He made excuses, from time to time, for not returning it; but Petrarch, at last, had too good reason to suspect that the old grammarian had pawned it. The poet would willingly have paid for redeeming it, but Convennole was so much ashamed, that he would not tell to whom it was pawned; and the precious manuscript was lost.
Petracco contracted an intimacy with Settimo, a Genoese, who was like himself, an exile for his political principles, and who fixed his abode at Avignon with his wife and his boy, Guido Settimo, who was about the same age with Petrarch. The two youths formed a friendship, which subsisted between them for life.
Petrarch manifested signs of extraordinary sensibility to the charms of nature in his childhood, both when he was at Carpentras and at Avignon. One day, when he was at the latter residence, a party was made up, to see the fountain of Vaucluse, a few leagues from Avignon. The little Francesco had no sooner arrived at the lovely landscape than he was struck with its beauties, and exclaimed, “Here, now, is a retirement suited to my taste, and preferable, in my eyes, to the greatest and most splendid cities.”
A genius so fine as that of our poet could not servilely confine itself to the slow method of school learning, adapted to the intellects of ordinary boys. Accordingly, while his fellow pupils were still plodding through the first rudiments of Latin, Petrarch had recourse to the original writers, from whom the grammarians drew their authority, and particularly employed himself in perusing the works of Cicero. And, although he was, at this time, much too young to comprehend the full force of the orator’s reasoning, he was so struck with the charms of his style, that he considered him the only true model in prose composition.
His father, who was himself something of a scholar, was pleased and astonished at this early proof of his good taste; he applauded his classical studies, and encouraged him to persevere in them; but, very soon, he imagined that he had cause to repent of his commendations. Classical learning was, in that age, regarded as a mere solitary accomplishment, and the law was the only road that led to honours and preferment. Petracco was, therefore, desirous to turn into that channel the brilliant qualities of his son; and for this purpose he sent him, at the age of fifteen, to the university of Montpelier. Petrarch remained there for four years, and attended lectures on law from some of the most famous professors of the science. But his prepossession for Cicero prevented him from much frequenting the dry and dusty walks of jurisprudence. In his epistle to posterity, he endeavours to justify this repugnance by other motives. He represents the abuses, the chicanery, and mercenary practices of the law, as inconsistent with every principle of candour and honesty.
When Petracco observed that his son made no great progress in his legal studies at Montpelier, he removed him, in 1323, to Bologna, celebrated for the study of the canon and civil law, probably imagining that the superior fame of the latter place might attract him to love the law. To Bologna Petrarch was accompanied by his brother Gherardo, and by his inseparable friend, young Guido Settimo.
But neither the abilities of the several professors in that celebrated academy, nor the strongest exhortations of his father, were sufficient to conquer the deeply-rooted aversion which our poet had conceived for the law. Accordingly, Petracco hastened to Bologna, that he might endeavour to check his son’s indulgence in literature, which disconcerted his favourite designs. Petrarch, guessing at the motive of his arrival, hid the copies of Cicero, Virgil, and some other authors, which composed his small library, and to purchase which he had deprived himself of almost the necessaries of life. His father, however, soon discovered the place of their concealment, and threw them into the fire. Petrarch exhibited as much agony as if he had been himself the martyr of his father’s resentment. Petracco was so much affected by his son’s tears, that he rescued from the flames Cicero and Virgil, and, presenting them to Petrarch, he said, “Virgil will console you for the loss of your other MSS., and Cicero will prepare you for the study of the law.”
It is by no means wonderful that a mind like Petrarch’s could but ill relish the glosses of the Code and the commentaries on the Decretals.
At Bologna, however, he met with an accomplished literary man and no inelegant poet in one of the professors, who, if he failed in persuading Petrarch to make the law his profession, certainly quickened his relish and ambition for poetry. This man was Cino da Pistoia, who is esteemed by Italians as the most tender and harmonious lyric poet in the native language anterior to Petrarch.
During his residence at Bologna, Petrarch made an excursion as far as Venice, a city that struck him with enthusiastic admiration. In one of his letters he calls it “orbem alterum.” Whilst Italy was harassed, he says, on all sides by continual dissensions, like the sea in a storm, Venice alone appeared like a safe harbour, which overlooked the tempest without feeling its commotion. The resolute and independent spirit of that republic made an indelible impression on Petrarch’s heart. The young poet, perhaps, at this time little imagined that Venice was to be the last scene of his triumphant eloquence.
Soon after his return from Venice to Bologna, he received the melancholy intelligence of the death of his mother, in the thirty-eighth year of her age. Her age is known by a copy of verses which Petrarch wrote upon her death, the verses being the same in number as the years of her life. She had lived humble and retired, and had devoted herself to the good of her family; virtuous amidst the prevalence of corrupted manners, and, though a beautiful woman, untainted by the breath of calumny. Petrarch has repaid her maternal affection by preserving her memory from oblivion. Petracco did not long survive the death of this excellent woman. According to the judgment of our poet, his father was a man of strong character and understanding. Banished from his native country, and engaged in providing for his family, he was prevented by the scantiness of his fortune, and the cares of his situation, from rising to that eminence which he might have otherwise attained. But his admiration of Cicero, in an age when that author was universally neglected, was a proof of his superior mind.
Petrarch quitted Bologna upon the death of his father, and returned to Avignon, with his brother Gherardo, to collect the shattered remains of their father’s property. Upon their arrival, they found their domestic affairs in a state of great disorder, as the executors of Petracco’s will had betrayed the trust reposed in them, and had seized most of the effects of which they could dispose. Under these circumstances, Petrarch was most anxious for a Ms. of Cicero, which his father had highly prized. “The guardians,” he writes, “eager to appropriate what they esteemed the more valuable effects, had fortunately left this Ms. as a thing of no value.” Thus he owed to their ignorance this treatise, which he considered the richest portion of the inheritance left him by his father.
But, that inheritance being small, and not sufficient for the maintenance of the two brothers, they were obliged to think of some profession for their subsistence; they therefore entered the church; and Avignon was the place, of all others, where preferment was most easily obtained. John XXII. had fixed his residence entirely in that city since October, 1316, and had appropriated to himself the nomination to all the vacant benefices. The pretence for this appropriation was to prevent simony—in others, not in his Holiness—as the sale of benefices was carried by him to an enormous height. At every promotion to a bishopric, he removed other bishops; and, by the meanest impositions, soon amassed prodigious wealth. Scandalous emoluments, also, which arose from the sale of indulgences, were enlarged, if not invented, under his papacy, and every method of acquiring riches was justified which could contribute to feed his avarice. By these sordid means, he collected such sums, that, according to Villani, he left behind him, in the sacred treasury, twenty-five millions of florins, a treasure which Voltaire remarks is hardly credible.
The luxury and corruption which reigned in the Roman court at Avignon are fully displayed in some letters of Petrarch’s, without either date or address. The partizans of that court, it is true, accuse him of prejudice and exaggeration. He painted, as they allege, the popes and cardinals in the gloomiest colouring. His letters contain the blackest catalogue of crimes that ever disgraced humanity.
Petrarch was twenty-two years of age when he settled at Avignon, a scene of licentiousness and profligacy. The luxury of the cardinals, and the pomp and riches of the papal court, were displayed in an extravagant profusion of feasts and ceremonies, which attracted to Avignon women of all ranks, among whom intrigue and gallantry were generally countenanced. Petrarch was by nature of a warm temperament, with vivid and susceptible passions, and strongly attached to the fair sex. We must not therefore be surprised if, with these dispositions, and in such a dissolute city, he was betrayed into some excesses. But these were the result of his complexion, and not of deliberate profligacy. He alludes to this subject in his Epistle to Posterity, with every appearance of truth and candour.
From his own confession, Petrarch seems to have been somewhat vain of his personal appearance during his youth, a venial foible, from which neither the handsome nor the homely, nor the wise nor the foolish, are exempt. It is amusing to find our own Milton betraying this weakness, in spite of all the surrounding strength of his character. In answering one of his slanderers, who had called him pale and cadaverous, the author of Paradise Lost appeals to all who knew him whether his complexion was not so fresh and blooming as to make him appear ten years younger than he really was.
Petrarch, when young, was so strikingly handsome, that he was frequently pointed at and admired as he passed along, for his features were manly, well-formed, and expressive, and his carriage was graceful and distinguished. He was sprightly in conversation, and his voice was uncommonly musical. His complexion was between brown and fair, and his eyes were bright and animated. His countenance was a faithful index of his heart.
He endeavoured to temper the warmth of his constitution by the regularity of his living and the plainness of his diet. He indulged little in either wine or sleep, and fed chiefly on fruits and vegetables.
In his early days he was nice and neat in his dress, even to a degree of affectation, which, in later life, he ridiculed when writing to his brother Gherardo. “Do you remember,” he says, “how much care we employed in the lure of dressing our persons; when we traversed the streets, with what attention did we not avoid every breath of wind which might discompose our hair; and with what caution did we not prevent the least speck of dirt from soiling our garments!”
This vanity, however, lasted only during his youthful days. And even then neither attention to his personal appearance, nor his attachment to the fair sex, nor his attendance upon the great, could induce Petrarch to neglect his own mental improvement, for, amidst all these occupations, he found leisure for application, and devoted himself to the cultivation of his favourite pursuits of literature.
Inclined by nature to moral philosophy, he was guided by the reading of Cicero and Seneca to that profound knowledge of the human heart, of the duties of others and of our own duties, which shows itself in all his writings. Gifted with a mind full of enthusiasm for poetry, he learned from Virgil elegance and dignity in versification. But he had still higher advantages from the perusal of Livy. The magnanimous actions of Roman heroes so much excited the soul of Petrarch, that he thought the men of his own age light and contemptible.
His first compositions were in Latin: many motives, however, induced him to compose in the vulgar tongue, as Italian was then called, which, though improved by Dante, was still, in many respects, harsh and inelegant, and much in want of new beauties. Petrarch wrote for the living, and for that portion of the living who were least of all to be fascinated by the language of the dead. Latin might be all very well for inscriptions on mausoleums, but it was not suited for the ears of beauty and the bowers of love. The Italian language acquired, under his cultivation, increased elegance and richness, so that the harmony of his style has contributed to its beauty. He did not, however, attach himself solely to Italian, but composed much in Latin, which he reserved for graver, or, as he considered, more important subjects. His compositions in Latin are—Africa, an epic poem; his Bucolics, containing twelve eclogues; and three books of epistles.
Petrarch’s greatest obstacles to improvement arose from the scarcity of authors whom he wished to consult—for the manuscripts of the writers of the Augustan age were, at that time, so uncommon, that many could not be procured, and many more of them could not be purchased under the most extravagant price. This scarcity of books had checked the dawning light of literature. The zeal of our poet, however, surmounted all these obstacles, for he was indefatigable in collecting and copying many of the choicest manuscripts; and posterity is indebted to him for the possession of many valuable writings, which were in danger of being lost through the carelessness or ignorance of the possessors.
Petrarch could not but perceive the superiority of his own understanding and the brilliancy of his abilities. The modest humility which knows not its own worth is not wont to show itself in minds much above mediocrity; and to elevated geniuses this virtue is a stranger. Petrarch from his youthful age had an internal assurance that he should prove worthy of estimation and honours. Nevertheless, as he advanced in the field of science, he saw the prospect increase, Alps over Alps, and seemed to be lost amidst the immensity of objects before him. Hence the anticipation of immeasurable labours occasionally damped his application. But from this depression of spirits he was much relieved by the encouragement of John of Florence, one of the secretaries of the Pope, a man of learning and probity. He soon distinguished the extraordinary abilities of Petrarch; he directed him in his studies, and cheered up his ambition. Petrarch returned his affection with unbounded confidence. He entrusted him with all his foibles, his disgusts, and his uneasinesses. He says that he never conversed with him without finding himself more calm and composed, and more animated for study.
The superior sagacity of our poet, together with his pleasing manners, and his increasing reputation for knowledge, ensured to him the most flattering prospects of success. His conversation was courted by men of rank, and his acquaintance was sought by men of learning. It was at this time, 1326, that his merit procured him the friendship and patronage of James Colonna, who belonged to one of the most ancient and illustrious families of Italy.
“About the twenty-second year of my life,” Petrarch writes to one of his friends, “I became acquainted with James Colonna. He had seen me whilst I resided at Bologna, and was prepossessed, as he was pleased to say, with my appearance. Upon his arrival at Avignon, he again saw me, when, having inquired minutely into the state of my affairs, he admitted me to his friendship. I cannot sufficiently describe the cheerfulness of his temper, his social disposition, his moderation in prosperity, his constancy in adversity. I speak not from report, but from my own experience. He was endowed with a persuasive and forcible eloquence. His conversation and letters displayed the amiableness of his sincere character. He gained the first place in my affections, which he ever afterwards retained.”
Such is the portrait which our poet gives of James Colonna. A faithful and wise friend is among the most precious gifts of fortune; but, as friendships cannot wholly feed our affections, the heart of Petrarch, at this ardent age, was destined to be swayed by still tenderer feelings. He had nearly finished his twenty-third year without having ever seriously known the passion of love. In that year he first saw Laura. Concerning this lady, at one time, when no life of Petrarch had been yet written that was not crude and inaccurate, his biographers launched into the wildest speculations. One author considered her as an allegorical being; another discovered her to be a type of the Virgin Mary; another thought her an allegory of poetry and repentance. Some denied her even allegorical existence, and deemed her a mere phantom beauty, with which the poet had fallen in love, like Pygmalion with the work of his own creation. All these caprices about Laura’s history have been long since dissipated, though the principal facts respecting her were never distinctly verified, till De Sade, her own descendant, wrote his memoirs of the Life of Petrarch.
Petrarch himself relates that in 1327, exactly at the first hour of the 6th of April, he first beheld Laura in the church of St. Clara of Avignon,[A] where neither the sacredness of the place, nor the solemnity of the day, could prevent him from being smitten for life with human love. In that fatal hour he saw a lady, a little younger than himself[B] in a green mantle sprinkled with violets, on which her golden hair fell plaited in tresses. She was distinguished from all others by her proud and delicate carriage. The impression which she made on his heart was sudden, yet it was never effaced.
Laura, descended from a family of ancient and noble extraction, was the daughter of Audibert de Noves, a Provencal nobleman, by his wife Esmessenda. She was born at Avignon, probably in 1308. She had a considerable fortune, and was married in 1325 to Hugh de Sade. The particulars of her life are little known, as Petrarch has left few traces of them in his letters; and it was still less likely that he should enter upon her personal history in his sonnets, which, as they were principally addressed to herself, made it unnecessary for him to inform her of what she already knew.
While many writers have erred in considering Petrarch’s attachment as visionary, others, who have allowed the reality of his passion, have been mistaken in their opinion of its object. They allege that Petrarch was a happy lover, and that his mistress was accustomed to meet him at Vaucluse, and make him a full compensation for his fondness. No one at all acquainted with the life and writings of Petrarch will need to be told that this is an absurd fiction. Laura, a married woman, who bore ten children to a rather morose husband, could not have gone to meet him at Vaucluse without the most flagrant scandal. It is evident from his writings that she repudiated his passion whenever it threatened to exceed the limits of virtuous friendship. On one occasion, when he seemed to presume too far upon her favour, she said to him with severity, “I am not what you take me for.” If his love had been successful, he would have said less about it.
Of the two persons in this love affair, I am more inclined to pity Laura than Petrarch. Independently of her personal charms, I cannot conceive Laura otherwise than as a kind-hearted, loveable woman, who could not well be supposed to be totally indifferent to the devotion of the most famous and fascinating man of his age. On the other hand, what was the penalty that she would have paid if she had encouraged his addresses as far as he would have carried them? Her disgrace, a stigma left on her family, and the loss of all that character which upholds a woman in her own estimation and in that of the world. I would not go so far as to say that she did not at times betray an anxiety to retain him under the spell of her fascination, as, for instance, when she is said to have cast her eyes to the ground in sadness when he announced his intention to leave Avignon; but still I should like to hear her own explanation before I condemned her. And, after all, she was only anxious for the continuance of attentions, respecting which she had made a fixed understanding that they should not exceed the bounds of innocence.
We have no distinct account how her husband regarded the homage of Petrarch to his wife—whether it flattered his vanity, or moved his wrath. As tradition gives him no very good character for temper, the latter supposition is the more probable. Every morning that he went out he might hear from some kind friend the praises of a new sonnet which Petrarch had written on his wife; and, when he came back to dinner, of course his good humour was not improved by the intelligence. He was in the habit of scolding her till she wept; he married seven months after her death, and, from all that is known of him, appears to have been a bad husband. I suspect that Laura paid dearly for her poet’s idolatry.
No incidents of Petrarch’s life have been transmitted to us for the first year or two after his attachment to Laura commenced. He seems to have continued at Avignon, prosecuting his studies and feeding his passion.
James Colonna, his friend and patron, was promoted in 1328 to the bishopric of Lombes in Gascony; and in the year 1330 he went from Avignon to take possession of his diocese, and invited Petrarch to accompany him to his residence. No invitation could be more acceptable to our poet: they set out at the end of March, 1330. In order to reach Lombes, it was necessary to cross the whole of Languedoc, and to pass through Montpelier, Narbonne, and Toulouse. Petrarch already knew Montpelier, where he had, or ought to have, studied the law for four years.
Full of enthusiasm for Rome, Petrarch was rejoiced to find at Narbonne the city which had been the first Roman colony planted among the Gauls. This colony had been formed entirely of Roman citizens, and, in order to reconcile them to their exile, the city was built like a little image of Rome. It had its capital, its baths, arches, and fountains; all which works were worthy of the Roman name. In passing through Narbonne, Petrarch discovered a number of ancient monuments and inscriptions.
Our travellers thence proceeded to Toulouse, where they passed several days. This city, which was known even before the foundation of Rome, is called, in some ancient Roman acts, “Roma Garumnae.” It was famous in the classical ages for cultivating literature. After the fall of the Roman empire, the successive incursions of the Visigoths, the Saracens, and the Normans, for a long time silenced the Muses at Toulouse; but they returned to their favourite haunt after ages of barbarism had passed away. De Sade says, that what is termed Provencal poetry was much more cultivated by the Languedocians than by the Provencals, properly so called. The city of Toulouse was considered as the principal seat of this earliest modern poetry, which was carried to perfection in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, under the patronage of the Counts of Toulouse, particularly Raimond V., and his son, Raimond vi. Petrarch speaks with high praise of those poets in his Triumphs of Love. It has been alleged that he owed them this mark of his regard for their having been so useful to him in his Italian poetry; and Nostradamus even accuses him of having stolen much from them. But Tassoni, who understood the Provencal poets better than Nostradamus, defends him successfully from this absurd accusation.
Although Provencal poetry was a little on its decline since the days of the Dukes of Aquitaine and the Counts of Toulouse, it was still held in honour; and, when Petrarch arrived, the Floral games had been established at Toulouse during six years.[C]
Ere long, however, our travellers found less agreeable objects of curiosity, that formed a sad contrast with the chivalric manners, the floral games, and the gay poetry of southern France. Bishop Colonna and Petrarch had intended to remain for some time at Toulouse; but their sojourn was abridged by their horror at a tragic event[D] in the principal monastery of the place. There lived in that monastery a young monk, named Augustin, who was expert in music, and accompanied the psalmody of the religious brothers with beautiful touches on the organ. The superior of the convent, relaxing its discipline, permitted Augustin frequently to mix with the world, in order to teach music, and to improve himself in the art. The young monk was in the habit of familiarly visiting the house of a respectable citizen: he was frequently in the society of his daughter, and, by the express encouragement of her father, undertook to exercise her in the practice of music. Another young man, who was in love with the girl, grew jealous of the monk, who was allowed to converse so familiarly with her, whilst he, her lay admirer, could only have stolen glimpses of her as she passed to church or to public spectacles. He set about the ruin of his supposed rival with cunning atrocity; and, finding that the young woman was infirm in health, suborned a physician, as worthless as himself, to declare that she was pregnant. Her credulous father, without inquiring whether the intelligence was true or false, went to the superior of the convent, and accused Augustin, who, though thunderstruck at the accusation, denied it firmly, and defended himself intrepidly. But the superior was deaf to his plea of innocence, and ordered him to be shut up in his cell, that he might await his punishment. Thither the poor young man was conducted, and threw himself on his bed in a state of horror.
The superior and the elders among the friars thought it a meet fate for the accused that he should be buried alive in a subterranean dungeon, after receiving the terrific sentence of “Vade in pace.” At the end of several days the victim dashed out his brains against the walls of his sepulchre. Bishop Colonna, who, it would appear, had no power to oppose this hideous transaction, when he was informed of it, determined to leave the place immediately; and Petrarch in his indignation exclaimed—
“Heu! fuge crudeles terras, fuge littus avarum.”—VIRG.
On the 26th of May, 1330, the Bishop of Lombes and Petrarch quitted Toulouse, and arrived at the mansion of the diocese. Lombes—in Latin, Lombarium—lies at the foot of the Pyrenees, only eight leagues from Toulouse. It is small and ill-built, and offers no allurement to the curiosity of the traveller. Till lately it had been a simple abbey of the Augustine monks. The whole of the clergy of the little city, singing psalms, issued out of Lombes to meet their new pastor, who, under a rich canopy, was conducted
The vicinity of the Pyrenees renders the climate of Lombes very severe; and the character and conversation of the inhabitants were scarcely more genial than their climate. But Petrarch found in the bishop’s abode friends who consoled him in this exile among the Lombesians. Two young and familiar inmates of the Bishop’s house attracted and returned his attachment. The first of these was Lello di Stefani, a youth of a noble and ancient family in Rome, long attached to the Colonnas. Lello’s gifted understanding was improved by study; so Petrarch tells us; and he could have been no ordinary man whom our accomplished poet so highly valued. In his youth he had quitted his studies for the profession of arms; but the return of peace restored him to his literary pursuits. Such was the attachment between Petrarch and Lello, that Petrarch gave him the name of Laelius, the most attached companion of Scipio. The other friend to whom Petrarch attached himself in the house of James Colonna was a young German, extremely accomplished in music. De Sade says that his name was Louis, without mentioning his cognomen. He was a native of Ham, near Bois le Duc, on the left bank of the Rhine between Brabant and Holland. Petrarch, with his Italian prejudices, regarded him as a barbarian by birth; but he was so fascinated by his serene temper and strong judgment, that he singled him out to be the chief of all his friends, and gave him the name of Socrates, noting him as an example that Nature can sometimes produce geniuses in the most unpropitious regions.
After having passed the summer of 1330 at Lombes, the Bishop returned to Avignon, in order to meet his father, the elder Stefano Colonna, and his brother the Cardinal.
The Colonnas were a family of the first distinction in modern Italy. They had been exceedingly powerful during the popedom of Boniface VIII., through the talents of the late Cardinal James Colonna, brother of the famous old Stefano, so well known to Petrarch, and whom he used to call a phoenix sprung up from the ashes of Rome. Their house possessed also an influential public character in the Cardinal Pietro, brother of the younger Stefano. They were formidable from the territories and castles which they possessed, and by their alliance and friendship with Charles, King of Naples. The power of the Colonna family
The Colonnas finally returned to their dignities and property, and afterwards made successful war against the house of their rivals, the Orsini.
John Colonna, the Cardinal, brother of the Bishop of Lombes, and son of old Stefano, was one of the very ablest men at the papal court. He insisted on our poet taking up his abode in his own palace at Avignon. “What good fortune was this for me!” says Petrarch. “This great man never made me feel that he was my superior in station. He was like a father or an indulgent brother; and I lived in his house as if it had been my own.” At a subsequent period, we find him on somewhat cooler terms with John Colonna, and complaining that his domestic dependence had, by length of time, become wearisome to him. But great allowance is to be made for such apparent inconsistencies in human attachment. At different times our feelings and language on any subject may be different without being insincere. The truth seems to be that Petrarch looked forward to the friendship of the Colonnas for promotion, which he either received scantily, or not at all; so it is little marvellous if he should have at last felt the tedium of patronage.
For the present, however, this home was completely to Petrarch’s taste. It was the rendezvous of all strangers distinguished by their knowledge and talents, whom the papal court attracted to Avignon, which was now the great centre of all political negotiations.
This assemblage of the learned had a powerful influence on Petrarch’s fine imagination. He had been engaged for some time in the perusal of Livy, and his enthusiasm for ancient Rome was heightened, if possible, by the conversation of old Stefano Colonna, who dwelt on no subject with so much interest as on the temples and palaces of the ancient city, majestic even in their ruins.
During the bitter persecution raised against his family by Boniface VIII., Stefano Colonna had been the chief object of the Pope’s implacable resentment. Though oppressed by the most adverse circumstances, his estates confiscated, his palaces levelled with the ground, and himself driven into exile, the majesty of his appearance, and the magnanimity of his character, attracted the respect of strangers wherever he went. He had the air of a sovereign prince rather than of an exile, and commanded more regard than monarchs in the height of their ostentation.
In the picture of his times, Stefano makes a noble and commanding figure. If the reader, however, happens to search into that period of Italian history, he will find many facts to cool the romance of his imagination respecting all the Colonna family. They were, in plain truth, an oppressive aristocratic family. The portion of Italy which they and their tyrannical rivals possessed was infamously governed. The highways were rendered impassable by banditti, who were in the pay of contesting feudal lords; and life and property were everywhere insecure.
Stefano, nevertheless, seems to have been a man formed for better times. He improved in the school of misfortune—the serenity of his temper remained unclouded by adversity, and his faculties unimpaired by age.
Among the illustrious strangers who came to Avignon at this time was our countryman, Richard de Bury, then accounted the most learned man of England. He arrived at Avignon in 1331, having been sent to the Pope by Edward III. De Sade conceives that the object of his embassy was to justify his sovereign before the Pontiff for having confined the Queen-mother in the castle of Risings, and for having caused her favourite, Roger de Mortimer, to be hanged. It was a matter of course that so illustrious a stranger as Richard de Bury should be received with distinction by Cardinal Colonna. Petrarch eagerly seized the opportunity of forming his acquaintance, confident that De Bury could give him valuable information on many points of geography and history. They had several conversations. Petrarch tells us that he entreated the learned Englishman to make him acquainted with the true situation of the isle of Thule, of which the ancients speak with much uncertainty, but which their best geographers place at the distance of some days’ navigation from the north of England. De Bury was, in all probability, puzzled with the question, though he did not like to confess his ignorance. He excused himself by promising to inquire into the subject as soon as he should get back to his books in England, and to write to him the best information he could afford. It does not appear, however, that he performed his promise.
De Bury’s stay at the court of Avignon was very short. King Edward, it is true, sent him a second time to the Pope, two years afterwards, on important business. The seeds of discord between France and England began to germinate strongly, and that circumstance probably occasioned De Bury’s second mission. Unfortunately, however, Petrarch could not avail himself of his return so as to have further interviews with the English scholar. Petrarch wrote repeatedly to De Bury for his promised explanations respecting Thule; but, whether our countryman had found nothing in his library to satisfy his inquiries, or was prevented by his public occupations, there is no appearance of his having ever answered Petrarch’s letters.
Stephano Colonna the younger had brought with him to Avignon his son Agapito, who was destined for the church, that he might be educated under the eyes of the Cardinal and the Bishop, who were his uncles. These two prelates joined with their father in entreating Petrarch to undertake the superintendence of Agapito’s studies. Our poet, avaricious of his time, and jealous of his independence, was at first reluctant to undertake the charge; but, from his attachment to the family, at last accepted it. De Sade tells us that Petrarch was not successful in the young man’s education; and, from a natural partiality for the hero of his biography, lays the blame on his pupil. At the same time he acknowledges that a man with poetry in his head and love in his heart was not the most proper mentor in the world for a youth who was to be educated for the church. At this time, Petrarch’s passion for Laura continued to haunt his peace with incessant violence. She had received him at first with good-humour and affability; but it was only while he set strict bounds to the expression of his attachment. He had not, however, sufficient self-command to comply with these terms. His constant assiduities, his eyes continually riveted upon her, and the wildness of his looks, convinced her of his inordinate attachment; her virtue took alarm; she retired whenever he approached her, and even covered her face with a veil whilst he was present, nor would she condescend to the slightest action or look that might seem to countenance his passion.
Petrarch complains of these severities in many of his melancholy sonnets. Meanwhile, if fame could have been a balm to love, he might have been happy. His reputation as a poet was increasing, and his compositions were read with universal approbation.
The next interesting event in our poet’s life was a larger course of travels, which he took through the north of France, through Flanders, Brabant, and a part of Germany, subsequently to his tour in Languedoc. Petrarch mentions that he undertook this journey about the twenty-fifth year of his age. He was prompted to travel not only by his curiosity to observe men and manners, by his desire of seeing monuments of antiquity, and his hopes of discovering the MSS. of ancient authors, but also, we may believe, by his wish, if it were possible, to escape from himself, and to forget Laura.
From Paris Petrarch wrote as follows to Cardinal Colonna. “I have visited Paris, the capital of the whole kingdom of France. I entered it in the same state of mind that was felt by Apuleias when he visited Hypata, a city of Thessaly, celebrated for its magic, of which such wonderful things were related, looking again and again at every object, in solicitous suspense, to know whether all that he had heard of the far-famed place was true or false. Here I pass a great deal of time in observation, and, as the day is too short for my curiosity, I add the night. At last, it seems to me that, by long exploring, I have enabled myself to distinguish between the true and the false in what is related about Paris. But, as the subject would be too tedious for this occasion, I shall defer entering fully into particulars till I can do so viva voce. My impatience, however, impels me to sketch for you briefly a general idea of this so celebrated city, and of the character of its inhabitants.
“Paris, though always inferior to its fame, and much indebted to the lies of its own people, is undoubtedly a great city. To be sure I never saw a dirtier place, except Avignon. At the same time, its population contains the most learned of men, and it is like a great basket in which are collected the rarest fruits of every country. From the time that its university was founded, as they say by Alcuin, the teacher of Charlemagne, there has not been, to my knowledge, a single Parisian of any fame. The great luminaries of the university were all strangers; and, if the love of my country does not deceive me, they were chiefly Italians, such as Pietro Lombardo, Tomaso d’Aquino, Bonaventura, and many others.
“The character of the Parisians is very singular. There was a time when, from the ferocity of their manners, the French were reckoned barbarians. At present the case is wholly changed. A gay disposition, love of society, ease, and playfulness in conversation now characterize them. They seek every opportunity of distinguishing themselves; and make war against all cares with joking, laughing, singing, eating, and drinking. Prone, however, as they are to pleasure, they are not heroic in adversity. The French love their country and their countrymen; they censure with rigour the faults of other nations, but spread a proportionably thick veil over their own defects.”
From Paris, Petrarch proceeded to Ghent, of which only he makes mention to the Cardinal, without noticing any of the towns that lie between. It is curious to find our poet out of humour with Flanders on account of the high price of wine, which was not an indigenous article. In the latter part of his life, Petrarch was certainly one of the most abstemious of men; but, at this period, it would seem that he drank good liquor enough to be concerned about its price.
From Ghent he passed on to Liege. “This city is distinguished,” he says, “by the riches and the number of its clergy. As I had heard that excellent MSS. might be found there, I stopped in the place for some time. But is it not singular that in so considerable a place I had difficulty to procure ink enough to copy two orations of Cicero’s, and the little that I could obtain was as yellow as saffron?”
Petrarch was received at most of the places he visited, and more particularly at Cologne, with marks of great respect; and he was agreeably surprised to find that his reputation had acquired him the partiality and acquaintance of several inhabitants. He was conducted by his new friends to the banks of the Rhine, where the inhabitants were engaged in the performance of a superstitious annual ceremony, which, for its singularity, deserves to be recorded.
“The banks of the river were crowded with a considerable number of women, their persons comely, and their dress elegant. This great concourse of people seemed to create no confusion. A number of these women, with cheerful countenances, crowned with flowers, bathed their hands and arms in the stream, and uttered, at the same time, some harmonious expressions in a language which I did not understand. I inquired into the cause of this ceremony, and was informed that it arose from a tradition among the people, and particularly among the women, that the impending calamities of the year were carried away by this ablution, and that blessings succeeded in their place. Hence this ceremony is annually renewed, and the ablution performed with unremitting diligence.”
The ceremony being finished, Petrarch smiled at their superstition, and exclaimed, “O happy inhabitants of the Rhine, whose waters wash out your miseries, whilst neither the Po nor the Tiber can wash out ours! You transmit your evils to the Britons by means of this river, whilst we send off ours to the Illyrians and the Africans. It seems that our rivers have a slower course.”
Petrarch shortened his excursion that he might return the sooner to Avignon, where the Bishop of Lombes had promised to await his return, and take him to Rome.
When he arrived at Lyons, however, he was informed that the Bishop had departed from Avignon for Rome. In the first paroxysm of his disappointment he wrote a letter to his friend, which portrays strongly affectionate feelings, but at the same time an irascible temper. When he came to Avignon, the Cardinal Colonna relieved him from his irritation by acquainting him with the real cause of his brother’s departure. The flames of civil dissension had been kindled at Rome between the rival families of Colonna and Orsini. The latter had made great preparations to carry on the war with vigour. In this crisis of affairs, James Colonna had been summoned to Rome to support the interests of his family, and, by his courage and influence, to procure them the succour which they so much required.
Petrarch continued to reside at Avignon for several years after returning from his travels in France and Flanders. It does not appear from his sonnets, during those years, either that his passion for Laura had abated, or that she had given him any more encouragement than heretofore. But in the year 1334, an accident renewed the utmost tenderness of his affections. A terrible affliction visited the city of Avignon. The heat and the drought were so excessive that almost the whole of the common people went about naked to the waist, and, with frenzy and miserable cries, implored Heaven to put an end to their calamities. Persons of both sexes and of all ages had their bodies covered with scales, and changed their skins like serpents.
Laura’s constitution was too delicate to resist this infectious malady, and her illness greatly alarmed Petrarch. One day he asked her physician how she was, and was told by him that her condition was very dangerous: on that occasion he composed the following sonnet:[E]—
This lovely spirit, if ordain’d
to leave
Its mortal tenement before
its time,
Heaven’s fairest habitation
shall receive
And welcome her to breathe
its sweetest clime.
If she establish her abode
between
Mars and the planet-star of
Beauty’s queen,
The sun will be obscured,
so dense a cloud
Of spirits from adjacent stars
will crowd
To gaze upon her beauty infinite.
Say that she fixes on a lower
sphere,
Beneath the glorious sun,
her beauty soon
Will dim the splendour of
inferior stars—
Of Mars, of Venus, Mercury,
and the Moon.
She’ll choose not Mars,
but higher place than Mars;
She will eclipse all planetary
light,
And Jupiter himself will seem
less bright.
I trust that I have enough to say in favour of Petrarch to satisfy his rational admirers; but I quote this sonnet as an example of the worst style of Petrarch’s poetry. I make the English reader welcome to rate my power of translating it at the very lowest estimation. He cannot go much further down than myself in the scale of valuation, especially if he has Italian enough to know that the exquisite mechanical harmony of Petrarch’s style is beyond my reach. It has been alleged that this sonnet shows how much the mind of Petrarch had been influenced by his Platonic studies; but if Plato had written poetry he would never have been so extravagant.
Petrarch, on his return from Germany, had found the old Pope, John XXII., intent on two speculations, to both of which he lent his enthusiastic aid. One of them was a futile attempt to renew the crusades, from which Europe had reposed for a hundred years. The other was the transfer of the holy seat to Rome. The execution of this plan, for which Petrarch sighed as if it were to bring about the millennium, and which was not accomplished by another Pope without embroiling him with his Cardinals, was nevertheless more practicable than capturing Jerusalem. We are told by several Italian writers that the aged Pontiff, moved by repeated entreaties from the Romans, as well as by the remorse of his conscience, thought seriously of effecting this restoration; but the sincerity of his intentions is made questionable by the fact that he never fixed himself at Rome. He wrote, it is true, to Rome in 1333, ordering his palaces and gardens to be repaired; but the troubles which continued to agitate the city were alleged by him as too alarming for his safety there, and he repaired to Bologna to wait for quieter times.
On both of the above subjects, namely, the insane crusades and the more feasible restoration of the papal court to Rome, Petrarch wrote with devoted zeal; they are both alluded to in his twenty-second sonnet.
The death of John XXII. left the Cardinals divided into two great factions. The first was that of the French, at the head of which stood Cardinal Taillerand, son of the beautiful Brunissende de Foix, whose charms were supposed to have detained Pope Clement V. in France. The Italian Cardinals, who formed the opposite faction, had for their chief the Cardinal Colonna. The French party, being the more numerous, were, in some sort, masters of the election; they offered the tiara to Cardinal de Commenges, on condition that he would promise not to transfer the papal court to Rome. That prelate showed himself worthy of the dignity, by refusing to accept it on such terms.
To the surprise of the world, the choice of the conclave fell at last on James Founder, said to be the son of a baker at Savordun, who had been bred as a monk of Citeaux, and always wore the dress of the order. Hence he was called the White Cardinal. He was wholly unlike his portly predecessor John in figure and address, being small in stature, pale in complexion, and weak in voice. He expressed his own astonishment at the honour conferred on him, saying that they had elected an ass. If we may believe Petrarch, he did himself no injustice in likening himself to that quadruped; but our poet was somewhat harsh in his judgment of this Pontiff. He took the name of Benedict xii.
Shortly after his exaltation, Benedict received ambassadors from Rome, earnestly imploring him to bring back the sacred seat to their city; and Petrarch thought he could not serve the embassy better than by publishing a poem in Latin verse, exhibiting Rome in the character of a desolate matron imploring her husband to return to her. Benedict applauded the author of the epistle, but declined complying with its prayer. Instead of revisiting Italy, his Holiness ordered a magnificent and costly palace to be constructed for him at Avignon. Hitherto, it would seem that the Popes had lived in hired houses. In imitation of their Pontiff, the Cardinals set about building superb mansions, to the unbounded indignation of Petrarch, who saw in these new habitations not only a graceless and unchristian spirit of luxury, but a sure indication that their owners had no thoughts of removing to Rome.
In the January of the following year, Pope Benedict presented our poet with the canonicate of Lombes, with the expectancy of the first prebend which should become vacant. This preferment Petrarch is supposed to have owed to the influence of Cardinal Colonna.
The troubles which at this time agitated Italy drew to Avignon, in the year 1335, a personage who holds a pre-eminent interest in the life of Petrarch, namely, Azzo da Correggio, who was sent thither by the Scaligeri of Parma. The State of Parma had belonged originally to the popes; but two powerful families, the Rossis and the Correggios, had profited by the quarrels between the church and the empire to usurp the government, and during five-and-twenty years, Gilberto Correggio and Rolando Rossi alternately lost and won the sovereignty, till, at last, the confederate princes took the city, and conferred the government of it on Guido Correggio, the greatest enemy of the Rossis.
Gilbert Correggio left at his death a widow, the sister of Cane de la Scala, and four sons, Guido, Simone, Azzo, and Giovanni. It is only with Azzo that we are particularly concerned in the history of Petrarch.
Azzo was born in the year 1303, being thus a year older than our poet. Originally intended for the church, he preferred the sword to the crozier, and became a distinguished soldier. He married the daughter of Luigi Gonzagua, lord of Mantua. He was a man of bold original spirit, and so indefatigable that he acquired the name of Iron-foot. Nor was his energy merely physical; he read much, and forgot nothing—his memory was a library. Azzo’s character, to be sure, even with allowance for turbulent times, is not invulnerable at all points to a rigid scrutiny; and, notwithstanding all the praises of Petrarch, who dedicated to him his Treatise on a Solitary Life in 1366, his political career contained some acts of perfidy. But we must inure ourselves, in the biography of Petrarch, to his over-estimation of favourites in the article of morals.
It was not long ere Petrarch was called upon to give a substantial proof of his regard for Azzo. After the seizure of Parma by the confederate princes, Marsilio di Rossi, brother of Rolando, went to Paris to demand assistance from the French king. The King of Bohemia had given over the government of Parma to him and his brothers, and the Rossi now saw it with grief assigned to his enemies, the Correggios. Marsilio could obtain no succour from the French, who were now busy in preparing for war with the English; so he carried to the Pope at Avignon his complaints against the alleged injustice of the lords of Verona and the Correggios in breaking an express treaty which they had made with the house of Rossi.
Azzo had the threefold task of defending, before the Pope’s tribunal, the lords of Verona, whose envoy he was; the rights of his family, which were attacked; and his own personal character, which was charged with some grave objections. Revering the eloquence and influence of Petrarch, he importuned him to be his public defender. Our poet, as we have seen, had studied the law, but had never followed the profession. “It is not my vocation,” he says, in his preface to his Familiar Epistles, “to undertake the defence of others. I detest the bar; I love retirement; I despise money; and, if I tried to let out my tongue for hire, my nature would revolt at the attempt.”
But what Petrarch would not undertake either from taste or motives of interest, he undertook at the call of friendship. He pleaded the cause of Azzo before the Pope and Cardinals; it was a finely-interesting cause, that afforded a vast field for his eloquence. He brought off his client triumphantly; and the Rossis were defeated in their demand.
At the same time, it is a proud trait in Petrarch’s character that he showed himself on this occasion not only an orator and a lawyer, but a perfect gentleman. In the midst of all his zealous pleading, he stooped neither to satire nor personality against the opposing party. He could say, with all the boldness of truth, in a letter to Ugolino di Rossi, the Bishop of Parma, “I pleaded against your house for Azzo Correggio, but you were present at the pleading; do me justice, and confess that I carefully avoided not only attacks on your family and reputation, but even those railleries in which advocates so much delight.”
On this occasion, Azzo had brought to Avignon, as his colleague in the lawsuit, Guglielmo da Pastrengo, who exercised the office of judge and notary at Verona. He was a man of deep knowledge in the law; versed, besides, in every branch of elegant learning, he was a poet into the bargain. In Petrarch’s many books of epistles, there are few letters addressed by him to this personage; but it is certain that they contracted a friendship at this period which endured for life.
All this time the Bishop of Lombes still continued at Rome; and, from time to time, solicited his friend Petrarch to join him. “Petrarch would have gladly joined him,” says De Sade; “but he was detained at Avignon by his attachment to John Colonna and his love of Laura:” a whimsical junction of detaining causes, in which the fascination of the Cardinal may easily be supposed to have been weaker than that of Laura. In writing to our poet, at Avignon, the Bishop rallied Petrarch on the imaginary existence of the object of his passion. Some stupid readers of the Bishop’s letter, in subsequent times, took it into their heads that there was a literal proof in the prelate’s jesting epistle of our poet’s passion for Laura being a phantom and a fiction. But, possible as it may be, that the Bishop in reality suspected him to exaggerate the flame of his devotion for the two great objects of his idolatry, Laura and St. Augustine, he writes in a vein of pleasantry that need not be taken for grave accusation. “You are befooling us all, my dear Petrarch,” says the prelate; “and it is wonderful that at so tender an age (Petrarch’s tender age was at this time thirty-one) you can deceive the world with so much art and success. And, not content with deceiving the world, you would fain deceive Heaven itself. You make a semblance of loving St. Augustine and his works; but, in your heart, you love the poets and the philosophers. Your Laura is a phantom created by your imagination for the exercise of your poetry. Your verse, your love, your sighs, are all a fiction; or, if there is anything real in your passion, it is not for the lady Laura, but for the laurel—that is, the crown of poets. I have been your dupe for some time, and, whilst you showed a strong desire to visit Rome, I hoped to welcome you there. But my eyes are now opened to all your rogueries, which nevertheless, will not prevent me from loving you.”
Petrarch, in his answer to the Bishop,[F] says, “My father, if I love the poets, I only follow, in this respect, the example of St. Augustine. I take the sainted father himself to witness the sincerity of my attachment to him. He is now in a place where he can neither deceive nor be deceived. I flatter myself that he pities my errors, especially when he recalls his own.” St. Augustine had been somewhat profligate in his younger days.
“As to Laura,” continues the poet, “would to Heaven that she were only an imaginary personage, and my passion for her only a pastime! Alas! it is a madness which it would be difficult and painful to feign for any length of time; and what an extravagance it would be to affect such a passion! One may counterfeit illness by action, by voice, and by manner, but no one in health can give himself the true air and complexion of disease. How often have you yourself been witness of my paleness and my sufferings! I know very well that you speak only in irony: it is your favourite figure of speech, but I hope that time will cicatrize these wounds of my spirit, and that Augustine, whom I pretend to love, will furnish me with a defence against a Laura who does not exist.”
Years had now elapsed since Petrarch had conceived his passion for Laura; and it was obviously doomed to be a source of hopeless torment to him as long as he should continue near her; for she could breathe no more encouragement on his love than what was barely sufficient to keep it alive; and, if she had bestowed more favour on him, the consequences might have been ultimately most tragic to both of them. His own reflections, and the advice of his friends, suggested that absence and change of objects were the only means likely to lessen his misery; he determined, therefore, to travel once more, and set out for Rome in 1335.
The wish to assuage his passion, by means of absence, was his principal motive for going again upon his travels; but, before he could wind up his resolution to depart, the state of his mind bordered on distraction. One day he observed a country girl washing the veil of Laura; a sudden trembling seized him—and, though the heat of the weather was intense, he grew cold and shivered. For some time he was incapable of applying to study or business. His soul, he said, was like a field of battle, where his passion and reason held continual conflict. In his calmer moments, many agreeable motives for travelling suggested themselves to his mind. He had a strong desire to visit Rome, where he was sure of finding the kindest welcome from the Bishop of Lombes. He was to pass through Paris also; and there he had left some valued friends, to whom he had promised that he would return. At the head of those friends were Dionisio dal Borgo San Sepolcro and Roberto Bardi, a Florentine, whom the Pope had lately made chancellor of the Church of Paris, and given him the canonship of Notre Dame. Dionisio dal Borgo was a native of Tuscany, and one
It was not easy for Petrarch to pass from the coast of Tuscany to Rome; for war between the Ursini and Colonna houses had been renewed with more fury than ever, and filled all the surrounding country with armed men. As he had no escort, he took refuge in the castle of Capranica, where he was hospitably received by Orso, Count of Anguillara, who had married Agnes Colonna, sister of the Cardinal and the Bishop. In his letter to the latter, Petrarch luxuriates in describing the romantic and rich landscape of Capranica, a country believed by the ancients to have been the first that was cultivated under the reign of Saturn. He draws, however, a frightful contrast to its rural picture in the horrors of war which here prevailed. “Peace,” he says, “is the only charm which I could not find in this beautiful region. The shepherd, instead of guarding against wolves, goes armed into the woods to defend himself against men. The labourer, in a coat of mail, uses a lance instead of a goad, to drive his cattle. The fowler covers himself with a shield as he draws his nets; the fisherman carries a sword whilst he hooks his fish; and the native draws water from the well in an old rusty casque, instead of a pail. In a word, arms are used here as tools and implements for all the labours of the field, and all the wants of men. In the night are heard dreadful howlings round the walls of towns, and and in the day terrible voices crying incessantly to arms. What music is this compared with those soft and harmonious sounds which. I drew from my lute at Avignon!”
On his arrival at Capranica, Petrarch despatched a courier to the Bishop of Lombes, informing him where he was, and of his inability to get to Rome, all roads to it being beset by the enemy. The Bishop expressed great joy at his friend’s arrival in Italy, and went to meet him at Capranica, with Stefano Colonna, his brother, senator of Rome. They had with them only a troop of one hundred horsemen; and, considering that the enemy kept possession of the country with five hundred men, it is wonderful that they met with no difficulties on their route; but the reputation of the Colonnas had struck terror into the hostile camp. They entered Rome without having had a single skirmish with the enemy. Stefano Colonna, in his quality of senator, occupied the Capitol, where he assigned apartments to Petrarch; and the poet was lodged on that famous hill which Scipio, Metellus, and Pompey, had ascended in triumph. Petrarch was received and treated by the Colonnas Like a child of their family. The venerable old Stefano, who had known him at Avignon, loaded our poet with kindness. But, of all the family, it would seem that Petrarch delighted most in the conversation of Giovanni da S. Vito, a younger brother of the aged Stefano, and uncle of the Cardinal and Bishop. Their tastes were congenial. Giovanni had made a particular study of the antiquities of Rome; he was, therefore, a most welcome cicerone to our poet, being, perhaps, the only Roman then alive, who understood the subject deeply, if we except Cola di Rienzo, of whom we shall soon have occasion to speak.
In company with Giovanni, Petrarch inspected the relics of the “eternal city:” the former was more versed than his companion in ancient history, but the other surpassed him in acquaintance with modern times, as well as with the objects of antiquity that stood immediately before them.
What an interesting object is Petrarch contemplating the ruins of Rome! He wrote to the Cardinal Colonna as follows:—“I gave you so long an account of Capranica that you may naturally expect a still longer description of Rome. My materials for this subject are, indeed, inexhaustible; but they will serve for some future opportunity. At present, I am so wonder-struck by so many great objects that I know not where to begin. One circumstance, however, I cannot omit, which has turned out contrary to your surmises. You represented to me that Rome was a city in ruins, and that it would not come up to the imagination I had formed of it; but this has not happened—on the contrary, my most sanguine expectations have been surpassed. Rome is greater, and her remains are more awful, than my imagination had conceived. It is not matter of wonder that she acquired universal dominion. I am only surprised that it was so late before she came to it.”
In the midst of his meditations among the relics of Rome, Petrarch was struck by the ignorance about their forefathers, with which the natives looked on those monuments. The veneration which they had for them was vague and uninformed. “It is lamentable,” he says, “that nowhere in the world is Rome less known than at Rome.”
It is not exactly known in what month Petrarch left the Roman capital; but, between his departure from that city, and his return to the banks of the Rhone, he took an extensive tour over Europe. He made a voyage along its southern coasts, passed the straits of Gibraltar, and sailed as far northward as the British shores. During his wanderings, he wrote a letter to Tommaso da Messina, containing a long geographical dissertation on the island of Thule.
Petrarch approached the British shores; why were they not fated to have the honour of receiving him? Ah! but who was there, then, in England that was capable of receiving him? Chaucer was but a child. We had the names of some learned men, but our language had no literature. Time works wonders in a few centuries; and England, now proud of her Shakespeare and her Verulam, looks not with envy on the glory of any earthly nation. During his excitement by these travels, a singular change took place in our poet’s habitual feelings. He recovered his health and spirits; he could bear to think of Laura with equanimity, and his countenance resumed the cheerfulness that was natural to a man in the strength of his age. Nay, he became so sanguine in his belief that he had overcome his passion as to jest at his past sufferings; and, in this gay state of mind, he came back to Avignon. This was the crowning misfortune of his life. He saw Laura once more; he was enthralled anew; and he might now laugh in agony at his late self-congratulations on his delivery from her enchantment. With all the pity that we bestow on unfortunate love, and with all the respect that we owe to its constancy, still we cannot look but with a regret amounting to impatience on a man returning to the spot that was to rekindle his passion as recklessly as a moth to the candle, and binding himself over for life to an affection that was worse than hopeless, inasmuch as its success would bring more misery than its failure. It is said that Petrarch, if it had not been for this passion, would not have been the poet that he was. Not, perhaps, so good an amatory poet; but I firmly believe that he would have been a more various and masculine, and, upon the whole, a greater poet, if he had never been bewitched by Laura. However, he did return to take possession of his canonicate at Lombes, and to lose possession of his peace of mind.
In the April of the following year, 1336, he made an excursion, in company with his brother Gherardo, to the top of Mount Ventoux, in the neighbourhood of Avignon; a full description of which he sent in a letter to Dionisio dal Borgo a San Sepolcro; but there is nothing peculiarly interesting in this occurrence.
A more important event in his life took place during the following year, 1337—namely, that he had a son born to him, whom he christened by the name of John, and to whom he acknowledged his relationship of paternity. With all his philosophy and platonic raptures about Laura, Petrarch was still subject to the passions of ordinary men, and had a mistress at Avignon who was kinder to him than Laura. Her name and history have been consigned to inscrutable obscurity: the same woman afterwards bore him a daughter, whose name was Francesca, and who proved a great solace to him in his old age. His biographers extol the magnanimity of Laura for displaying no anger at our poet for what they choose to call this discovery of his infidelity to her; but, as we have no reason to suppose that Laura ever bestowed one favour on Petrarch beyond a pleasant look, it is difficult to perceive her right to command his unspotted faith. At all events, she would have done no good to her own reputation if she had stormed at the lapse of her lover’s virtue.
In a small city like Avignon, the scandal of his intrigue would naturally be a matter of regret to his friends and of triumph to his enemies. Petrarch felt his situation, and, unable to calm his mind either by the advice of his friend Dionisio dal Borgo, or by the perusal of his favourite author, St. Augustine, he resolved to seek a rural retreat, where he might at least hide his tears and his mortification. Unhappily he chose a spot not far enough from Laura—namely, Vaucluse, which is fifteen Italian, or about fourteen English, miles from Avignon.
Vaucluse, or Vallis Clausa, the shut-up valley, is a most beautiful spot, watered by the windings of the Sorgue. Along the river there are on one side most verdant plains and meadows, here and there shadowed by trees. On the other side are hills covered with corn and vineyards. Where the Sorgue rises, the view terminates in the cloud-capt ridges of the mountains Luberoux and Ventoux. This was the place which Petrarch had visited with such delight when he was a schoolboy, and at the sight of which he exclaimed “that he would prefer it as a residence to the most splendid city.”
It is, indeed, one of the loveliest seclusions in the world. It terminates in a semicircle of rocks of stupendous height, that seem to have been hewn down perpendicularly. At the head and centre of the vast amphitheatre, and at the foot of one of its enormous rocks, there is a cavern of proportional size, hollowed out by the hand of nature. Its opening is an arch sixty feet high; but it is a double cavern, there being an interior one with an entrance thirty feet high. In the midst of these there is an oval basin, having eighteen fathoms for its longest diameter, and from this basin rises the copious stream which forms the Sorgue. The surface of the fountain is black, an appearance produced by its depth, from the darkness of the rocks, and the obscurity of the cavern; for, on being brought to light, nothing can be clearer than its water. Though beautiful to the eye, it is harsh to the taste, but is excellent for tanning and dyeing; and it is said to promote the growth of a plant which fattens oxen and is good for hens during incubation. Strabo and Pliny the naturalist both speak of its possessing this property.
The river Sorgue, which issues from this cavern, divides in its progress into various branches; it waters many parts of Provence, receives several tributary streams, and, after reuniting its branches, falls into the Rhone near Avignon.
Resolving to fix his residence here, Petrarch bought a little cottage and an adjoining field, and repaired to Vaucluse with no other companions than his books. To this day the ruins of a small house are shown at Vaucluse, which tradition says was his habitation.
If his object was to forget Laura, the composition of sonnets upon her in this hermitage was unlikely to be an antidote to his recollections. It would seem as if he meant to cherish rather than to get rid of his love. But, if he nursed his passion, it was a dry-nursing; for he led a lonely, ascetic, and, if it were not for his studies, we might say a savage life. In one of his letters, written not long after his settling at Vaucluse, he says, “Here I make war upon my senses, and treat them as my enemies. My eyes, which have drawn me into a thousand difficulties, see no longer either gold, or precious stones, or ivory, or purple; they behold nothing save the water, the firmament, and the rocks. The only female who comes within their sight is a swarthy old woman, dry and parched as the Lybian deserts. My ears are no longer courted by those harmonious instruments and voices which have so often transported my soul: they hear nothing but the lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, the warbling of birds, and the murmurs of the river.
“I keep silence from noon till night. There is no one to converse with; for the good people, employed in spreading their nets, or tending their vines and orchards, are no great adepts at conversation. I often content myself with the brown bread of the fisherman, and even eat it with pleasure. Nay, I almost prefer it to white bread. This old fisherman, who is as hard as iron, earnestly remonstrates against my manner of life; and assures me that I cannot long hold out. I am, on the contrary, convinced that it is easier to accustom one’s self to a plain diet than to the luxuries of a feast. But still I have my luxuries—figs, raisins, nuts and almonds. I am fond of the fish with which this stream abounds, and I sometimes amuse myself with spreading the nets. As to my dress, there is an entire change; you would take me for a labourer or a shepherd.
“My mansion resembles that of Cato or Fabricius. My whole house-establishment consists of myself, my old fisherman and his wife, and a dog. My fisherman’s cottage is contiguous to mine; when I want him I call; when I no longer need him, he returns to his cottage.
“I have made two gardens that please me wonderfully. I do not think they are to be equalled in all the world. And I must confess to you a more than female weakness with which I am haunted. I am positively angry that there is anything so beautiful out of Italy.
“One of these gardens is shady, formed for contemplation, and sacred to Apollo. It overhangs the source of the river, and is terminated by rocks, and by places accessible only to birds. The other is nearer my cottage, of an aspect less severe, and devoted to Bacchus; and what is extremely singular, it is in the midst of a rapid river. The approach to it is over a bridge of rocks; and there is a natural grotto under the rocks, which gives them the appearance of a rustic bridge. Into this grotto the rays of the sun never penetrate. I am confident that it much resembles the place where Cicero went to declaim. It invites to study. Hither I retreat during the noontide hours; my mornings are engaged upon the hills, or in the garden sacred to Apollo. Here I would most willingly pass my days, were I not too near Avignon, and too far from Italy. For why should I conceal this weakness of my soul? I love Italy, and I hate Avignon. The pestilential influence of this horrid place empoisons the pure air of Vaucluse, and will compel me to quit my retirement.”
It is clear that he was not supremely contented in his solitude with his self-drawn mental resources. His friends at Avignon came seldom to see him. Travelling even short distances was difficult in those days. Even we, in the present day, can remember when the distance of fourteen miles presented a troublesome journey. The few guests who came, to him could not expect very exquisite dinners, cooked by the brown old woman and her husband the fisherman; and, though our poet had a garden consecrated to Bacchus, he had no cellar devoted to the same deity. His few friends, therefore, who visited him, thought their angel visits acts of charity. If he saw his friends seldom, however, he had frequent visitants in strangers who came to Vaucluse, as a place long celebrated for its natural beauties, and now made illustrious by the character and compositions of our poet. Among these there were persons distinguished for their rank or learning, who came from the farthest parts of France and from Italy, to see and converse with Petrarch. Some of them even sent before them considerable presents, which, though kindly meant, were not acceptable.
Vaucluse is in the diocese of Cavaillon, a small city about two miles distant from our poet’s retreat. Philip de Cabassoles was the bishop, a man of high rank and noble family. His disposition, according to Petrarch’s usual praise of his friends, was highly benevolent and humane; he was well versed in literature, and had distinguished abilities. No sooner was the poet settled in his retirement, than he visited the Bishop at his palace near Vaucluse. The latter gave him a friendly reception, and returned his visits frequently. Another much estimated, his friend since their childhood, Guido Sette, also repaired at times to his humble mansion, and relieved his solitude in the shut-up valley.[G]
Without some daily and constant occupation even the bright mind of Petrarch would have rusted, like the finest steel when it is left unscoured. But he continued his studies with an ardour that commands our wonder and respect; and it was at Vaucluse that he either meditated or wrote his most important compositions. Here he undertook a history of Rome, from Romulus down to Titus Vespasian. This Herculean task he never finished; but there remain two fragments of it, namely, four books, De Rebus Memorandis, and another tract entitled Vitarum Virorum Illustrium Epitome, being sketches of illustrious men from the founder of Rome down to Fabricius.
About his poem, Africa, I shall only say for the present that he began this Latin epic at Vaucluse, that its hero is his idolized Roman, Scipio Africanus, that it gained him a reputation over Europe, and that he was much pleased with it himself, but that his admiration of it in time cooled down so much, that at last he was annoyed when it was mentioned to him, and turned the conversation, if he could, to a different subject. Nay, it is probable, that if it had not been for Boccaccio and Coluccio Salutati, who, long after he had left Vaucluse, importuned him to finish and publish it, his Africa would not have come down to posterity.
Petrarch alludes in one of his letters to an excursion which he made in 1338, in company with a man whose rank was above his wisdom. He does not name him, but it seems clearly to have been Humbert ii., Dauphin of the Viennois. The Cardinal Colonna forced our poet into this pilgrimage to Baume, famous for its adjacent cavern, where, according to the tradition of the country, Mary Magdalen passed thirty years of repentance. In that holy but horrible cavern, as Petrarch calls it, they remained three days and three nights, though Petrarch sometimes gave his comrades the slip, and indulged in rambles among the hills and forests; he composed a short poem, however, on St. Mary Magdalen, which is as dull as the cave itself. The Dauphin Humbert was not a bright man; but he seems to have contracted a friendly familiarity with our poet, if we may judge by a letter which Petrarch indited to him about this time, frankly reproaching him with his political neutrality in the affairs of Europe. It was supposed that the Cardinal Colonna incited him to write it. A struggle that was now impending between France and England engaged all Europe on one side or other. The Emperor Lewis had intimated to Humbert that he must follow him in this war, he, the Dauphin, being arch-seneschal of Arles and Vienne. Next year, the arch-seneschal received an invitation from Philip of Valois to join him with his troops at Amiens as vassal of France. The Dauphin tried to back out of the dilemma between his two suitors by frivolous excuses to both, all the time determining to assist neither. In 1338 he came to Avignon, and the Pope gave him his palace at the bridge of the Sorgue for his habitation. Here the poor craven, beset on one side by threatening letters from Philip of Valois, and on the other by importunities from the French party at the papal court, remained in Avignon till July, 1339, after Petrarch had let loose upon him his epistolary eloquence.
This letter, dated April, 1339, is, according to De Sade’s opinion, full of powerful persuasion. I cannot say that it strikes me as such. After calling Christ to witness that he writes to the Dauphin in the spirit of friendship, he reminds him that Europe had never exhibited so mighty and interesting a war as that which had now sprung up between the kings of France and England, nor one that opened so vast a field of glory for the brave. “All the princes and their people,” he says, “are anxious about its issue, especially those between the Alps and the ocean, who take arms at the crash of the neighbouring tumult; whilst you alone go to sleep amidst the clouds of the coming storm. To say the truth, if there was nothing more than shame to awaken you, it ought to rouse you from this lethargy. I had thought you,” he continues, “a man desirous of glory. You are young and in the strength of life. What, then, in the name of God, keeps you inactive? Do you fear fatigue? Remember what Sallust says—’Idle enjoyments were made for women, fatigue was made for men.’ Do you fear death? Death is the last debt we owe to nature, and man ought not to fear it; certainly he ought not to fear it more than sleep and sluggishness. Aristotle, it is true, calls death the last of horrible things; but, mind, he does not call it the most horrible of things.” In this manner, our poet goes on moralizing on the blessings of an early death, and the great advantage that it would have afforded to some excellent Roman heroes if they had met with it sooner. The only thing like a sensible argument that he urges is, that Humbert could not expect to save himself even by neutrality, but must ultimately become the prey of the victor, and be punished like the Alban Metius, whom Tullus Hostilius caused to be torn asunder by horses that pulled his limbs in different directions. The pedantic epistle had no effect on Humbert.
Meanwhile, Italy had no repose more than the rest of Europe, but its troubles gave a happy occasion to Petrarch to see once more his friend, Guglielmo Pastrengo, who, in 1338, came to Avignon, from Mastino della Scala, lord of Verona.
The moment Petrarch heard of his friend’s arrival he left his hermitage to welcome him; but scarcely had he reached the fatal city when he saw the danger of so near an approach to the woman he so madly loved, and was aware that he had no escape from the eyes of Laura but by flight. He returned, therefore, all of a sudden to Vaucluse, without waiting for a sight of Pastrengo. Shortly after he had quitted the house of Laelius, where he usually lodged when he went to Avignon, Guglielmo, expecting to find him there, knocked at the door, but no one opened it—called out, but no one answered him. He therefore wrote him a little billet, saying, “My dear Petrarch, where have you hid yourself, and whither have you vanished? What is the meaning of all this?” The poet received this note at Vaucluse, and sent an explanation of his flight, sincere indeed as to good feelings, but prolix as usual in the expression of them. Pastrengo sent him a kind reply, and soon afterwards did him the still greater favour of visiting him at Vaucluse, and helping him to cultivate his garden.
Petrarch’s flame for Laura was in reality unabated. One day he met her in the streets of Avignon; for he had not always resolution enough to keep out of the western Babylon. Laura cast a kind look upon him, and said, “Petrarch, you are tired of loving me.” This incident produced one of the finest sonnets, beginning—
Io non fut d’ amar voi lassato unquanco.
Tired, did you say, of loving
you? Oh, no!
I ne’er shall tire of
the unwearying flame.
But I am weary, kind and cruel
dame,
With tears that uselessly
and ceaseless flow,
Scorning myself, and scorn’d
by you. I long
For death: but let no
gravestone hold in view
Our names conjoin’d:
nor tell my passion strong
Upon the dust that glow’d
through life for you.
And yet this heart of amorous
faith demands,
Deserves, a better boon; but
cruel, hard
As is my fortune, I will bless
Love’s bands
For ever, if you give me this
reward.
In 1339, he composed among other sonnets, those three, the lxii., lxxiv., and lxxv., which are confessedly master-pieces of their kind, as well as three canzoni to the eyes of Laura, which the Italians call the three sister Graces, and worship as divine.[H] The critic Tassoni himself could not censure them, and called them the queens of song. At this period, however seldom he may have visited Avignon, he evidently sought rather to cherish than subdue his fatal attachment. A celebrated painter, Simone Martini of Siena, came to Avignon. He was the pupil of Giotto, not exquisite in drawing, but famous for taking spirited likenesses.
Petrarch persuaded Simone to favour him with a miniature likeness of Laura; and this treasure the poet for ever carried about with him. In gratitude he addressed two sonnets to the artist, whose fame, great as it was, was heightened by the poetical reward. Vasari tells us that Simone also painted the pictures of both lovers in the chapel of St. Maria Novella at Florence; that Simone was a sculptor as well as a painter, and that he copied those pictures in marbles which, according to Baldelli, are still extant in the house of the Signore Pruzzi.
An anecdote relating to this period of Petrarch’s life is given by De Sade, which, if accepted with entire credence, must inspire us with astonishment at the poet’s devotion to his literary pursuits. He had now, in 1339, put the first hand to his epic poem, the Scipiade; and one of his friends, De Sade believes that it was the Bishop of Lombes, fearing lest he might injure his health by overzealous application, went to ask him for the key of his library, which the poet gave up. The Bishop then locked up his books and papers, and commanded him to abstain from reading and writing for ten days. Petrarch obeyed; but on the first day of this literary Ramazan, he was seized with ennui, on the second with a severe headache, and on the third with symptoms of fever; the Bishop relented, and permitted the student to return to his books and papers.
Petrarch was at this time delighted, in his solitude of Vaucluse, to hear of the arrival at Avignon of one of his dearest friends. This was Dionisio dal Borgo a San Sepolcro, who, being now advanced in years, had resigned his pulpit in the University of Paris, in order to return to his native country, and came to Avignon with the intention of going by sea to Florence. Petrarch pressed him strongly to visit him at Vaucluse, interspersing his persuasion with many compliments to King Robert of Naples, to whom he knew that Dionisio was much attached; nor was he without hopes that his friend would speak favourably of him to his Neapolitan Majesty. In a letter from Vaucluse he says:—“Can nothing induce you to come to my solitude? Will not my ardent request, and the pity you must have for my condition, bring you to pass some days with your old disciple? If these motives are not sufficient, permit me to suggest another inducement. There is in this place a poplar-tree of so immense a size that it covers with its shade not only the river and its banks, but also a considerable extent beyond them. They tell us that King Robert of Naples, invited by the beauty of this spot, came hither to unburthen his mind from the weight of public affairs, and to enjoy himself in the shady retreat.” The poet added many eulogies on his Majesty of Naples, which, as he anticipated, reached the royal ear. It seems not to be clear that Father Dionisio ever visited the poet at Vaucluse; though they certainly had an interview at Avignon. To Petrarch’s misfortune, his friend’s stay in that city was very short. The monk proceeded to Florence, but he found there no shady retreat like that of the poplar at Vaucluse. Florence was more than ever agitated by internal commotions, and was this year afflicted by plague and famine. This dismal state of the city determined Dionisio to accept an invitation from King Robert to spend the remainder of his days at his court.
This monarch had the happiness of giving additional publicity to Petrarch’s reputation. That the poet sought his patronage need not be concealed; and if he used a little flattery in doing so, we must make allowance for the adulatory instinct of the tuneful tribe. We cannot live without bread upon bare reputation, or on the prospect of having tombstones put over our bones, prematurely hurried to the grave by hunger, when they shall be as insensible to praise as the stones themselves. To speak seriously, I think that a poet sacrifices his usefulness to himself and others, and an importance in society which may be turned to public good, if he shuns the patronage that can be obtained by unparasitical means.
Father Dionisio, upon his arrival at Naples, impressed the King with so favourable an opinion of Petrarch that Robert wrote a letter to our poet, enclosing an epitaph of his Majesty’s own composition, on the death of his niece Clementina. This letter is unhappily lost; but the answer to it is preserved, in which Petrarch tells the monarch that his epitaph rendered his niece an object rather of envy than of lamentation. “O happy Clementina!” says the poet, “after passing through a transitory life, you have attained a double immortality, one in heaven, and another on earth.” He then compares the posthumous good fortune of the princess to that of Achilles, who had been immortalized by Homer. It is possible that King Robert’s letter to Petrarch was so laudatory as to require a flattering answer. But this reverberated praise is rather overstrained.
Petrarch was now intent on obtaining the honour of Poet Laureate. His wishes were at length gratified, and in a manner that made the offer more flattering than the crown itself.
Whilst he still remained at Vaucluse, at nine o’clock in the morning of the 1st of September, 1340, he received a letter from the Roman Senate, pressingly inviting him to come and receive the crown of Poet Laureate at Rome. He must have little notion of a poet’s pride and vanity, who cannot imagine the flushed countenance, the dilated eyes, and the joyously-throbbing heart of Petrarch, whilst he read this letter. To be invited by the Senate of Rome to such an honour might excuse him for forgetting that Rome was not now what she had once been, and that the substantial glory of his appointment was small in comparison with the classic associations which formed its halo.
As if to keep up the fever of his joy, he received the same day, in the afternoon, at four o’clock, another letter with the same offer, from Roberto Bardi, Chancellor of the University of Paris, in which he importuned him to be crowned as Poet Laureate at Paris. When we consider the poet’s veneration for Rome, we may easily anticipate that he would give the preference to that city. That he might not, however, offend his friend Roberto Bardi and the University of Paris, he despatched a messenger to Cardinal Colonna, asking his advice upon the subject, pretty well knowing that his patron’s opinion would coincide with his own wishes. The Colonna advised him to be crowned at Rome.
The custom of conferring this honour had, for a long time, been obsolete. In the earliest classical ages, garlands were given as a reward to valour and genius. Virgil exhibits his conquerors adorned with them. The Romans adopted the custom from Greece, where leafy honours were bestowed on victors at public games. This coronation of poets, it is said, ceased under the reign of the Emperor Theodosius. After his death, during the long subsequent barbarism of Europe, when literature produced only rhyming monks, and when there were no more poets to crown, the discontinuance of the practice was a natural consequence.
At the commencement of the thirteenth century, according to the Abbe Resnel, the universities of Europe began to dispense laurels, not to poets, but to students distinguished by their learning. The doctors in medicine, at the famous university of Salerno, established by the Emperor Frederic ii., had crowns of laurel put upon their heads. The bachelors also had their laurels, and derived their name from a baculus, or stick, which they carried.
Cardinal Colonna, as we have said, advised him, “nothing loth,” to enjoy his coronation at Rome. Thither accordingly he repaired early in the year 1341. He embarked at Marseilles for Naples, wishing previously to his coronation to visit King Robert, by whom he was received with all possible hospitality and distinction.
Though he had accepted the laurel amidst the general applause of his contemporaries, Petrarch was not satisfied that he should enjoy this honour without passing through an ordeal as to his learning, for laurels and learning had been for one hundred years habitually associated in men’s minds. The person whom Petrarch selected for his examiner in erudition was the King of Naples. Robert the Good, as he was in some respects deservedly called, was, for his age, a well-instructed man, and, for a king, a prodigy. He had also some common sense, but in classical knowledge he was more fit to be the scholar of Petrarch than his examiner. If Petrarch, however, learned nothing from the King, the King learned something from Petrarch. Among the other requisites for examining a Poet Laureate which Robert possessed, was an utter ignorance of poetry. But Petrarch couched his blindness on the subject, so that Robert saw, or believed he saw, something useful in the divine art. He had heard of the epic poem, Africa, and requested its author to recite to him some part of it. The King was charmed with the recitation, and requested that the work might be dedicated to him. Petrarch assented, but the poem was not finished or published till after King Robert’s death.
His Neapolitan Majesty, after pronouncing a warm eulogy on our poet, declared that he merited the laurel, and had letters patent drawn up, by which he certified that, after a severe examination (it lasted three days), Petrarch was judged worthy to receive that honour in the Capitol. Robert wished him to be crowned at Naples; but our poet represented that he was desirous of being distinguished on the same theatre where Virgil and Horace had shone. The King accorded with his wishes; and, to complete his kindness, regretted that his advanced age would not permit him to go to Rome, and crown Petrarch himself. He named, however, one of his most eminent courtiers, Barrilli, to be his proxy. Boccaccio speaks of Barrilli as a good poet; and Petrarch, with exaggerated politeness, compares him to Ovid.
When Petrarch went to take leave of King Robert, the sovereign, after engaging his promise that he would visit him again very soon, took off the robe which he wore that day, and, begging Petrarch’s acceptance of it, desired that he might wear it on the day of his coronation. He also bestowed on him the place of his almoner-general, an office for which great interest was always made, on account of the privileges attached to it, the principal of which were an exemption from paying the tithes of benefices to the King, and a dispensation from residence.
Petrarch proceeded to Rome, where he arrived on the 6th of April, 1341, accompanied by only one attendant from the court of Naples, for Barrilli had taken another route, upon some important business, promising, however, to be at Rome before the time appointed. But as he had not arrived on the 7th, Petrarch despatched a messenger in search of him, who returned without any information. The poet was desirous to wait for his arrival; but Orso, Count of Anguillara, would not suffer the ceremony to be deferred. Orso was joint senator of Rome with Giordano degli Orsini; and, his office expiring on the 8th of April, he was unwilling to resign to his successor the pleasure of crowning so great a man.
[Illustration: NAPLES.]
Petrarch was afterwards informed that Barrilli, hastening towards Rome, had been beset near Anaguia by robbers, from whom he escaped with difficulty, and that he was obliged for safety to return to Naples. In leaving that city, Petrarch passed the tomb traditionally said to be that of Virgil. His coronation took place without delay after his arrival at Rome.
The morning of the 8th of April, 1341, was ushered in by the sound of trumpets; and the people, ever fond of a show, came from all quarters to see the ceremony. Twelve youths selected from the best families of Rome, and clothed in scarlet, opened the procession, repeating as they went some verses, composed by the poet, in honour of the Roman people. They were followed by six citizens of Rome, clothed in green, and bearing crowns wreathed with different flowers. Petrarch walked in the midst of them; after him came the senator, accompanied by the first men of the council. The streets were strewed with flowers, and the windows filled with ladies, dressed in the most splendid manner, who showered perfumed waters profusely on the poet[I]. He all the time wore the robe that had been presented to him by the King of Naples. When they reached the Capitol, the trumpets were silent, and Petrarch, having made a short speech, in which he quoted a verse from Virgil, cried out three times, “Long live the Roman people! long live the Senators! may God preserve their liberty!” At the conclusion of these words, he knelt before the senator Orso, who, taking a crown of laurel from his own head, placed it on that of Petrarch, saying, “This crown is the reward of virtue.” The poet then repeated a sonnet in praise of the ancient Romans. The people testified their approbation by shouts of applause, crying, “Long flourish the Capitol and the poet!” The friends of Petrarch shed tears of joy, and Stefano Colonna, his favourite hero, addressed the assembly in his honour.
The ceremony having been finished at the Capitol, the procession, amidst the sound of trumpets and the acclamations of the people, repaired thence to the church of St. Peter, where Petrarch offered up his crown of laurel before the altar. The same day the Count of Anguillara caused letters patent to be delivered to Petrarch, in which the senators, after a flattering preamble, declared that he had merited the title of a great poet and historian; that, to mark his distinction, they had put upon his head a laurel crown, not only by the authority of Kong Robert, but by that of the Roman Senate and people; and that they gave him, at Rome and elsewhere, the privilege to read, to dispute, to explain ancient books, to make new ones, to compose poems, and to wear a crown according to his choice, either of laurel, beech, or myrtle, as well as the poetic habit. At that time a particular dress was affected by the poets. Dante was buried in this costume.
Petrarch continued only a few days at Rome after his coronation; but he had scarcely departed when he found that there were banditti on the road waiting for him, and anxious to relieve him of any superfluous wealth which he might have about him. He was thus obliged to return to Rome with all expedition; but he set out the following day, attended by a guard of armed men, and arrived at Pisa on the 20th of April.
From Pisa he went to Parma, to see his friend Azzo Correggio, and soon after his arrival he was witness to a revolution in that city of which Azzo had the principal direction. The Scalas, who held the sovereignty of Parma, had for some time oppressed the inhabitants with exorbitant taxes, which excited murmurs and seditions. The Correggios, to whom the city was entrusted in the absence of Mastino della Scala, profited by the public discontent, hoisted the flag of liberty, and, on the 22nd of May, 1341, drove out the garrison, and made themselves lords of the commonwealth. On this occasion, Azzo has been accused of the worst ingratitude to his nephews, Alberto and Mastino. But, if the people were oppressed, he was surely justified in rescuing them from misgovernment. To a great degree, also, the conduct of the Correggios sanctioned the revolution. They introduced into Parma such a mild and equitable administration as the city had never before experienced. Some exceptionable acts they undoubtedly committed; and when Petrarch extols Azzo as another Cato, it is to be hoped that he did so with some mental reservation. Petrarch had proposed to cross the Alps immediately, and proceed to Avignon; but he was prevailed upon by the solicitations of Azzo to remain some time at Parma. He was consulted by the Correggios on their most important affairs, and was admitted to their secret councils. In the present instance, this confidence was peculiarly agreeable to him; as the four brothers were, at that time, unanimous in their opinions; and their designs were all calculated to promote the welfare of their subjects.
Soon after his arrival at Parma, he received one of those tokens, of his popularity which are exceedingly expressive, though they come from a humble admirer. A blind old man, who had been a grammar-school master at Pontremoli, came to Parma, in order to pay his devotions to the laureate. The poor man had already walked to Naples, guided in his blindness by his only son, for the purpose of finding Petrarch. The poet had left that city; but King Robert, pleased with his enthusiasm, made him a present of some money. The aged pilgrim returned to Pontremoti, where, being informed that Petrarch was at Parma, he crossed the Apennines, in spite of the severity of the weather, and travelled thither, having sent before him a tolerable copy of verses. He was presented to Petrarch, whose hand he kissed with devotion and exclamations of joy. One day, before many spectators, the blind man said to Petrarch, “Sir, I have come far to see you.” The bystanders laughed, on which the old man replied, “I appeal to you, Petrarch, whether I do not see you more clearly and distinctly than these men who have their eyesight.” Petrarch gave him a kind reception, and dismissed him with a considerable present.
The pleasure which Petrarch had in retirement, reading, and reflection, induced him to hire a house on the outskirts of the city of Parma, with a garden, beautifully watered by a stream, a rus in urbe, as he calls it; and he was so pleased with this locality, that he purchased and embellished it.
His happiness, however, he tells us, was here embittered by the loss of some friends who shared the first place in his affections. One of these was Tommaso da Messina, with whom he had formed a friendship when they were fellow-students at Bologna, and ever since kept up a familiar correspondence. They were of the same age, addicted to the same pursuits, and imbued with similar sentiments. Tommaso wrote a volume of Latin poems, several of which were published after the invention of printing. Petrarch, in his Triumphs of Love, reckons him an excellent poet.
This loss was followed by another which affected Petrarch still more strongly. Having received frequent invitations to Lombes from the Bishop, who had resided some time in his diocese, Petrarch looked forward with pleasure to the time when he should revisit him. But he received accounts that the Bishop was taken dangerously ill. Whilst his mind was agitated by this news, he had the following dream, which he has himself related. “Methought I saw the Bishop crossing the rivulet of my garden alone. I was astonished at this meeting, and asked him whence he came, whither he was going in such haste, and why he was alone. He smiled upon me with his usual complacency, and said, ’Remember that when you were in Gascony the tempestuous climate was insupportable to you. I also am tired of it. I have quitted Gascony, never to return, and I am going to Rome.’ At the conclusion of these words, he had reached the
On a little reflection, this incident will not appear to be supernatural. That Petrarch, oppressed as he was with anxiety about his friend, should fall into fanciful reveries during his sleep, and imagine that he saw him in the paleness of death, was nothing wonderful—nay, that he should frame this allegory in his dream is equally conceivable. The sleeper’s imagination is often a great improvisatore. It forms scenes and stories; it puts questions, and answers them itself, all the time believing that the responses come from those whom it interrogates.
Petrarch, deeply attached to Azzo da Correggio, now began to consider himself as settled at Parma, where he enjoyed literary retirement in the bosom of his beloved Italy. But he had not resided there a year, when he was summoned to Avignon by orders he considered that he could not disobey. Tiraboschi, and after him Baldelli, ascribe his return to Avignon to the commission which he received in 1342, to go as advocate of the Roman people to the new Pope, Clement VI., who had succeeded to the tiara on the death of Benedict XII., and Petrarch’s own words coincide with what they say. The feelings of joy with which Petrarch revisited Avignon, though to appearance he had weaned himself from Laura, may be imagined. He had friendship, however, if he had not love, to welcome him. Here he met, with reciprocal gladness, his friends Socrates and Laelius, who had established themselves at the court of the Cardinal Colonna. “Socrates,” says De Sade, “devoted himself entirely to Petrarch, and even went with him to Vaucluse.” It thus appears that Petrarch had not given up his peculium on the Sorgue, nor had any one rented the field and cottage in his absence.
Benedict’s successor, Clement VI., was conversant with the world, and accustomed to the splendour of courts. Quite a contrast to the plain rigidity of Benedict, he was courteous and munificent, but withal a voluptuary; and his luxury and profusion gave rise to extortions, to rapine, and to boundless simony. His artful and arrogant mistress, the Countess of Turenne, ruled him so absolutely, that all places in his gift, which had escaped the grasp of his relations, were disposed of through her interest; and she amassed great wealth by the sale of benefices.
The Romans applied to Clement VI., as they had applied to Benedict XII., imploring him to bring back the sacred seat to their capital; and they selected Petrarch to be among those who should present their supplication. Our poet appealed to his Holiness on this subject, both in prose and verse. The Pope received him with smiles, complimented him on his eloquence, bestowed on him the priory of Migliorino, but, for the present, consigned his remonstrance to oblivion.
In this mission to Clement at Avignon there was joined with Petrarch the famous Nicola Gabrino, better known by the name Cola di Rienzo, who, very soon afterwards, attached the history of Rome to his biography. He was for the present comparatively little known; but Petrarch, thus coming into connection with this extraordinary person, was captivated with his eloquence, whilst Clement complimented Rienzo, admitted him daily to his presence, and conversed with him on the wretched state of Rome, the tyranny of the nobles, and the sufferings of the people.
Cola and Petrarch were the two chiefs of this Roman embassy to the Pope; and it appears that the poet gave precedency to the future tribune on this occasion. They both elaborately exposed the three demands of the Roman people, namely, that the Pope, already the acknowledged patron of Rome, should assume the title and functions of its senator, in order to extinguish the civil wars kindled by the Roman barons; that he should return to his pontifical chair on the banks of the Tiber; and that he should grant permission for the jubilee, instituted by Boniface VIII., to be held every fifty years, and not at the end of a century, as its extension to the latter period went far beyond the ordinary duration of human life, and cut off the greater part of the faithful from enjoying the institution.
Clement praised both orators, and conceded that the Romans should have a jubilee every fifty years; but he excused himself from going to Rome, alleging that he was prevented by the disputes between France and England. “Holy Father,” said Petrarch, “how much it were to be wished that you had known Italy before you knew France.” “I wish I had,” said the Pontiff, very coldly.
Petrarch gave vent to his indignation at the papal court in a writing, entitled, “A Book of Letters without a Title,” and in several severe sonnets. The “Liber Epistolarum sine Titulo” contains, as it is printed in his works (Basle edit., 1581), eighteen letters, fulminating as freely against papal luxury and corruption as if they had been penned by Luther or John Knox. From their contents, we might set down Petrarch as the earliest preacher of the Reformation, if there were not, in the writings of Dante, some passages of the same stamp. If these epistles were really circulated at the time when they were written, it is matter of astonishment that Petrarch never suffered from any other flames than those of love; for many honest reformers, who have been roasted alive, have uttered less anti-papal vituperation than our poet; nor, although Petrarch would have been startled at a revolution in the hierarchy, can it be doubted that his writings contributed to the Reformation.
It must be remembered, at the same time, that he wrote against the church government of Avignon, and not that of Rome. He compares Avignon with the Assyrian Babylon, with Egypt under the mad tyranny of Cambyses; or rather, denies that the latter empires can be held as parallels of guilt to the western Babylon; nay, he tells us that neither Avernus nor Tartarus can be confronted with this infernal place.
“The successors of a troop of fishermen,” he says, “have forgotten their origin. They are not contented, like the first followers of Christ, who gained their livelihood by the Lake of Gennesareth, with modest habitations, but they must build themselves splendid palaces, and go about covered with gold and purple. They are fishers of men, who catch a credulous multitude, and devour them for their prey.” This “Liber Epistolarum” includes some descriptions of the debaucheries of the churchmen, which are too scandalous for translation. They are nevertheless curious relics of history.
In this year, Gherardo, the brother of our poet, retired, by his advice, to the Carthusian monastery of Montrieux, which they had both visited in the pilgrimage to Baume three years before. Gherardo had been struck down with affliction by the death of a beautiful woman at Avignon, to whom he was devoted. Her name and history are quite unknown, but it may be hoped, if not conjectured, that she was not married, and could be more liberal in her affections than the poet’s Laura.
Amidst all the incidents of this period of his life, the attachment of Petrarch to Laura continued unabated. It appears, too, that, since his return from Parma, she treated him with more than wonted complacency. He passed the greater part of the year 1342 at Avignon, and went to Vaucluse but seldom and for short intervals.
In the meantime, love, that makes other people idle, interfered not with Petrarch’s fondness for study. He found an opportunity of commencing the study of Greek, and seized it with avidity. That language had never been totally extinct in Italy; but at the time on which we are touching, there were not probably six persons in the whole country acquainted with it. Dante had quoted Greek authors, but without having known the Greek alphabet. The person who favoured Petrarch with this coveted instruction was Bernardo Barlaamo, a Calabrian monk, who had been three years before at Avignon, having come as envoy from Andronicus, the eastern Emperor, on pretext of proposing a union between the Greek and Roman churches, but, in reality for the purpose of trying to borrow money from the Pope for the Emperor. Some of Petrarch’s biographers date his commencement of the study of Greek from the period of Barlaamo’s first visit to Avignon; but I am inclined to postpone it to 1342, when Barlaamo returned to the west and settled at Avignon. Petrarch began studying Greek by the reading of Plato. He never obtained instruction sufficient to make him a good Grecian, but he imbibed much of the spirit of Plato from the labour which he bestowed on his works. He was very anxious to continue his Greek readings with Barlaamo; but his stay in Avignon was very short; and, though it was his interest to detain him as his preceptor, Petrarch, finding that he was anxious for a settlement in Italy, helped him to obtain the bishopric of Geraci, in Calabria.
[Illustration: NICE.]
The next year was memorable in our poet’s life for the birth of his daughter Francesca. That the mother of this daughter was the same who presented him with his son John there can be no doubt. Baldelli discovers, in one of Petrarch’s letters, an obscure allusion to her, which seems to indicate that she died suddenly after the birth of Francesca, who proved a comfort to her father in his old age.
The opening of the year 1343 brought a new loss to Petrarch in the death of Robert, King of Naples. Petrarch, as we have seen, had occasion to be grateful to this monarch; and we need not doubt that he was much affected by the news of his death; but, when we are told that he repaired to Vaucluse to bewail his irreparable loss, we may suppose, without uncharitableness, that he retired also with a view to study the expression of his grief no less than to cherish it. He wrote, however, an interesting letter on the occasion to Barbato di Sulmona, in which he very sensibly exhibits his fears of the calamities which were likely to result from the death of Robert, adding that his mind was seldom true in prophecy, unless when it foreboded misfortunes; and his predictions on this occasion were but too well verified.
Robert was succeeded by his granddaughter Giovanna, a girl of sixteen, already married to Andrew of Hungary, her cousin, who was but a few months older. Robert by his will had established a council of regency, which was to continue until Giovanna arrived at the age of twenty-five. The Pope, however, made objections to this arrangement, alleging that the administration of affairs during the Queen’s minority devolved upon him immediately as lord superior. But, as he did not choose to assert his right till he should receive more accurate information respecting the state of the kingdom, he gave Petrarch a commission for that purpose; and entrusted him with a negotiation of much importance and delicacy.
Petrarch received an additional commission from the Cardinal Colonna. Several friends of the Colonna family were, at that time, confined in prison at Naples, and the Cardinal flattered himself that Petrarch’s eloquence and intercession would obtain their enlargement. Our poet accepted the embassy. He went to Nice, where he embarked; but had nearly been lost in his passage. He wrote to Cardinal Colonna the following account of his voyage.
“I embarked at Nice, the first maritime town in Italy (he means the nearest to France). At night I got to Monaco, and the bad weather obliged me to pass a whole day there, which by no means put me into good-humour. The next morning we re-embarked, and, after being tossed all day by the tempest, we arrived very late at Port Maurice. The night was dreadful; it was impossible to get to the castle, and I was obliged to put up at a little village, where my bed and supper appeared tolerable from extreme weariness. I determined to proceed by land; the
“I reached Palestrina that night, and was kindly received by your nephew John. He is a young man of great hopes, and follows the steps of his ancestors.
“I arrived at Naples the 11th of October. Heavens, what a change has the death of one man produced in that place! No one would know it now. Religion, Justice, and Truth are banished. I think I am at Memphis, Babylon, or Mecca. In the stead of a king so just and so pious, a little monk, fat, rosy, barefooted, with a shorn head, and half covered with a dirty mantle, bent by hypocrisy more than by age, lost in debauchery whilst proud of his affected poverty, and still more of the real wealth he has amassed—this man holds the reins of this staggering empire. In vice and cruelty he rivals a Dionysius, an Agathocles, or a Phalaris. This monk, named Roberto, was an Hungarian cordelier, and preceptor of Prince Andrew, whom he entirely sways. He oppresses the weak, despises the great, tramples justice under foot, and treats both the dowager and the reigning Queen with the greatest insolence. The court and city tremble before him; a mournful silence reigns in the public assemblies, and in private they converse by whispers. The least gesture is punished, and to think is denounced as a crime. To this man I have presented the orders of the Sovereign
It is plain from Petrarch’s letter that the kingdom of Naples was now under a miserable subjection to the Hungarian faction, aid that the young Queen’s situation was anything but enviable. Few characters in modern history have been drawn in such contrasted colours as that of Giovanna, Queen of Naples. She has been charged with every vice, and extolled for every virtue. Petrarch represents her as a woman of weak understanding, disposed to gallantry, but incapable of greater crimes. Her history reminds us much of that of Mary Queen of Scots. Her youth and her character, gentle and interesting in several respects, entitle her to the benefit of our doubts as to her assent to the death of Andrew. Many circumstances seem to me to favour those doubts, and the opinion of Petrarch is on the side of her acquittal.
On his arrival in Naples, Petrarch had an audience with the Queen Dowager; but her grief and tears for the loss of her husband made this interview brief and fruitless with regard to business. When he spoke to her about the prisoners, for whose release the Colonnas had desired him to intercede, her Majesty referred him to the council. She was now, in reality, only a state cypher.
The principal prisoners for whom Petrarch was commissioned to plead, were the Counts Minervino, di Lucera, and Pontenza. Petrarch applied to the council of state in their behalf, but he was put off with perpetual excuses. While the affair was in agitation he went to Capua, where the prisoners were confined. “There,” he writes to the Cardinal Colonna, “I saw your friends; and, such is the instability of Fortune, that I found them in chains. They support their situation with fortitude. Their innocence is no plea in their behalf to those who have shared in the spoils of their fortune. Their only expectations rest upon you. I have no hopes, except from the intervention of some superior power, as any dependence on the clemency of the council is out of the question. The Queen Dowager, now the most desolate of widows, compassionates their case, but cannot assist them.”
Petrarch, wearied with the delays of business, sought relief in excursions to the neighbourhood. Of these he writes an account to Cardinal Colonna.
“I went to Baiae,” he says, “with my friends, Barbato and Barrilli. Everything concurred to render this jaunt agreeable—good company, the beauty of the scenes, and my extreme weariness of the city I had quitted. This climate, which, as far as I can judge, must be insupportable in summer, is delightful in winter. I was rejoiced to behold places described by Virgil, and, what is more surprising, by Homer before him. I have seen the Lucrine lake, famous for its fine oysters; the lake Avernus, with water as black as pitch, and fishes of the same colour swimming in it; marshes formed by the standing waters of Acheron, and the mountain whose roots go down to hell. The terrible aspect of this place, the thick shades with which it is covered by a surrounding wood, and the pestilent odour which this water exhales, characterize it very justly as the Tartarus of the poets. There wants only the boat of Charon, which, however, would be unnecessary, as there is only a shallow ford to pass over. The Styx and the kingdom of Pluto are now hid from our sight. Awed by what I had heard and read of these mournful approaches to the dead, I was contented to view them at my feet from the top of a high mountain. The labourer, the shepherd, and the sailor, dare not approach them nearer. There are deep caverns, where some pretend that a great deal of gold is concealed; covetous men, they say, have been to seek it, but they never return; whether they lost their way in the dark valleys, or had a fancy to visit the dead, being so near their habitations.
“I have seen the ruins of the grotto of the famous Cumaean sybil; it is a hideous rock, suspended in the Avernian lake. Its situation strikes the mind with horror. There still remain the hundred mouths by which the gods conveyed their oracles; these are now dumb, and there is only one God who speaks in heaven and on earth. These uninhabited ruins serve as the resort of birds of unlucky omen. Not far off is that dreadful cavern which leads, they say, to the infernal regions. Who would believe that, close to the mansions of the dead, Nature should have placed powerful remedies for the preservation of life? Near Avernus and Acheron are situated that barren land whence rises continually a salutary vapour, which is a cure for several diseases, and those hot-springs that vomit hot and sulphureous cinders. I have seen the baths which Nature has prepared; but the avarice of physicians has rendered them of doubtful use. This does not, however, prevent them from being visited by the invalids of all the neighbouring towns. These hollowed mountains dazzle us with the lustre of their marble circles, on which are engraved figures that point out, by the position of their hands, the part of the body which each fountain is proper to cure.
“I saw the foundations of that admirable reservoir of Nero, which was to go from Mount Misenus to the Avernian lake, and to enclose all the hot waters of Baiae.
“At Pozzuoli I saw the mountain of Falernus, celebrated for its grapes, whence the famous Falernian wine. I saw likewise those enraged waves of which Virgil speaks in his Georgics, on which Caesar put a bridle by the mole which he raised there, and which Augustus finished. It is now called the Dead Sea. I am surprised at the prodigious expense the Romans were at to build houses in the most exposed situations, in order to shelter them from the severities of the weather; for in the heats of summer the valleys of the Apennines, the mountains of Viterbo, and the woods of Umbria, furnished them with charming shades; and even the ruins of the houses which they built in those places are superb.”
Our poet’s residence at Naples was evidently disagreeable to him, in spite of the company of his friends, Barrilli and Barbato. His friendship with the latter was for a moment overcast by an act of indiscretion on the part of Barbato, who, by dint of importunity, obtained from Petrarch thirty-four lines of his poem of Africa, under a promise that he would show them to nobody. On entering the library of another friend, the first thing that struck our poet’s eyes was a copy of the same verses, transcribed with a good many blunders. Petrarch’s vanity on this occasion, however, was touched more than his anger—he forgave his friend’s treachery, believing it to have arisen from excessive admiration. Barbato, as some atonement, gave him a little MS. of Cicero, which Petrarch found to contain two books of the orator’s Treatise on the Academics, “a work,” as he observes, “more subtle than useful.”
Queen Giovanna was fond of literature. She had several conversations with Petrarch, which increased her admiration of him. After the example of her grandfather, she made him her chaplain and household clerk, both of which offices must be supposed to have been sinecures. Her letters appointing him to them are dated the 25th of November, 1343, the very day before that nocturnal storm of which I shall speedily quote the poet’s description.
Voltaire has asserted that the young Queen of Naples was the pupil of Petrarch; “but of this,” as De Sade remarks, “there is no proof.” It only appears that the two greatest geniuses of Italy, Boccaccio and Petrarch, were both attached to Giovanna, and had a more charitable opinion of her than most of their contemporaries.
Soon after his return from the tour to Baiae, Petrarch was witness to a violent tempest at Naples, which most historians have mentioned, as it was memorable for having threatened the entire destruction of the city.
The night of the 25th of November, 1343, set in with uncommonly still weather; but suddenly a tempest rose violently in the direction of the sea, which made the buildings of the city shake to their very foundations. “At the first onset of the tempest,” Petrarch writes to the Cardinal Colonna, “the windows of the house were burst open. The lamp of my chamber”—he was lodged at a monastery—“was blown out—I was shaken from my bed with violence, and I apprehended immediate death. The friars and prior of the convent, who had risen to pay their customary devotions, rushed into my room with crucifixes and relics in their hands, imploring the mercy of the Deity. I took courage, and accompanied them to the church, where we all passed the night, expecting every moment to be our last. I cannot describe the horrors of that dreadful night; the bursts of lightning and the roaring of thunder were blended with the shrieks of the people. The night itself appeared protracted to an unnatural length; and, when the morning arrived, which we discovered rather by conjecture than by any dawning of light, the priests prepared to celebrate the service; but the rest of us, not having yet dared to lift up our eyes towards the heavens, threw ourselves prostrate on the ground. At length the day appeared—a day how like to night! The cries of the people began to cease in the upper part of the city, but were redoubled from the sea-shore. Despair inspired us with courage. We mounted our horses and arrived at the port. What a scene was there! the vessels had suffered shipwreck in the very harbour; the shore was covered with dead bodies, which were tossed about and dashed against the rocks, whilst many appeared struggling in the agonies of death. Meanwhile, the raging ocean overturned many houses from their very foundations. Above a thousand Neapolitan horsemen were assembled near the shore to assist, as it were, at the obsequies of their countrymen. I caught from them a spirit of resolution, and was less afraid of death from the consideration that we should all perish together. On a sudden a cry of horror was heard; the sea had sapped the foundations of the ground on which we stood, and it was already beginning to give way. We immediately hastened to a higher place, where the scene was equally impressive. The young Queen, with naked feet and dishevelled hair, attended by a number of women, was rushing to the church of the Virgin, crying out for mercy in this imminent peril. At sea, no ship escaped the fury of the tempest: all the vessels in the harbour—one only excepted—sunk before our eyes, and every soul on board perished.”
By the assiduity and solicitations of Petrarch, the council of Naples were at last engaged in debating about the liberation of Colonna’s imprisoned friends; and the affair was nearly brought to a conclusion, when the approach of night obliged the members to separate before they came to a final decision. The cause of this separation is a sad proof of Neapolitan barbarism at that period. It will hardly, at this day, seem credible that, in the capital of so flourishing a kingdom, and the residence of a brilliant court, such savage licentiousness could have prevailed. At night, all the streets of the city were beset by the young nobility, who were armed, and who attacked all passengers without distinction, so that even the members of the council could not venture to appear after a certain hour. Neither the severity of parents, nor the authority of the magistrates, nor of Majesty itself, could prevent continual combats and assassinations.
“But can it be astonishing,” Petrarch remarks, “that such disgraceful scenes should pass in the night, when the Neapolitans celebrate, even in the face of day, games similar to those of the gladiators, and with more than barbarian cruelty? Human blood is shed here with as little remorse as that of brute animals; and, while the people join madly in applause, sons expire in the very sight of their parents; and it is considered the utmost disgrace not to die with becoming fortitude, as if they were dying in the defence of their religion and country. I myself, ignorant of these customs was once carried to the Carbonara, the destined place of butchery. The Queen and her husband, Andrew, were present; the soldiery of Naples were present, and the people flocked thither in crowds. I was kept in suspense by the appearance of so large and brilliant an assembly, and expected some spectacle worthy of my attention, when I suddenly heard a loud shout of applause, as for some joyous incident. What was my surprise when I beheld a beautiful young man pierced through with a sword, and ready to expire at my feet! Struck with horror, I put spurs to my horse, and fled from the barbarous sight, uttering execrations on the cruel spectators.
“This inhuman custom has been derived from their ancestors, and is now so sanctioned by inveterate habit, that their very licentiousness is dignified with the name of liberty.
“You will cease to wonder at the imprisonment of your friends in this city, where the death of a young man is considered as an innocent pastime. As to myself, I will quit this inhuman country before three days are past, and hasten to you who can make all things agreeable to me except a sea-voyage.”
Petrarch at length brought his negotiations respecting the prisoners to a successful issue; and they were released by the express authority of Andrew. Our poet’s presence being no longer necessary, he left Naples, in spite of the strong solicitations of his friends Barrilli and Barbato. In answer to their request that he would remain, he said, “I am but a satellite, and follow the directions of a superior planet; quiet and repose are denied to me.”
From Naples he went to Parma, where Azzo Correggio, with his wonted affection, pressed him to delay; and Petrarch accepted the invitation, though he remarked with sorrow that harmony no longer reigned among the brothers of the family. He stopped there, however, for some time, and enjoyed such tranquillity that he could revise and polish his compositions. But, in the following year, 1345, his friend Azzo, having failed to keep his promise to Luchino Visconti, as to restoring to him the lordship of Parma—Azzo had obtained it by the assistance of the Visconti, who avenged himself by making war on the Correggios—he invested Parma, and afflicted it with a tedious siege. Petrarch, foreseeing little prospect of pursuing his studies quietly in a beleaguered city, left the place with a small number of his companions; but, about midnight, near Rheggio, a troop of robbers rushed from an ambuscade, with cries of “Kill! kill!” and our handful of travellers, being no match for a host of brigands, fled and sought to save themselves under favour of night. Petrarch, during this flight, was thrown from his horse. The shock was so violent that he swooned; but he recovered, and was remounted by his companions. They had not got far, however, when a violent storm of rain and lightning rendered their situation almost as bad as that from which they had escaped, and threatened them with death in another shape. They passed a dreadful night without finding a tree or the hollow of a rock to shelter them, and had no expedient for mitigating their exposure to the storm but to turn their horses’ backs to the tempest.
When the dawn permitted them to discern a path amidst the brushwood, they pushed on to Scandiano, a castle occupied by the Gonzaghi, friends of the lords of Parma, which they happily reached, and where they were kindly received. Here they learned that a troop of horse and foot had been waiting for them in ambush near Scandiano, but had been forced by the bad weather to withdraw before their arrival; thus “the pelting of the pitiless storm” had been to them a merciful occurrence. Petrarch made no delay here, for he was smarting under the bruises from his fall, but caused himself to be tied upon his horse, and went to repose at Modena. The next day he repaired to Bologna, where he stopped a short time for surgical assistance, and whence he sent a letter to his friend Barbato, describing his misadventure; but, unable to hold a pen himself, he was obliged to employ the hand of a stranger. He was so impatient, however, to get back to Avignon, that he took the road to it as soon as he could sit his horse. On approaching that city he says he felt a greater softness in the air, and saw with delight the flowers that adorn the neighbouring woods. Everything seemed to announce the vicinity of Laura. It was seldom that Petrarch spoke so complacently of Avignon.
Clement VI. received Petrarch with the highest respect, offered him his choice among several vacant bishoprics, and pressed him to receive the office of pontifical secretary. He declined the proffered secretaryship. Prizing his independence above all things, excepting Laura, he remarked to his friends that the yoke of office would not sit lighter on him for being gilded.
In consequence of the dangers he had encountered, a rumour of his death had spread over a great part of Italy. The age was romantic, with a good deal of the fantastical in its romance. If the news had been true, and if he had been really dead and buried, it would be difficult to restrain a smile at the sort of honours that were paid to his memory by the less brain-gifted portion of his admirers. One of these, Antonio di Beccaria, a physician of Ferrara, when he ought to have been mourning for his own deceased patients, wrote a poetical lamentation for Petrarch’s death. The poem, if it deserve such a name, is allegorical; it represents a funeral, in which the following personages parade in procession and grief for the Laureate’s death. Grammar, Rhetoric, and Philosophy are introduced with their several attendants. Under the banners of Rhetoric are ranged Cicero, Geoffroy de Vinesauf, and Alain de Lisle. It would require all Cicero’s eloquence to persuade us that his comrades in the procession were quite worthy of his company. The Nine Muses follow Petrarch’s body; eleven poets, crowned with laurel, support the bier, and Minerva, holding the crown of Petrarch, closes the procession.
We have seen that Petrarch left Naples foreboding disastrous events to that kingdom. Among these, the assassination of Andrew, on the 18th of September, 1345, was one that fulfilled his augury. The particulars of this murder reached Petrarch on his arrival at Avignon, in a letter from his friend Barbato.
From the sonnets which Petrarch wrote, to all appearance, in 1345 and 1346, at Avignon or Vaucluse, he seems to have suffered from those fluctuations of Laura’s favour that naturally arose from his own imprudence. When she treated him with affability, he grew bolder in his assiduities, and she was again obliged to be more severe. See Sonnets cviii., cix., and cxiv.
During this sojourn, though he dates some of his pleasantest letters from Vaucluse, he was projecting to return to Italy, and to establish himself there, after bidding a final adieu to Provence. When he acquainted his nominal patron, John Colonna, with his intention, the Cardinal rudely taxed him with madness and ingratitude. Petrarch frankly told the prelate that he was conscious of no ingratitude, since, after fourteen years passed in his service, he had received no provision for his future livelihood. This quarrel with the proud churchman is, with fantastic pastoral imagery, made the subject of our poet’s eighth Bucolic, entitled Divortium. I suspect that Petrarch’s free language in favour of the Tribune Rienzo was not unconnected with their alienation.
Notwithstanding Petrarch’s declared dislike of Avignon, there is every reason to suppose that he passed the greater part of the winter of 1346 in his western Babylon; and we find that he witnessed many interesting scenes between the conflicting cardinals, as well as the brilliant fetes that were given to two foreign princes, whom an important affair now brought to Avignon. These were the King of Bohemia, and his son Charles, Prince of Moravia, otherwise called Charles of Luxemburg.
The Emperor Lewis of Bavaria, who had previously made several but fruitless attempts to reconcile himself with the Church, on learning the election of Clement VI., sent ambassadors with unlimited powers to effect a reconcilement; but the Pope proposed conditions so hard and humbling that the States of the German Empire peremptorily rejected them. On this, his Holiness confirmed the condemnations which he had already passed on Lewis of Bavaria, and enjoined the Electors of the empire to proceed to a new choice of the King of the Romans. “John of Luxemburg,” says Villani, “would have been emperor if he had not been blind.” A wish to secure the empire for his son and to further his election, brought him to the Pope at Avignon.
Prince Charles had to thank the Pontiff for being elected, but first his Holiness made him sign, on the 22nd of April, 1346, in presence of twelve cardinals and his brother William Roger, a declaration of which the following is the substance:—
“If, by the grace of God, I am elected King of the Romans, I will fulfil all the promises and confirm all the concessions of my grandfather Henry VII. and of his predecessors. I will revoke the acts made by Lewis of Bavaria. I will occupy no place, either in or out of Italy, belonging to the Church. I will not enter Rome before the day appointed for my coronation. I will depart from thence the same day with all my attendants, and I will never return without the permission of the Holy See.” He might as well have declared that he would give the Pope all his power, as King of the Romans, provided he was allowed the profits; for, in reality, Charles had no other view with regard to Italy than to make money.
This concession, which contrasts so poorly with the conduct of Charles on many other occasions, excited universal indignation in Germany, and a good deal even in Italy. Petrarch exclaimed against it as mean and atrocious; for, Catholic as he was, he was not so much a churchman as to see without indignation the papal tiara exalted above the imperial crown.
In July, 1346, Charles was elected, and, in derision, was called “the Emperor of the Priests.” The death of his rival, Lewis of Bavaria, however, which happened in the next year, prevented a civil war, and Charles IV. remained peaceable possessor of the empire.
Among the fetes that were given to Charles, a ball was held at Avignon, in a grand saloon brightly illuminated. Thither came all the beauties of the city and of Provence. The Prince, who had heard much of Laura, through her poetical fame, sought her out and saluted her in the French manner.
Petrarch went, according to his custom, to pass the term of Lent at Vaucluse. The Bishop of Cavaillon, eager to see the poet, persuaded him to visit his recluse residence, and remained with Petrarch as his guest for fifteen days, in his own castle, on the summit of rocks, that seemed more adapted for the perch of birds than the habitation of men. There is now scarcely a wreck of it remaining.
It would seem, however, that the Bishop’s conversation made this retirement very agreeable to Petrarch; for it inspired him with the idea of writing a “Treatise on a Solitary Life.” Of this work he made a sketch in a short time, but did not finish it till twenty years afterwards, when he dedicated and presented it to the Bishop of Cavaillon.
It is agreeable to meet, in Petrarch’s life at the shut-up valley, with any circumstance, however trifling, that indicates a cheerful state of mind; for, independently of his loneliness, the inextinguishable passion for Laura never ceased to haunt him; and his love, strange to say, had mad, momentary hopes, which only deepened at their departure the returning gloom of despair. Petrarch never wrote more sonnets on his beloved than during the course of this year. Laura had a fair and discreet female friend at Avignon, who was also the friend of Petrarch, and interested in his attachment. The ideas which this amiable confidante entertained of harmonizing success in misplaced attachment with honour and virtue must have been Platonic, even beyond the feelings which Petrarch, in reality, cherished; for, occasionally, the poet’s sonnets are too honest for pure Platonism. This lady, however, whose name is unknown, strove to convince Laura that she ought to treat her lover with less severity. “She pushed Laura forward,” says De Sade, “and kept back Petrarch.” One day she recounted to the poet all the proofs of affection, and after these proofs she said, “You infidel, can you doubt that she loves you?” It is to this fair friend that he is supposed to have addressed his nineteenth sonnet.
This year, his Laura was seized with a defluxion in her eyes, which made her suffer much, and even threatened her with blindness. This was enough to bring a sonnet from Petrarch (his 94th), in which he laments that those eyes which were the sun of his life should be for ever eclipsed. He went to see her during her illness, having now the privilege of visiting her at her own house, and one day he found her perfectly recovered. Whether the ophthalmia was infectious, or only endemic, I know not; but so it was, that, whilst Laura’s eyes got well, those of her lover became affected with the same defluxion. It struck his imagination, or, at least, he feigned to believe poetically, that the malady of her eyes had passed into his; and, in one of his sonnets, he exults at this welcome circumstance.[J] “I fixed my eyes,” he said, “on Laura; and that moment a something inexpressible, like a shooting star, darted from them to mine. This is a present from love, in which I rejoice. How delightful it is thus to cure the darling object of one’s soul!”
Petrarch received some show of complacency from Laura, which his imagination magnified; and it was some sort of consolation, at least, that his idol was courteous to him; but even this scanty solace was interrupted. Some malicious person communicated to Laura that Petrarch was imposing upon her, and that he was secretly addressing his love and his poetry to another lady under a borrowed name. Laura gave ear to the calumny, and, for a time, debarred him from her presence. If she had been wholly indifferent to him, this misunderstanding would have never existed; for jealousy and indifference are a contradiction in terms. I mean true jealousy. There is a pseudo species of it, with which many wives are troubled who care nothing about their husbands’ affection; a plant of ill nature that is reared merely to be a rod of conjugal castigation. Laura, however, discovered at last, that her admirer was playing no double part. She was too reasonable to protract so unjust a quarrel, and received him again as usual.
I have already mentioned that Clement VI. had made Petrarch Canon of Modena, which benefice he resigned in favour of his friend, Luca Christino, and that this year his Holiness had also conferred upon him the prebend of Parma. This preferment excited the envy of some persons, who endeavoured to prejudice Ugolino de’ Rossi, the bishop of the diocese, against him. Ugolino was of that family which had disputed for the sovereignty of Parma with the Correggios, and against whom Petrarch had pleaded in favour of their rivals. From this circumstance it was feared that Ugolino might be inclined to listen to those maligners who accused Petrarch of having gone to Avignon for the purpose of undermining the Bishop in the Pope’s favour. Petrarch, upon his promotion, wrote a letter to Ugolino, strongly repelling this accusation. This is one of the manliest epistles that ever issued from his pen. “Allow me to assure you,” he says, “that I would not exchange my tranquillity for your troubles, nor my poverty for your riches. Do not imagine, however, that I despise your particular situation. I only mean that there is no person of your rank whose preferment I desire; nor would I accept such preferment if it were offered to me. I should not say thus much, if my familiar intercourse with the Pope and the Cardinals had not convinced me that happiness in that rank is more a shadow than a substance. It was a memorable saying of Pope Adrian IV., ’that he knew no one more unhappy than the Sovereign Pontiff; his throne is a seat of thorns; his mantle is an oppressive weight; his tiara shines splendidly indeed, but it is not without a devouring fire.’ If I had been ambitious,” continues Petrarch, “I might have been preferred to a benefice of more value than yours;” and he refers to the fact of the Pope having given him his choice of several high preferments.
Petrarch passed the winter of 1346-47 chiefly at Avignon, and made but few and short excursions to Vaucluse. In one of these, at the beginning of 1347, when he had Socrates to keep him company at Vaucluse, the Bishop of Cavaillon invited them to his castle. Petrarch returned the following answer:—
“Yesterday we quitted the city of storms to take refuge in this harbour, and taste the sweets of repose. We have nothing but coarse clothes, suitable to the season and the place we live in; but in this rustic dress we will repair to see you, since you command us; we fear not to present ourselves in this rustic dress; our desire to see you puts down every other consideration. What matters it to us how we appear before one who possesses the depth of our hearts? If you wish to see us often you will treat us without ceremony.”
His visits to Vaucluse were rather infrequent; business, he says, detained him often at Avignon, in spite of himself; but still at intervals he passed a day or two to look after his gardens and trees. On one of these occasions, he wrote a pleasing letter to William of Pastrengo, dilating on the pleasures of his garden, which displays liveliness and warmth of heart.
Petrarch had not seen his brother since the latter had taken the cowl in the Carthusian monastery, some five years before. To that convent he paid a visit in February, 1347, and he was received like an angel from heaven. He was delighted to see a brother whom he loved so much, and to find him contented with the life which he had embraced. The Carthusians, who had heard of Petrarch, renowned as the finest spirit of the age, were flattered by his showing a strong interest in their condition; and though he passed but a day and a night with them, they parted so mutually well pleased, that he promised, on taking leave, to send them a treatise on the happiness of the life which they led. And he kept his word; for, immediately upon his return to Vaucluse, he commenced his essay “De Otio Religioso—On the Leisure of the Religious,” and he finished it in a few weeks. The object of this work is to show the sweets and advantages of their retired state, compared with the agitations of life in the world.
From these monkish reveries Petrarch was awakened by an astounding public event, namely, the elevation of Cola di Rienzo to the tribuneship of Rome. At the news of this revolution, Petrarch was animated with as much enthusiasm as if he had been himself engaged in the enterprise. Under the first impulse of his feelings, he sent an epistolary congratulation and advice to Rienzo and the Roman people. This letter breathes a strongly republican spirit. In later times, we perceive that Petrarch would have been glad to witness the accomplishment of his darling object—Rome restored to her ancient power and magnificence, even under an imperial government. Our poet received from the Tribune an answer to his epistolary oration, telling him that it had been read to the Roman people, and received with applause. A considerable number of letters passed between Petrarch and Cola.
When we look back on the long connection of Petrarch with the Colonna family, his acknowledged obligations, and the attachment to them which he expresses, it may seem, at first sight, surprising that he should have so loudly applauded a revolution which struck at the roots of their power. But, if we view the matter with a more considerate eye, we shall hold the poet in nobler and dearer estimation for his public zeal than if he had cringed to the Colonnas. His personal attachment to them, who were quite as much honoured by his friendship as he was by theirs, was a consideration subservient to that of the honour of his country and the freedom of his fellow-citizens; “for,” as he says in his own defence, “we owe much to our friends, still more to our parents, but everything to our country.”
Retiring during this year for some time to Vaucluse, Petrarch composed an eclogue in honour of the Roman revolution, the fifth in his Bucolics. It is entitled “La Pieta Pastorale,” and has three speakers, who converse about their venerable mother Rome, but in so dull a manner, that, if Petrarch had never written better poetry, we should not, probably, at this moment, have heard of his existence.
In the midst of all this political fervour, the poet’s devotion to Laura continued unabated; Petrarch never composed so many sonnets in one year as during 1347, but, for the most part, still indicative of sadness and despair. In his 116th sonnet, he says:—
“Soleo onde, e ’n
rena fondo, e serivo in vento.”
I plough in water, build on
sand, and write on air.
If anything were wanting to convince us that Laura had treated him, during his twenty years’ courtship, with sufficient rigour, this and other such expressions would suffice to prove it. A lover, at the end of so long a period, is not apt to speak thus despondingly of a mistress who has been kind to him.
It seems, however, that there were exceptions to her extreme reserve. On one occasion, this year, when they met, and when Petrarch’s eyes were fixed on her in silent reverie, she stretched out her hand to him, and allowed him to detain it in his for some time. This incident is alluded to in his 218th sonnet.
If public events, however, were not enough to make him forget his passion for Laura, they were sufficiently stirring to keep his interest in them alive. The head of Rienzo was not strong enough to stand the elevation which he had attained. Petrarch had hitherto regarded the reports of Rienzo’s errors as highly exaggerated by his enemies; but the truth of them, at last, became too palpable; though our poet’s charitable opinion of the Tribune considerably outlasted that of the public at large.
When the papal court heard of the multiplied extravagances of Rienzo, they recovered a little from the panic which had seized them. They saw that they had to deal with a man whose head was turned. His summonses had enraged them; and they resolved to keep no measures with him. Towards the end of August, 1347, one of his couriers arrived without arms, and with only the symbol of his office, the silver rod, in his hand. He was arrested near Avignon; his letters were taken from him and torn to pieces; and, without being permitted to enter Avignon, he was sent back to Rome with threats and ignominy. This proceeding appeared atrocious in the eyes of Petrarch, and he wrote a letter to Rienzo on the subject, expressing his strongest indignation at the act of outrage.
[Illustration: COAST OF GENOA.]
Petrarch passed almost the whole of the month of September, 1347, at Avignon. On the 9th of this month he obtained letters of legitimation for his son John, who might now be about ten years old. John is entitled, in these letters, “a scholar of Florence.” The Pope empowers him to possess any kind of benefice without being obliged, in future, to make mention of his illegitimate birth, or of the obtained dispensation. It appears from these letters that the mother of John was not married. He left his son at Verona under the tuition of Rinaldo di Villa Franca. Before he had left Provence in this year, for the purpose of visiting Italy, he had announced his intention to the Pope, who wished to retain him as an honour to his court, and offered him his choice of several church preferments. But our poet, whose only wish was to obtain some moderate benefice that would leave him independent and at liberty, declined his Holiness’s vague offers. If we consider that Petrarch made no secret of his good wishes for Rienzo, it may seem surprisingly creditable to the Pontiff’s liberality that he should have even professed any interest in the poet’s fortune; but in a letter to his friend Socrates, Petrarch gives us to understand that he thought the Pope’s professions were merely verbal. He says: “To hold out treasures to a man who demands a small sum is but a polite mode of refusal.” In fact, the Pope offered him some bishopric, knowing that he wanted only some benefice that should be a sinecure.
If it be asked what determined him now to leave Avignon, the counter-question may be put, what detained him so long from Italy? It appears that he had never parted with his house and garden at Parma; he hated everything in Avignon excepting Laura; and of the solitude of Vaucluse he was, in all probability, already weary.
Before he left Avignon, he went to take leave of Laura. He found her at an assembly which she often frequented. “She was seated,” he says, “among those ladies who are generally her companions, and appeared like a beautiful rose surrounded with flowers smaller and less blooming.” Her air was more touching than usual. She was dressed perfectly plain, and without pearls or garlands, or any gay colour. Though she was not melancholy, she did not appear to have her wonted cheerfulness, but was serious and thoughtful. She did not sing, as usual, nor speak with that voice which used to charm every one. She had the air of a person who fears an evil not yet arrived. “In taking leave of her,” says Petrarch, “I sought in her looks for a consolation of my own sufferings. Her eyes had an expression which I had never seen in them before. What I saw in her face seemed to predict the sorrows that threatened me.”
This was the last meeting that Petrarch and Laura ever had.
Petrarch set out for Italy, towards the close of 1347, having determined to make that country his residence for the rest of his life.
Upon his arrival at Genoa he wrote to Rienzo, reproaching him for his follies, and exhorting him to return to his former manly conduct. This advice, it is scarcely necessary to say, was like dew and sunshine bestowed upon barren sands.
From Genoa he proceeded to Parma, where he received the first information of the catastrophe of the Colonna family, six of whom had fallen in battle with Rienzo’s forces. He showed himself deeply affected by it, and, probably, was so sincerely. But the Colonnas, though his former patrons, were still the enemies of a cause which he considered sacred, much as it was mismanaged and disgraced by the Tribune; and his grief cannot be supposed to have been immoderate. Accordingly, the letter which he wrote to Cardinal Colonna on this occasion is quite in the style of Seneca, and more like an ethical treatise than an epistle of condolence.
It is obvious that Petrarch slowly and reluctantly parted with his good opinion of Rienzo. But, whatever sentiments he might have cherished respecting him, he was now doomed to hear of his tragic fall.
The revolution which overthrew the Tribune was accomplished on the 15th of December, 1347. That his fall was, in a considerable degree, owing to his faults, is undeniable; and to the most contemptible of all faults—personal vanity. How hard it is on the great mass of mankind, that this meanness is so seldom disjoined from the zeal of popular championship! New power, like new wine, seems to intoxicate the strongest heads. How disgusting it is to see the restorer of Roman liberty dazzled like a child by a scarlet robe and its golden trimming! Nevertheless, with all his vanity, Rienzo was a better friend to the republic than those who dethroned him. The Romans would have been wise to have supported Rienzo, taking even his foibles into the account. They re-admitted their oligarchs; and, if they repented of it, as they did, they are scarcely entitled to our commiseration.
Petrarch had set out late in 1347 to visit Italy for the fifth time. He arrived at Genoa towards the end of November, 1347, on his way to Florence, where he was eagerly expected by his friends. They had obtained from the Government permission for his return; and he was absolved from the sentence of banishment in which he had been included with his father. But, whether Petrarch was offended with the Florentines for refusing to restore his paternal estate, or whether he was detained by accident in Lombardy, he put off his expedition to Florence and repaired to Parma. It was there that he learned the certainty of the Tribune’s fall.
From Parma he went to Verona, where he arrived on the evening of the 25th of January, 1348. His son, we have already mentioned, was placed at Verona, under the tuition of Rinaldo di Villa Franca. Here, soon after his arrival, as he was sitting among his books, Petrarch felt the shock of a tremendous earthquake. It seemed as if the whole city was to be overturned from its foundations. He rushed immediately into the streets, where the inhabitants were gathered together in consternation; and, whilst terror was depicted in every countenance, there was a general cry that the end of the world was come. All contemporary historians mention this earthquake, and agree that it originated at the foot of the Alps. It made sad ravages at Pisa, Bologna, Padua, and Venice, and still more in the Frioul and Bavaria. If we may trust the narrators of this event, sixty villages in one canton were buried under two mountains that fell and filled up a valley five leagues in length. A whole castle, it is added, was exploded out of the earth from its foundation, and its ruins scattered many miles from the spot. The latter anecdote has undoubtedly an air of the marvellous; and yet the convulsions of nature have produced equally strange effects. Stones have been thrown out of Mount AEtna to the distance of eighteen miles.
The earthquake was the forerunner of awful calamities; and it is possible that it might be physically connected with that memorable plague in 1348, which reached, in succession, all parts of the known world, and thinned the population of every country which it visited. Historians generally agree that this great plague began in China and Tartary, whence, in the space of a year, it spread its desolation over the whole of Asia. It extended itself over Italy early in 1348; but its severest ravages had not yet been made, when Petrarch returned from Verona to Parma in the month of March, 1348. He brought with him his son John, whom he had withdrawn from the school of Rinaldo di Villa Franca, and placed under Gilberto di Parma, a good grammarian. His motive for this change of tutorship probably was, that he reckoned on Parma being henceforward his own principal place of residence, and his wish to have his son beside him.
Petrarch had scarcely arrived at Parma when he received a letter from Luchino Visconti, who had lately received the lordship of that city. Hearing of Petrarch’s arrival there, the Prince, being at Milan, wrote to the poet, requesting some orange plants from his garden, together with a copy of verses. Petrarch sent him both, accompanied with a letter, in which he praises Luchino for his encouragement of learning and his cultivation of the Muses.
The plague was now increasing in Italy; and, after it had deprived Petrarch of many dear friends, it struck at the root of all his affections by attacking Laura. He describes his apprehensions on this occasion in several of his sonnets. The event confirmed his melancholy presages; for a letter from his friend Socrates informed him that Laura had died of the plague on the 1st of April, 1348. His biographers may well be believed, when they tell us that his grief was extreme. Laura’s husband took the event more quietly, and consoled himself by marrying again, when only seven months a widower.
Petrarch, when informed of her death, wrote that marginal note upon his copy of Virgil, the authenticity of which has been so often, though unjustly, called in question. His words were the following:—
“Laura, illustrious for her virtues, and for a long time celebrated in my verses, for the first time appeared to my eyes on the 6th of April, 1327, in the church of St. Clara, at the first hour of the day. I was then in my youth. In the same city, and at the same hour, in the year 1348, this luminary disappeared from our world. I was then at Verona, ignorant of my wretched situation. Her chaste and beautiful body was buried the same day, after vespers, in the church of the Cordeliers. Her soul returned to its native mansion in heaven. I have written this with a pleasure mixed with bitterness, to retrace the melancholy remembrance of ‘MY GREAT LOSS.’ This loss convinces me that I have nothing now left worth living for, since the strongest cord of my life is broken. By the grace of God, I shall easily renounce a world where my hopes have been vain and perishing. It is time for me to fly from Babylon when the knot that bound me to it is untied.”
This copy of Virgil is famous, also, for a miniature picture expressing the subject of the AEneid; which, by the common consent of connoisseurs in painting, is the work of Simone Memmi. Mention has already been made of the friendly terms that subsisted between that painter and our poet; whence it may be concluded that Petrarch, who received this precious MS. in 1338, requested of Simone this mark of his friendship, to render it more valuable.
When the library of Pavia, together with the city, was plundered by the French in 1499, and when many MSS. were carried away to the library of Paris, a certain inhabitant of Pavia had the address to snatch this copy of Virgil from the general rapine. This individual was, probably, Antonio di Pirro, in whose hands or house the Virgil continued till the beginning of the sixteenth century, as Vellutello attests in his article on the origin of Laura. From him it passed to Antonio Agostino; afterwards to Fulvio Orsino, who prized it very dearly. At Orsino’s death it was bought at a high price by Cardinal Federigo Borromeo, and placed in the Ambrosian library, which had been founded by him with much care and at vast expense.
Until the year 1795, this copy of Virgil was celebrated only on account of the memorandum already quoted, and a few short marginal notes, written for illustrations of the text; but, a part of the same leaf having been torn and detached from the cover, the librarians, by chance, perceived some written characters. Curiosity urged them to unglue it with the greatest care; but the parchment was so conglutinated with the board that the letters left their impression on the latter so palely and weakly, that the librarians had great difficulty in making out the following notice, written by Petrarch himself: “Liber hic furto mihi subreptus fuerat, anno domini mcccxxvi., in Kalend. Novembr., ac deinde restitutus, anno mcccxxxvii., die xvii. Aprilis, apud Aivino.”
Then follows a note by the poet himself, regarding his son: “Johannes noster, natus ad laborem et dolorem meum, et vivens gravibus atque perpetuis me curis exercuit, et acri dolore moriens vulneravit, qui cum paucos et laetos dies vidisset in vita sua, decessit in anno domini 1361, aetatis suae xxv., die Julii x. seu ix. medio noctis inter diem veneris et sabbati. Rumor ad me pervenerat xiiio mensis ad vesperam, obiit autem Mlni illo publico excidio pestis insolito, quae urbem illam, hactenus immunem, talibus malis nunc reperit atque invasit. Rumor autem primus ambiguus 8vo. Augusti, eodem anno, per famulum meum Mlno redeuntem, mox certus, per famulum Domni Theatini Roma venientem 18me. mensis ejusdem Mercurii, sero ad me pervenit de obitu Socratis mei amici, socii fratrisque optimi, qui obiisse dicitur Babilone seu Avenione, die mense Maii proximo. Amisi comitem ac solatium vitae meae. Recipe Xte Ihu, hos duos et reliquos quinque in eterna tabernacula tua."[K] He alludes to the death of other friends; but the entire note is too long to be quoted, and, in many places, is obscured by contractions which make its meaning doubtful.
The perfect accordance of these memoranda with the other writings of the poet, conjoined with historical facts, show them incontestably to have come from the hand of Petrarch.
The precious MS. of Virgil, containing the autograph of Petrarch, is no longer in Italy. Like many other relics held sacred by the Italians, it was removed by the French during the last conquest of Italy.
Among the incidents of Petrarch’s life, in 1348, we ought to notice his visits to Giacomo da Carrara, whose family had supplanted the Della Scalas at Padua, and to Manfredi Pio, the Padrone of Carpi, a beautiful little city, of the Modenese territory, situated on a fine plain, on the banks of the Secchio, about four miles from Correggio. Manfredi ruled it with reputation for twenty years. Petrarch was magnificently received by the Carraras; and, within two years afterwards, they bestowed upon him the canonicate of Padua, a promotion which was followed in the same year by his appointment to the archdeaconry of Parma, of which he had been hitherto only canon.
Not long after the death of Laura, on the 3rd of July of the same year, Petrarch lost Cardinal Colonna, who had been for so many years his friend and patron. By some historians it is said that this prelate died of the plague; but Petrarch thought that he sank under grief brought on by the disasters of his family. In the space of five years the Cardinal had lost his mother and six brothers.
Petrarch still maintained an interest in the Colonna family, though that interest was against his own political principles, during the good behaviour of the Tribune. After the folly and fall of Rienzo, it is probable that our poet’s attachment to his old friends of the Roman aristocracy revived. At least, he thought it decent to write, on the death of Cardinal Colonna, a letter of condolence to his father, the aged Stefano, who was now verging towards his hundredth year. Soon after this letter reached him, old Stefano fell into the grave.
The death of Cardinal Colonna was extremely felt at Avignon, where it left a great void, his house having been the rendezvous of men of letters and genius. Those who composed his court could not endure Avignon after they had lost their Maecenas. Three of them were the particular friends of Petrarch, namely, Socrates, Luca Christine and Mainardo Accursio. Socrates, though not an Italian, was extremely embarrassed by the death of the Cardinal. He felt it difficult to live separated from Petrarch, and yet he could not determine to quit France for Italy. He wrote incessantly the most pressing letters to induce our poet to return and settle in Provence. Luca and Mainardo resolved to go and seek out Petrarch in Italy, in order to settle with him the place on which they should fix for their common residence, and where they should spend the rest of their lives in his society. They set out from Avignon in the month of March, 1349, and arrived at Parma, but did not find the poet, as he was gone on an excursion to Padua and Verona. They passed a day in his house to rest themselves, and, when they went away, left a letter in his library, telling him they had crossed the Alps to come and see him, but that, having missed him, as soon as they had finished an excursion which they meant to make, they would return and settle with him the means of their living together. Petrarch, on his return to Parma, wrote several interesting letters to Mainardo. In one of them he says, “I was much grieved that I had lost the pleasure of your company, and that of our worthy friend, Luca Christino. However, I am not without the consoling hope that my absence may be the means of hastening your return. As to your apprehensions about my returning to Vaucluse, I cannot deny that, at the entreaties of Socrates, I should return, provided I could procure an establishment in Provence, which would afford me an honourable pretence for residing there, and, at the same time, enable me to receive my friends with hospitality; but at present circumstances are changed. The Cardinal Colonna is dead, and my friends are all dispersed, excepting Socrates, who continues inviolably attached to Avignon.
“As to Vaucluse, I well know the beauties of that charming valley, and ten years’ residence is a proof of my affection for the place. I have shown my love of it by the house which I built there. There I began my Africa, there I wrote the greater part of my epistles in prose and verse, and there I nearly finished all my eclogues. I never had so much leisure, nor felt so much enthusiasm, in any other spot. At Vaucluse I conceived the first idea of giving an epitome of the Lives of Illustrious Men, and there I wrote my Treatise on a Solitary Life, as well as that on religious retirement. It was there, also, that I sought to moderate my passion for Laura, which, alas, solitude only cherished. In short, this lonely valley will for ever be pleasing to my recollections. There is, nevertheless, a sad change, produced by time. Both the Cardinal and everything that is dear to me have perished. The veil which covered my eyes is at length removed. I can now perceive the difference between Vaucluse and the rich mountains and vales and flourishing cities of Italy. And yet, forgive me, so strong are the prepossessions of youth, that I must confess I pine for Vaucluse, even whilst I acknowledge its inferiority to Italy.”
Whilst Petrarch was thus flattering his imagination with hopes that were never to be realized, his two friends, who had proceeded to cross the Apennines, came to an untimely fate. On the 5th of June, 1349, a servant, whom Petrarch had sent to inquire about some alarming accounts of the travellers that had gone abroad, returned sooner than he was expected, and showed by his face that he brought no pleasant tidings. Petrarch was writing—the pen fell from his hand. “What news do you bring?” “Very bad news! Your two friends, in crossing the Apennines, were attacked by robbers.” “O God! what has happened to them?” The messenger replied, “Mainardo, who was behind his companions, was surrounded and murdered. Luca, hearing of his fate, came back sword in hand. He fought alone against ten, and he wounded some of the assailants, but at last he received many wounds, of which he lies almost dead. The robbers fled with their booty. The peasants assembled, and pursued, and would have captured them, if some gentlemen, unworthy of being called so, had not stopped the pursuit, and received the villains into their castles. Luca was seen among the rocks, but no one knows what is become of him.” Petrarch, in the deepest agitation, despatched fleet couriers to Placenza, to Florence, and to Rome, to obtain intelligence about Luca.
These ruffians, who came from Florence, were protected by the Ubaldini, one of the most powerful and ancient families in Tuscany. As the murder was perpetrated within the territory of Florence, Petrarch wrote indignantly to the magistrates and people of that State, intreating them to avenge an outrage on their fellow citizens. Luca, it appears, expired of his wounds.
Petrarch’s letter had its full effect. The Florentine commonwealth despatched soldiers, both horse and foot, against the Ubaldini and their banditti, and decreed that every year an expedition should be sent out against them till they should be routed out of their Alpine caverns. The Florentine troops directed their march to Monte Gemmoli, an almost impregnable rock, which they blockaded and besieged. The banditti issued forth from their strongholds, and skirmished with overmuch confidence in their vantage ground. At this crisis, the Florentine cavalry, having ascended the hill, dismounted from their horses, pushed forward on the banditti before they could retreat into their fortress, and drove them, sword in hand, within its inmost circle. The Florentines thus possessed themselves of Monte Gemmoli, and, in like manner, of several other strongholds. There were others which they could not take by storm, but they laid waste the plains and cities which supplied the robbers with provisions; and, after having done great damage to the Ubaldini, they returned safe and sound to Florence.
While Petrarch was at Mantua, in February, 1350, the Cardinal Guy of Boulogne, legate of the holy see, arrived there after a papal mission to Hungary. Petrarch was much attached to him. The Cardinal and several eminent persons who attended him had frequent conversations with our poet, in which they described to him the state of Germany and the situation of the Emperor.
Clement VI., who had reason to be satisfied with the submissiveness of this Prince, wished to attract him into Italy, where he hoped to oppose him to the Visconti, who had put themselves at the head of the Ghibeline party, and gave much annoyance to the Guelphs. His Holiness strongly solicited him to come; but Charles’s situation would not permit him for the present to undertake such an expedition. There were still some troubles in Germany that remained to be appeased; besides, the Prince’s purse was exhausted by the largesses which he had paid for his election, and his poverty was extreme.
It must be owned that a prince in such circumstances could hardly be expected to set out for the subjugation of Italy. Petrarch, however, took a romantic view of the Emperor’s duties, and thought that the restoration of the Roman empire was within Charles’s grasp. Our poet never lost sight of his favourite chimera, the re-establishment of Rome in her ancient dominion. It was what he called one of his principles, that Rome had a right to govern the world. Wild as this vision was, he had seen Rienzo attempt its realization; and, if the Tribune had been more prudent, there is no saying how nearly he might have approached to the achievement of so marvellous an issue. But Rienzo was fallen irrecoverably, and Petrarch now desired as ardently to see the Emperor in Italy, as ever he had sighed for the success of the Tribune. He wrote to the Emperor a long letter from Padua, a few days after the departure of the Cardinal.
“I am agitated,” he says, “in sending this epistle, when I think from whom it comes, and to whom it is addressed. Placed as I am, in obscurity, I am dazzled by the splendour of your name; but love has banished fear: this letter will at least make known to you my fidelity, and my zeal. Read it, I conjure you! You will not find in it the insipid adulation which is the plague of monarchs. Flattery is an art unknown to me. I have to offer you only complaints and regrets. You have forgotten us. I say more—you have forgotten yourself in neglecting Italy. We had high hopes that Heaven had sent you to restore us our liberty; but it seems that you refuse this mission, and, whilst the time should be spent in acting, you lose it in deliberating.
“You see, Caesar, with what confidence an obscure man addresses you, a man who has not even the advantage of being known to you. But, far from being offended with the liberty I take, you ought rather to thank your own character, which inspires me with such confidence. To return to my subject—wherefore do you lose time in consultation? To all appearance, you are sure of the future, if you will avail yourself of the present. You cannot be ignorant that the success of great affairs often hangs upon an instant, and that a day has been frequently sufficient to consummate what it required ages to undo. Believe me, your glory and the safety of the commonwealth, your own interests, as well as ours, require that there be no delay. You are still young, but time is flying; and old age will come and take you by surprise when you are at least expecting it. Are you afraid of too soon commencing an enterprise for which a long life would scarcely suffice?
“The Roman empire, shaken by a thousand storms, and as often deceived by fallacious calms, places at last its whole hopes in you. It recovers a little breath even under the shelter of your name; but hope alone will not support it. In proportion as you know the grandeur of the undertaking, consummate it the sooner. Let not the love of your Transalpine dominions detain you longer. In beholding Germany, think of Italy. If the one has given you birth, the other has given you greatness. If you are king of the one, you are king and emperor of the other. Let me say, without meaning offence to other nations, that here is the head of your monarchy. Everywhere else you will find only its members. What a glorious project to unite those members to their head!
“I am aware that you dislike all innovation; but what I propose would be no innovation on your part. Italy is as well known to you as Germany. Brought hither in your youth by your illustrious sire, he made you acquainted with our cities and our manners, and taught you here the first lessons of war. In the bloom of your youth, you have obtained great victories. Can you fear at present to enter a country where you have triumphed since your childhood?
“By the singular favour of Heaven we have regained the ancient right of being governed by a prince of our own nation.[L] Let Germany say what she will, Italy is veritably your country * * * * * Come with haste to restore peace to Italy. Behold Rome, once the empress of the world, now pale, with scattered locks and torn garments, at your feet, imploring your presence and support!” Then follows a dissertation on the history and heroes of Rome, which might be wearisome if transcribed to a modern reader. But the epistle, upon the whole, is manly and eloquent.
A few days after despatching his letter to the Emperor, Petrarch made a journey to Verona to see his friends. There he wrote to Socrates. In this letter, after enumerating the few friends whom the plague had spared, he confesses that he could not flatter himself with the hope of being able to join them in Provence. He therefore invokes them to come to Italy, and to settle either at Parma or at Padua, or any other place that would suit them. His remaining friends, here enumerated, were only Barbato of Sulmona, Francesco Rinucci, John Boccaccio, Laelius, Guido Settimo, and Socrates.
Petrarch had returned to Padua, there to rejoin the Cardinal of Boulogne. The Cardinal came back thither at the end of April, 1350, and, after dispensing his blessings, spiritual and temporal, set out for Avignon, travelling by way of Milan and Genoa. Petrarch accompanied the prelate out of personal attachment on a part of his journey. The Cardinal was fond of his conversation, but sometimes rallied the poet on his enthusiasm for his native Italy. When they reached the territory of Verona, near the lake of Guarda, they were struck by the beauty of the prospect, and stopped to contemplate it. In the distance were the Alps, topped with snow even in summer. Beneath was the lake of Guarda, with its flux and reflux, like the sea, and around them were the rich hills and fertile valleys. “It must be confessed,” said the Legate to Petrarch, “that your country is more beautiful than ours.” The face of Petrarch brightened up. “But you must agree,” continued the Cardinal, perhaps to moderate the poet’s exultation, “that ours is more tranquil.” “That is true,” replied Petrarch, “but we can obtain tranquillity whenever we choose to come to our senses, and desire peace, whereas you cannot procure those beauties which nature has lavished on us.”
Petrarch here took leave of the Cardinal, and set out for Parma. Taking Mantua in his way, he set out from thence in the evening, in order to sleep at Luzora, five leagues from the Po. The lords of that city had sent a courier to Mantua, desiring that he would honour them with his presence at supper. The melting snows and the overflowing river had made the roads nearly impassable; but he reached the place in time to avail himself of the invitation. His hosts gave him a magnificent reception. The supper was exquisite, the dishes rare, the wines delicious, and the company full of gaiety. But a small matter, however, will spoil the finest feast. The supper was served up in a damp, low hall, and all sorts of insects annoyed the convivials. To crown their misfortune an army of frogs, attracted, no doubt, by the odour of the meats, crowded and croaked about them, till they were obliged to leave their unfinished supper.
Petrarch returned next day for Parma. We find, from the original fragments of his poems, brought to light by Ubaldini, that he was occupied in retouching them during the summer which he passed at Parma, waiting for the termination of the excessive heats, to go to Rome and attend the jubilee. With a view to make the journey pleasanter, he invited Guglielmo di Pastrengo to accompany him, in a letter written in Latin verse. Nothing would have delighted Guglielmo more than a journey to Rome with Petrarch; but he was settled at Verona, and could not absent himself from his family.
In lieu of Pastrengo, Petrarch found a respectable old abbot, and several others who were capable of being agreeable, and from their experience, useful companions to him on the road. In the middle of October, 1350, they departed from Florence for Rome, to attend the jubilee. On his way between Bolsena and Viterbo, he met with an accident which threatened dangerous consequences, and which he relates in a letter to Boccaccio.
“On the 15th of October,” he says, “we left Bolsena, a little town scarcely known at present; but interesting from having been anciently one of the principal places in Etruria. Occupied with the hopes of seeing Rome in five days, I reflected on the changes in our modes of thinking which are made by the course of years. Fourteen years ago I repaired to the great city from sheer curiosity to see its wonders. The second time I came was to receive the laurel. My third and fourth journey had no object but to render services to my persecuted friends. My present visit ought to be more happy, since its only object is my eternal salvation.” It appears, however, that the horses of the travellers had no such devotional feelings; “for,” he continues, “whilst my mind was full of these thoughts, the horse of the old abbot, which was walking upon my left, kicking at my horse, struck me upon the leg, just below the knee. The blow was so violent that it sounded as if a bone was broken. My attendants came up. I felt an acute pain, which made me, at first, desirous of stopping; but, fearing the dangerousness of the place, I made a virtue of necessity, and went on to Viterbo, where we arrived very late on the 16th of October. Three days afterwards they dragged me to Rome with much trouble. As soon as I arrived at Rome, I called for doctors, who found the bone laid bare. It was not, however, thought to be broken; though the shoe of the horse had left its impression.”
However impatient Petrarch might be to look once more on the beauties of Rome, and to join in the jubilee, he was obliged to keep his bed for many days.
The concourse of pilgrims to this jubilee was immense. One can scarcely credit the common account that there were about a million pilgrims at one time assembled in the great city. “We do not perceive,” says Petrarch, “that the plague has depopulated the world.” And, indeed, if this computation of the congregated pilgrims approaches the truth, we cannot but suspect that the alleged depopulation of Europe, already mentioned, must have been exaggerated. “The crowds,” he continues, “diminished a little during summer and the gathering-in of the harvest; but recommenced towards the end of the year. The great nobles and ladies from beyond the Alps came the last.”
[Illustration: BRIDGE OF SIGHS,—VENICE.]
Many of the female pilgrims arrived by way of the marshes of Ancona, where Bernardino di Roberto, Lord of Ravenna, waited for them, and scandal whispered that his assiduities and those of his suite were but too successful in seducing them. A contemporary author, in allusion to the circumstance, remarks that journeys and indulgences are not good for young persons, and that the fair ones had better have remained at home, since the vessel that stays in port is never shipwrecked.
The strangers, who came from all countries, were for the most part unacquainted with the Italian language, and were obliged to employ interpreters in making their confession, for the sake of obtaining absolution. It was found that many of the pretended interpreters were either imperfectly acquainted with the language of the foreigners, or were knaves in collusion with the priestly confessors, who made the poor pilgrims confess whatever they chose, and pay for their sins accordingly. A better subject for a scene in comedy could scarcely be imagined. But, to remedy this abuse, penitentiaries were established at Rome, in which the confessors understood foreign languages.
The number of days fixed for the Roman pilgrims to visit the churches was thirty; and fifteen or ten for the Italians and other strangers, according to the distance of the places from which they came.
Petrarch says that it is inconceivable how the city of Rome, whose adjacent fields were untilled, and whose vineyards had been frozen the year before, could for twelve months support such a confluence of people. He extols the hospitality of the citizens, and the abundance of food which prevailed; but Villani and others give us more disagreeable accounts—namely, that the Roman citizens became hotel-keepers, and charged exorbitantly for lodgings, and for whatever they sold. Numbers of pilgrims were thus necessitated to live poorly; and this, added to their fatigue and the heats of summer, produced a great mortality.
As soon as Petrarch, relieved by surgical skill from the wound in his leg, was allowed to go out, he visited all the churches.
After having performed his duties at the jubilee, Petrarch returned to Padua, taking the road by Arezzo, the town which had the honour of his birth. Leonardo Aretino says that his fellow-townsmen crowded around him with delight, and received him with such honours as could have been paid only to a king.
In the same month of December, 1350, he discovered a treasure which made him happier than a king. Perhaps a royal head might not have equally valued it. It was a copy of Quintilian’s work “De Institutione Oratoria,” which, till then, had escaped all his researches. On the very day of the discovery he wrote a letter to Quintilian, according to his fantastic custom of epistolizing the ancients. Some days afterwards, he left Arezzo to pursue his
Petrarch went on to Padua. On approaching it, he perceived a universal mourning. He soon learned the foul catastrophe which had deprived the city of one of its best masters.
Jacopo di Carrara had received into his house his cousin Guglielmo. Though the latter was known to be an evil-disposed person, he was treated with kindness by Jacopo, and ate at his table. On the 21st of December, whilst Jacopo was sitting at supper, in the midst of his friends, his people and his guards, the monster Guglielmo plunged a dagger into his breast with such celerity, that even those who were nearest could not ward off the blow. Horror-struck, they lifted him up, whilst others put the assassin to instant death.
The fate of Jacopo Carrara gave Petrarch a dislike for Padua, and his recollections of Vaucluse bent his unsettled mind to return to its solitude; but he tarried at Padua during the winter. Here he spent a great deal of his time with Ildebrando Conti, bishop of that city, a man of rank and merit. One day, as he was dining at the Bishop’s palace, two Carthusian monks were announced: they were well received by the Bishop, as he was partial to their order. He asked them what brought them to Padua. “We are going,” they said, “to Treviso, by the direction of our general, there to remain and establish a monastery.” Ildebrando asked if they knew Father Gherardo, Petrarch’s brother. The two monks, who did not know the poet, gave the most pleasing accounts of his brother.
The plague, they said, having got into the convent of Montrieux, the prior, a pious but timorous man, told his monks that flight was the only course which they could take: Gherardo answered with courage, “Go whither you please! As for myself I will remain in the situation in which Heaven has placed me.” The prior fled to his own country, where death soon overtook him. Gherardo remained in the convent, where the plague spared him, and left him alone, after having destroyed, within a few days,
While the Carthusians were making this honourable mention of Father Gherardo, the prelate cast his eyes from time to time upon Petrarch. “I know not,” says the poet, “whether my eyes were filled with tears, but my heart was tenderly touched.” The Carthusians, at last discovering who Petrarch was, saluted him with congratulations. Petrarch gives an account of this interview in a letter to his brother himself.
Padua was too near to Venice for Petrarch not to visit now and then that city which he called the wonder of the world. He there made acquaintance with Andrea Dandolo, who was made Doge in 1343, though he was only thirty-six years of age, an extraordinary elevation for so young a man; but he possessed extraordinary merit. His mind was cultivated; he loved literature, and easily became, as far as mutual demonstrations went, the personal friend of Petrarch; though the Doge, as we shall see, excluded this personal friendship from all influence on his political conduct.
The commerce of the Venetians made great progress under the Dogeship of Andrea Dandolo. It was then that they began to trade with Egypt and Syria, whence they brought silk, pearls, the spices, and other products of the East. This prosperity excited the jealousy of the Genoese, as it interfered with a commerce which they had hitherto monopolized. When the Venetians had been chased from Constantinople by the Emperor Michael Paleologus, they retained several fortresses in the Black Sea, which enabled them to continue their trade with the Tartars in that sea, and to frequent the fair of Tana. The Genoese, who were masters of Pera, a suburb of Constantinople, would willingly have joined the Greeks in expelling their Italian rivals altogether from the Black Sea; and privateering hostilities actually commenced between the two republics, which, in 1350, extended to the serious aspect of a national war.
The winter of that year was passed on both sides in preparations. The Venetians sent ambassadors to the King of Arragon, who had some differences with the Genoese about the Island of Sardinia, and to the Emperor of Constantinople, who saw with any sensation in the world but delight the flag of Genoa flying over the walls of Pera. A league between those three powers was quickly concluded, and their grand, common object was to destroy the city of Genoa.
It was impossible that these great movements of Venice should be unknown at Padua. Petrarch, ever zealous for the common good of Italy, saw with pain the kindling of a war which could not but be fatal to her, and thought it his duty to open his heart to the Doge of Venice, who had shown him so much friendship. He addressed to him, therefore, the following letter from Padua, on the 14th of March, 1351:—
“My love for my country forces me to break silence; the goodness of your character encourages me. Can I hold my peace whilst I hear the symptoms of a coming storm that menaces my beloved country? Two puissant people are flying to arms; two flourishing cities are agitated by the approach of war. These cities are placed by nature like the two eyes of Italy; the one in the south and west, and the other in the east and north, to dominate over the two seas that surround them; so that, even after the destruction of the Roman empire, this beautiful country was still regarded as the queen of the world. I know that proud nations denied her the empire of the land, but who dared ever to dispute with her the empire of the sea?
“I shudder to think of our prospects. If Venice and Genoa turn their victorious arms against each other, it is all over with us; we lose our glory and the command of the sea. In this calamity we shall have a consolation which we have ever had, namely, that if our enemies rejoice in our calamities, they cannot at least derive any glory from them.
“In great affairs I have always dreaded the counsels of the young. Youthful ignorance and inexperience have been the ruin of many empires. I, therefore, learn with pleasure that you have named a council of elders, to whom you have confided this affair. I expected no less than this from your wisdom, which is far beyond your years.
“The state of your republic distresses me. I know the difference that there is between the tumult of arms and the tranquillity of Parnassus. I know that the sounds of Apollo’s lyre accord but ill with the trumpets of Mars; but if you have abandoned Parnassus, it has been only to fulfil the duties of a good citizen and of a vigilant chief. I am persuaded, at the same time, that in the midst of arms you think of peace; that you would regard it as a triumph for yourself, and the greatest blessing you could procure for your country. Did not Hannibal himself say that a sure peace was more valuable than a hoped-for victory! If truth has extorted this confession from the most warlike man that ever lived, is it not plain that a pacific man ought to prefer peace even to a certain victory? Who does not know that peace is the greatest of blessings, and that war is the source of all evils?
“Do not deceive yourself; you have to deal with a keen people who know not what it is to be conquered. Would it not be better to transfer the war to Damascus, to Susa, or to Memphis? Think besides, that those whom you are going to attack are your brothers. At Thebes, of old, two brothers fought to their mutual destruction. Must Italy renew, in our days, so atrocious a spectacle?
“Let us examine what may be the results of this war. Whether you are conqueror or are conquered, one of the eyes of Italy will necessarily be blinded, and the other much weakened; for it would be folly to flatter yourself with the hopes of conquering so strong an enemy without much effusion of blood.
“Brave men, powerful people! (I speak here to both of you) what is your object—to what do you aspire? What will be the end of your dissensions? It is not the blood of the Carthaginians or the Numantians that you are about to spill, but it is Italian blood; the blood of a people who would be the first to start up and offer to expend their blood, if any barbarous nation were to attempt a new irruption among us. In that event, their bodies would be the bucklers and ramparts of our common country; they would live, or they would die with us. Ought the pleasure of avenging a slight offence to carry more weight with you than the public good and your own safety? Let revenge be the delight of women. Is it not more glorious for men to forget an injury than to avenge it? to pardon an enemy than to destroy him?
“If my feeble voice could make itself heard among those grave men who compose your council, I am persuaded that you would not only not reject the peace which is offered to you, but go to meet and embrace it closely, so that it might not escape you. Consult your wise old men who love the republic; they will speak the same language to you that I do.
“You, my lord, who are at the head of the council, and who govern your republic, ought to recollect that the glory or the shame of these events will fall principally on you. Raise yourself above yourself; look into, examine everything with attention. Compare the success of the war with the evils which it brings in its train. Weigh in a balance the good effects and the evil, and you will say with Hannibal, that an hour is sufficient to destroy the work of many years.
“The renown of your country is more ancient than is generally believed. Several ages before the city of Venice was built, I find not only the name of the Venetians famous, but also that of one of their dukes. Would you submit to the caprices of fortune a glory acquired for so long a time, and at so great a cost? You will render a great service to your republic, if, preferring her safety to her glory, you give her incensed and insane populace prudent and useful counsels, instead of offering them brilliant and specious projects. The wise say that we cannot purchase a virtue more precious than what is bought at the expense of glory. If you adopt this axiom, your character will be handed down to posterity, like that of the Duke of the Venetians, to whom I have alluded. All the world will admire and love you.
[Illustration: VICENZA.]
“To conceal nothing from you, I confess that I have heard with grief of your league with the King of Arragon. What! shall Italians go and implore succour of barbarous kings to destroy Italians? You will say, perhaps, that your enemies have set you the example. My answer is, that they are equally culpable. According to report, Venice, in order to satiate her rage, calls to her aid tyrants of the west; whilst Genoa brings in those of the east. This is the source of our calamities. Carried away by the admiration of strange things, despising, I know not why, the good things which we find in our own climate, we sacrifice sound Italian faith to barbarian perfidy. Madmen that we are, we seek among venal souls that which we could find among our own brethren.
“Nature has given us for barriers the Alps and the two seas. Avarice, envy, and pride, have opened these natural defences to the Cimbri, the Huns, the Goths, the Gauls, and the Spaniards. How often have we recited the words of Virgil:—
“’Impius haec
tam culta novalia miles habebit,
Barbarus has segetes.’
“Athens and Lacedemon had between them a species of rivalship similar to yours: but their forces were not by any means so nearly balanced. Lacedemon had an advantage over Athens, which put it in the power of the former to destroy her rival, if she had wished it; but she replied, ’God forbid that I should pull out one of the eyes of Greece!’ If this beautiful sentiment came from a people whom Plato reproaches with their avidity for conquest and dominion, what still softer reply ought we not to expect from the most modest of nations!
“Amidst the movements which agitate you, it is impossible for me to be tranquil. When I see one party cutting down trees to construct vessels, and others sharpening their swords and darts, I should think myself guilty if I did not seize my pen, which is my only weapon, to counsel peace. I am aware with what circumspection we ought to speak to our superiors; but the love of our country has no superior. If it should carry me beyond bounds, it will serve as my excuse before you, and oblige you to pardon me.
“Throwing myself at the feet of the chiefs of two nations who are going to war, I say to them, with tears in my eyes, ’Throw away your arms; give one another the embrace of peace! unite your hearts and your colours. By this means the ocean and the Euxine shall be open to you. Your ships will arrive in safety at Taprobane, at the Fortunate Isles, at Thule, and even at the poles. The kings and their people will meet you with respect; the Indian, the Englishman, the AEthiopian, will dread you. May peace reign among you, and may you have nothing to fear!’ Adieu! greatest of dukes, and best of men!”
This letter produced no effect. Andrea Dandolo, in his answer to it, alleges the thousand and one affronts and outrages which Venice had suffered from Genoa. At the same time he pays a high compliment to the eloquence of Petrarch’s epistle, and says that it is a production which could emanate only from a mind inspired by the divine Spirit.
During the spring of this year, 1351, Petrarch put his last finish to a canzone, on the subject still nearest to his heart, the death of his Laura, and to a sonnet on the same subject. In April, his attention was recalled from visionary things by the arrival of Boccaccio, who was sent by the republic of Florence to announce to him the recall of his family to their native land, and the restoration of his family fortune, as well as to invite him to the home of his ancestors, in the name of the Florentine republic. The invitation was conveyed in a long and flattering letter; but it appeared, from the very contents of
Petrarch took the road to Vicenza, where he arrived at sunset. He hesitated whether he should stop there, or take advantage of the remainder of the day and go farther. But, meeting with some interesting persons whose conversation beguiled him, night came on before he was aware how late it was. Their conversation, in the course of the evening, ran upon Cicero. Many were the eulogies passed on the great old Roman; but Petrarch, after having lauded his divine genius and eloquence, said something about his inconsistency. Every one was astonished at our poet’s boldness, but particularly a man, venerable for his age and knowledge, who was an idolater of Cicero. Petrarch argued pretty freely against the political character of the ancient orator. The same opinion as to Cicero’s weakness seems rather to have gained ground in later ages. At least, it is now agreed that Cicero’s political life will not bear throughout an uncharitable investigation, though the political difficulties of his time demand abundant allowance.
Petrarch departed next morning for Verona, where he reckoned on remaining only for a few days; but it was impossible for him to resist the importunities of Azzo Correggio, Guglielmo di Pastrengo, and his other friends. By them he was detained during the remainder of the month. “The requests of a friend,” he said, on this occasion, “are always chains upon me.”
Petrarch arrived, for the sixth time, at Vaucluse on the 27th of June, 1351. He first announced himself to Philip of Cabassoles, Bishop of Cavaillon, to whom he had already sent, during his journey, some Latin verses, in which he speaks of Vaucluse as the most charming place in the universe. “When a child,” he says, “I visited it, and it nourished my youth in its sunny bosom. When grown to manhood, I passed some of the pleasantest years of my life in the shut-up valley. Grown old, I wish to pass in it my last years.”
The sight of his romantic hermitage, of the capacious grotto which had listened to his sighs for Laura, of his garden, and of his library, was, undoubtedly, sweet to Petrarch; and, though he had promised Boccaccio to come back to Italy, he had not the fortitude to determine on a sudden return. He writes to one of his Italian friends, “When I left my native country, I promised to return to it in the autumn; but time, place, and circumstances, often oblige us to change our resolutions. As far as I can judge, it will be necessary for me to remain here for two years. My friends in Italy, I trust, will pardon me if I do not keep my promise to them. The inconstancy of the human mind must serve as my excuse. I have now experienced that change of place is the only thing which can long keep from us the ennui that is inseparable from a sedentary life.”
At the same time, whilst Vaucluse threw recollections tender, though melancholy, over Petrarch’s mind, it does not appear that Avignon had assumed any new charm in his absence: on the contrary, he found it plunged more than ever in luxury, wantonness, and gluttony. Clement VI. had replenished the church, at the request of the French king, with numbers of cardinals, many of whom were so young and licentious, that the most scandalous abominations prevailed amongst them. “At this time,” says Matthew Villani, “no regard was paid either to learning or virtue; and a man needed not to blush for anything, if he could cover his head with a red hat. Pietro Ruggiero, one of those exemplary new cardinals, was only eighteen years of age.” Petrarch vented his indignation on this occasion in his seventh eclogue, which is a satire upon the Pontiff and his cardinals, the interlocutors being Micione, or Clement himself, and Epi, or the city of Avignon. The poem, if it can be so called, is clouded with allegory, and denaturalized with pastoral conceits; yet it is worth being explored by any one anxious to trace the first fountains of reform among Catholics, as a proof of church abuses having been exposed, two centuries before the Reformation, by a Catholic and a churchman.
At this crisis, the Court of Avignon, which, in fact, had not known very well what to do about the affairs of Rome, were now anxious to inquire what sort of government would be the most advisable, after the fall of Rienzo. Since that event, the Cardinal Legate had re-established the ancient government, having created two senators, the one from the house of Colonna, the other from that of the Orsini. But, very soon, those houses were divided by discord, and the city was plunged into all the evils which it had suffered before the existence of the Tribuneship. “The community at large,” says Matthew Villani, “returned to such condition, that strangers and travellers found themselves like sheep among wolves.” Clement VI. was weary of seeing the metropolis of Christianity a prey to anarchy. He therefore chose four cardinals, whose united deliberations might appease these troubles, and he imagined that he could establish in Rome a form of government that should be durable. The cardinals requested Petrarch to give his opinion on this important affair. Petrarch wrote to them a most eloquent epistle, full of enthusiastic ideas of the grandeur of Rome. It is not exactly known what effect he produced by his writing on this subject; but on that account we are not to conclude that he wrote in vain.
Petrarch had brought to Avignon his son John, who was still very young. He had obtained for him a canonicate at Verona. Thither he immediately despatched him, with letters to Guglielmo di Pastrengo and Rinaldo di Villa Franca, charging the former of these friends to superintend his son’s general character and manners, and the other to cultivate his understanding. Petrarch, in his letter to Rinaldo,
In the summer of 1352, the people of Avignon witnessed the impressive spectacle of the far-famed Tribune Rienzo entering their city, but in a style very different from the pomp of his late processions in Rome. He had now for his attendants only two archers, between whom he walked as a prisoner. It is necessary to say a few words about the circumstances which befell Rienzo after his fall, and which brought him now to the Pope’s tribunal at Avignon.
Petrarch says of him at this period, “The Tribune, formerly so powerful and dreaded, but now the most unhappy of men, has been brought hither as a prisoner. I praised and I adored him. I loved his virtue, and I admired his courage. I thought that Rome was about to resume, under him, the empire she formerly held. Ah! had he continued as he began, he would have been praised and admired by the world and by posterity. On entering the city,” Petrarch continues, “he inquired if I was there. I knew not whether he hoped for succour from me, or what I could do to serve him. In the process against him they accuse him of nothing criminal. They cannot impute to him having joined with bad men. All that they charge him with is an attempt to give freedom to the republic, and to make Rome the centre of its government. And is this a crime worthy of the wheel or the gibbet? A Roman citizen afflicted to see his country, which is by right the mistress of the world, the slave of the vilest of men!”
Clement was glad to have Rienzo in his power, and ordered him into his presence. Thither the Tribune came, not in the least disconcerted. He denied the accusation of heresy, and insisted that his cause should be re-examined with more equity. The Pope made him no reply, but imprisoned him in a high tower, in which he was chained by the leg to the floor of his apartment. In other respects he was treated mildly, allowed books to read, and supplied with dishes from the Pope’s kitchen.
Rienzo begged to be allowed an advocate to defend him; his request was refused. This refusal enraged Petrarch, who wrote, according to De Sade and others, on this occasion, that mysterious letter, which is found in his “Epistles without a title.” It is an appeal to the Romans in behalf of their Tribune. I must confess that even the authority of De Sade does not entirely eradicate from my mind a suspicion as to the spuriousness of this inflammatory letter, from the consequences of which Petrarch could hardly have escaped with impunity.
One of the circumstances that detained Petrarch at Avignon was the illness of the Pope, which retarded his decision on several important affairs. Clement VI. was fast approaching to his end, and Petrarch had little hope of his convalescence, at least in the hands of doctors. A message from the Pope produced an imprudent letter from the poet, in which he says, “Holy father! I shudder at the account of your fever; but, believe me, I am not a flatterer. I tremble to see your bed always surrounded with physicians, who are never agreed, because it would be a reproach to the second to think like the first. ’It is not to be doubted,’ as Pliny says, ’that physicians, desiring to raise a name by their discoveries, make experiments upon us, and thus barter away our lives. There is no law for punishing their extreme ignorance. They learn their trade at our expense, they make some progress in the art of curing; and they alone are permitted to murder with impunity.’ Holy father! consider as your enemies the crowd of physicians who beset you. It is in our age that we behold verified the prediction of the elder Cato, who declared that corruption would be general when the Greeks should have transmitted the sciences to Rome, and, above all, the science of healing. Whole nations have done without this art. The Roman republic, according to Pliny, was without physicians for six hundred years, and was never in a more flourishing condition.”
The Pope, a poor dying old man, communicated Petrarch’s letter immediately to his physicians, and it kindled in the whole faculty a flame of indignation, worthy of being described by Moliere. Petrarch made a general enemy of the physicians, though, of course, the weakest and the worst of them were the first to attack him. One of them told him, “You are a foolhardy man, who, contemning the physicians, have no fear either of the fever or of the malaria.” Petrarch replied, “I certainly have no assurance of being free from the attacks of either; but, if I were attacked by either, I should not think of calling in physicians.”
His first assailant was one of Clement’s own physicians, who loaded him with scurrility in a formal letter. These circumstances brought forth our poet’s “Four Books of Invectives against Physicians,” a work in which he undoubtedly exposes a great deal of contemporary quackery, but which, at the same time, scarcely leaves the physician-hunter on higher ground than his antagonists.
In the last year of his life, Clement VI. wished to attach our poet permanently to his court by making him his secretary, and Petrarch, after much coy refusal, was at last induced, by the solicitations of his friends, to accept the office. But before he could enter upon it, an objection to his filling it was unexpectedly started. It was discovered that his style was too lofty to suit the humility of the Roman Church. The elevation of Petrarch’s style might be obvious, but certainly the humility of the Church was a bright discovery. Petrarch, according to his own account, so far from promising to bring down his magniloquence to a level with church humility, seized the objection as an excuse for declining the secretaryship. He compares his joy on this occasion to that of a prisoner finding the gates of his prison thrown open. He returned to Vaucluse, where he waited impatiently for the autumn, when he meant to return to Italy. He thus describes, in a letter to his dear Simonides, the manner of life which he there led:—
“I make war upon my body, which I regard as my enemy. My eyes, that have made me commit so many follies, are well fixed on a safe object. They look only on a woman who is withered, dark, and sunburnt. Her soul, however, is as white as her complexion is black, and she has the air of being so little conscious of her own appearance, that her homeliness may be said to become her. She passes whole days in the open fields, when the grasshoppers can scarcely endure the sun. Her tanned hide braves the heats of the dog-star, and, in the evening, she arrives as fresh as if she had just risen from bed. She does all the work of my house, besides taking care of her husband and children and attending my guests. She seems occupied with everybody but herself. At night she sleeps on vine-branches; she eats only black bread and roots, and drinks water and vinegar. If you were to give her anything more delicate, she would be the worse for it: such is the force of habit.
“Though I have still two fine suits of clothes, I never wear them. If you saw me, you would take me for a labourer or a shepherd, though I was once so tasteful in my dress. The times are changed; the eyes which I wished to please are now shut; and, perhaps, even if they were opened, they would not now have the same empire over me.”
In another letter from Vaucluse, he says: “I rise at midnight; I go out at break of day; I study in the fields as in my library; I read, I write, I dream; I struggle against indolence, luxury, and pleasure. I wander all day among the arid mountains, the fresh valleys, and the deep caverns. I walk much on the banks of the Sorgue, where I meet no one to distract me. I recall the past. I deliberate on the future; and, in this contemplation, I find a resource against my solitude.” In the same letter he avows that he could accustom himself to any habitation in the world, except Avignon. At this time he was meditating to recross the Alps.
Early in September, 1352, the Cardinal of Boulogne departed for Paris, in order to negotiate a peace between the Kings of France and England. Petrarch went to take his leave of him, and asked if he had any orders for Italy, for which he expected soon to set out. The Cardinal told him that he should be only a month upon his journey, and that he hoped to see him at Avignon on his return. He had, in fact, kind views with regard to Petrarch. He wished to procure for him some good establishment in France, and wrote to him upon his route, “Pray do not depart yet. Wait until I return, or, at least, until I write to you on an important affair that concerns yourself.” This letter, which, by the way, evinces that our poet’s circumstances were not independent of church promotion, changed the plans of Petrarch, who remained at Avignon nearly the whole of the months of September and October.
During this delay, he heard constant reports of the war that was going on between the Genoese and the Venetians. In the spring of the year 1352, their fleets met in the Propontis, and had a conflict almost unexampled, which lasted during two days and a tempestuous night. The Genoese, upon the whole, had the advantage, and, in revenge for the Greeks having aided the Venetians, they made a league with the Turks. The Pope, who had it earnestly at heart to put a stop to this fatal war, engaged the belligerents to send their ambassadors to Avignon, and there to treat for peace. The ambassadors came; but a whole month was spent in negotiations which ended in nothing. Petrarch in vain employed his eloquence, and the Pope his conciliating talents. In these circumstances, Petrarch wrote a letter to the Genoese government, which does infinite credit to his head and his heart. He used every argument that common sense or humanity could suggest to show the folly of the war, but his arguments were thrown away on spirits too fierce for reasoning.
A few days after writing this letter, as the Cardinal of Boulogne had not kept his word about returning to Avignon, and as he heard no news of him, Petrarch determined to set out for Italy. He accordingly started on the 16th of November, 1352; but scarcely had he left his own house, with all his papers, when he was overtaken by heavy falls of rain. At first he thought of going back immediately; but he changed his purpose, and proceeded as far as Cavaillon, which is two leagues from Vaucluse, in order to take leave of his friend, the Bishop of Cabassole. His good friend was very unwell, but received him with joy, and pressed him to pass the night under his roof. That night and all the next day it rained so heavily that Petrarch, more from fear of his books and papers being damaged than from anxiety about his own health, gave up his Italian journey for the present, and, returning to Vaucluse, spent there the rest of November and the whole of December, 1352.
Early in December, Petrarch heard of the death of Clement VI., and this event gave him occasion for more epistles, both against the Roman court and his enemies, the physicians. Clement’s death was ascribed to different causes. Petrarch, of course, imputed it to his doctors. Villani’s opinion is the most probable, that he died of a protracted fever. He was buried with great pomp in the church of Notre Dame at Avignon; but his remains, after some time, were removed to the abbey of Chaise Dieu, in Auvergne, where his tomb was violated by the Huguenots in 1562. Scandal says that they made a football of his head, and that the Marquis de Courton afterwards converted his skull into a drinking-cup.
It need not surprise us that his Holiness never stood high in the good graces of Petrarch. He was a Limousin, who never loved Italy go much as Gascony, and, in place of re-establishing the holy seat at Rome, he completed the building of the papal palace at Avignon, which his predecessor had begun. These were faults that eclipsed all the good qualities of Clement VI. in the eyes of Petrarch, and, in the sixth of his eclogues, the poet has drawn the character of Clement in odious colours, and, with equal freedom, has described most of the cardinals of his court. Whether there was perfect consistency between this hatred to the Pope and his thinking, as he certainly did for a time, of becoming his secretary, may admit of a doubt. I am not, however, disposed to deny some allowance to Petrarch for his dislike of Clement, who was a voluptuary in private life, and a corrupted ruler of the Church.
Early in May, 1353, Petrarch departed for Italy, and we find him very soon afterwards at the palace of John Visconti of Milan, whom he used to call the greatest man in Italy. This prince, uniting the sacerdotal with the civil power, reigned absolute in Milan. He was master of Lombardy, and made all Italy tremble at his hostility. Yet, in spite of his despotism, John Visconti was a lover of letters, and fond of having
Petrarch, accordingly, took up his habitation in the western part of the city, near the Vercellina gate, and the church of St. Ambrosio. His house was flanked with two towers, stood behind the city wall, and looked out upon a rich and beautiful country, as far as the Alps, the tops of which, although it was summer, were still covered with snow. Great was the joy of Petrarch when he found himself in a house near the church of that Saint Ambrosio, for whom he had always cherished a peculiar reverence. He himself tells us that he never entered that temple without experiencing rekindled devotion. He visited the statue of the saint, which was niched in one of the walls, and the stone figure seemed to him to breathe, such was the majesty and tranquillity of the sculpture. Near the church arose the chapel, where St. Augustin, after his victory over his refractory passions, was bathed in the sacred fountain of St. Ambrosio, and absolved from penance for his past life.
All this time, whilst Petrarch was so well pleased with his new abode, his friends were astonished, and even grieved, at his fixing himself at Milan. At Avignon, Socrates, Guido Settimo, and the Bishop of Cavaillon, said among themselves, “What! this proud republican, who breathed nothing but independence, who scorned an office in the papal court as a gilded yoke, has gone and thrown himself into the chains of the tyrant of Italy; this misanthrope, who delighted only in the silence of fields, and perpetually praised a secluded life, now inhabits the most bustling of cities!” At Florence, his friends entertained the same sentiments, and wrote to him reproachfully on the subject. “I would wish to be silent,” says Boccaccio, “but I cannot hold my peace. My reverence for you would incline me to hold silence, but my indignation obliges me to speak out. How has Silvanus acted?” (Under the name of Silvanus he couches that of Petrarch, in allusion to his love of rural retirement.) “He has forgotten his dignity; he has forgotten all the language he used to hold respecting the state of Italy, his hatred of the Archbishop, and his love of liberty; and he would imprison the Muses in that court. To whom can
Petrarch’s answers to these and other reproaches which his friends sent to him were cold, vague, and unsatisfactory. He denied that he had sacrificed his liberty; and told Boccaccio that, after all, it was less humiliating to be subservient to a single tyrant than to be, as he, Boccaccio, was, subservient to a whole tyrannical people. This was an unwise, implied confession on the part of Petrarch that he was the slave of Visconti. Sismondi may be rather harsh in pronouncing Petrarch to have been all his life a Troubadour; but there is something in his friendship with the Lord of Milan that palliates the accusation. In spite of this severe letter from Boccaccio, it is strange, and yet, methinks, honourable to both, that their friendship was never broken.
Levati, in his “Viaggi di Petrarca,” ascribes the poet’s settlement at Milan to his desire of accumulating a little money, not for himself, but for his natural children; and in some of Petrarch’s letters, subsequent to this period, there are allusions to his own circumstances which give countenance to this suspicion.
However this may be, Petrarch deceived himself if he expected to have long tranquillity in such a court as that of Milan. He was perpetually obliged to visit the Viscontis, and to be present at every feast that they gave to honour the arrival of any illustrious stranger. A more than usually important visitant soon came to Milan, in the person of Cardinal Egidio Albornoz, who arrived at the head of an army, with a view to restore to the Church large portions of its territory which had been seized by some powerful families. The Cardinal entered Milan on the 14th of September, 1353. John Visconti, though far from being delighted at his arrival, gave him an honourable reception, defrayed all the expenses of his numerous retinue, and treated him magnificently. He went out himself to meet him, two miles from the city, accompanied by his nephews and his courtiers, including Petrarch. Our poet joined the suite of Galeazzo Visconti, and rode near him. The Legate and his retinue rode also on horseback. When the two parties met, the dust, that rose in clouds from the feet of the horses, prevented them from discerning each other. Petrarch, who had advanced beyond the rest, found himself, he knew not how, in the midst of the Legate’s train, and very near to him. Salutations passed on either side, but with very little speaking, for the dust had dried their throats.
Petrarch made a backward movement, to regain his place among his company. His horse, in backing, slipped with his hind-legs into a ditch on the side of the road, but, by a sort of miracle, the animal kept his fore-feet for some time on the top of the ditch. If he had fallen back, he must have crushed his rider. Petrarch was not afraid, for he was not aware of his danger; but Galeazzo Visconti and his people dismounted to rescue the poet, who escaped without injury.
The Legate treated Petrarch, who little expected it, with the utmost kindness and distinction, and, granting all that he asked for his friends, pressed him to mention something worthy of his own acceptance. Petrarch replied: “When I ask for my friends, is it not the same as for myself? Have I not the highest satisfaction in receiving favours for them? I have long put a rein on my own desires. Of what, then, can I stand in need?”
After the departure of the Legate, Petrarch retired to his rus in urbe. In a letter dated thence to his friend the Prior of the Holy Apostles, we find him acknowledging feelings that were far distant from settled contentment. “You have heard,” he says, “how much my peace has been disturbed, and my leisure broken in upon, by an importunate crowd and by unforeseen occupations. The Legate has left Milan. He was received at Florence with unbounded applause: as for poor me, I am again in my retreat. I have been long free, happy, and master of my time; but I feel, at present, that liberty and leisure are only for souls of consummate virtue. When we are not of that class of beings, nothing is more dangerous for a heart subject to the passions than to be free, idle, and alone. The snares of voluptuousness are then more dangerous, and corrupt thoughts gain an easier entrance—above all, love, that seducing tormentor, from whom I thought that I had now nothing more to fear.”
From these expressions we might almost conclude that he had again fallen in love; but if it was so, we have no evidence as to the object of his new passion.
During his half-retirement, Petrarch learned news which disturbed his repose. A courier arrived, one night, bringing an account of the entire destruction of the Genoese fleet, in a naval combat with that of the Venetians, which took place on the 19th of August, 1353, near the island of Sardinia. The letters which the poet had written, in order to conciliate those two republics, had proved as useless as the pacificatory efforts of Clement VI. and his successor, Innocent. Petrarch, who had constantly predicted the eventual success of Genoa, could hardly believe his senses, when he heard of the Genoese being defeated at sea. He wrote a letter of lamentation and astonishment on the subject to his friend Guido Settimo. He saw, as it were, one of the eyes of his country destroying the other. The courier, who brought these tidings to Milan, gave a distressing account of the state of Genoa. There was not a family which had not lost one of its members.
Petrarch passed a whole night in composing a letter to the Genoese, in which he exhorted them, after the example of the Romans, never to despair of the republic. His lecture never reached them. On awakening in the morning, Petrarch learned that the Genoese had lost every spark of their courage, and that the day before they had subscribed the most humiliating concessions in despair.
It has been alleged by some of his biographers that Petrarch suppressed his letter to the Genoese from his fear of the Visconti family. John Visconti had views on Genoa, which was a port so conveniently situated that he naturally coveted the possession of it. He invested it on all sides by land, whilst its other enemies blockaded it by sea; so that the city was reduced to famine. The partizans of John Visconti insinuated to the Genoese that they had no other remedy than to place themselves under the protection of the Prince of Milan. Petrarch was not ignorant of the Visconti’s views; and it has been, therefore, suspected that he kept back his exhortatory epistle from his apprehension, that if he had despatched it, John Visconti would have made it the last epistle of his life. The morning after writing it, he found that Genoa had signed a treaty of almost abject submission; after which his exhortation would have been only an insult to the vanquished.
The Genoese were not long in deliberating on the measures which they were to take. In a few days their deputies arrived at Milan, imploring the aid and protection of John Visconti, as well as offering him the republic of Genoa and all that belonged to it. After some conferences, the articles of the treaty were signed; and the Lord of Milan accepted with pleasure the possession that was offered to him.
Petrarch, as a counsellor of Milan, attended these conferences, and condoled with the deputies from Genoa; though we cannot suppose that he approved, in his heart, of the desperate submission of the Genoese in thus throwing themselves into the arms of the tyrant of Italy, who had been so long anxious either to invade them in open quarrel, or to enter their States upon a more amicable pretext. John Visconti immediately took possession of the city of Genoa; and, after having deposed the doge and senate, took into his own hands the reins of government.
Weary of Milan, Petrarch betook himself to the country, and made a temporary residence at the castle of St. Columba, which was now a monastery. This mansion was built in 1164, by the celebrated Frederick Barbarossa. It now belonged to the Carthusian monks of Pavia. Petrarch has given a beautiful description of this edifice, and of the magnificent view which it commands.
Whilst he was enjoying this glorious scenery, he received a letter from Socrates, informing him that he had gone to Vaucluse in company with Guido Settimo, whose intention to accompany Petrarch in his journey to Italy had been prevented by a fit of illness. Petrarch, when he heard of this visit, wrote to express his happiness at their thus honouring his habitation, at the same time lamenting that he was not one of their party. “Repair,” he said, “often to the same retreat. Make use of my books, which deplore the absence of their owner, and the death of their keeper” (he alluded to his old servant). “My country-house is the temple of peace, and the home of repose.”
From the contents of his letter, on this occasion, it is obvious that he had not yet found any spot in Italy where he could determine on fixing himself permanently; otherwise he would not have left his books behind him.
When he wrote about his books, he was little aware of the danger that was impending over them. On Christmas day a troop of robbers, who had for some time infested the neighbourhood of Vaucluse, set fire to the poet’s house, after having taken away everything that they could carry off. An ancient vault stopped the conflagration, and saved the mansion from being entirely consumed by the flames. Luckily, the person to whose care he had left his house—the son of the worthy rustic, lately deceased—having a presentiment of the robbery, had conveyed to the castle a great many books which Petrarch left behind him; and the robbers, believing that there were persons in the castle to defend it, had not the courage to make an attack.
As Petrarch grew old, we do not find him improve in consistency. In his letter, dated the 21st of October, 1353, it is evident that he had a return of his hankering after Vaucluse. He accordingly wrote to his friends, requesting that they would procure him an establishment in the Comtat. Socrates, upon this, immediately communicated with the Bishop of Cavaillon, who did all that he could to obtain for the poet the object of his wish. It appears that the Bishop endeavoured to get for him a good benefice in his own diocese. The thing was never accomplished. Without doubt, the enemies, whom he had excited by writing freely about the Church, and who were very numerous at Avignon, frustrated his wishes.
After some time Petrarch received a letter from the Emperor Charles IV. in answer to one which the poet had expedited to him about three years before. Our poet, of course, did not fail to acknowledge his Imperial Majesty’s late-coming letter. He commences his reply with a piece of pleasantry: “I see very well,” he says, “that it is as difficult for your Imperial Majesty’s despatches and couriers to cross the Alps, as it is for your person and legions.” He wonders that the Emperor had not followed his advice, and hastened into Italy, to take possession of the empire. “What consoles me,” he adds, “is,
A curious part of his letter is that in which he mentions Rienzo. “Lately,” he says, “we have seen at Rome, suddenly elevated to supreme power, a man who was neither king, nor consul, nor patrician, and who was hardly known as a Roman citizen. Although he was not distinguished by his ancestry, yet he dared to declare himself the restorer of public liberty. What title more brilliant for an obscure man! Tuscany immediately submitted to him. All Italy followed her example; and Europe and the whole world were in one movement. We have seen the event; it is not a doubtful tale of history. Already, under the reign of the Tribune, justice, peace, good faith, and security, were restored, and we saw vestiges of the golden age appearing once more. In the moment of his most brilliant success, he chose to submit to others. I blame nobody. I wish neither to acquit nor to condemn; but I know what I ought to think. That man had only the title of Tribune. Now, if the name of Tribune could produce such an effect, what might not the title of Caesar produce!”
Charles did not enter Italy until a year after the date of our poet’s epistle; and it is likely that the increasing power of John Visconti made a far deeper impression on his irresolute mind than all the rhetoric of Petrarch. Undoubtedly, the petty lords of Italy were fearful of the vipers of Milan. It was thus that they denominated the Visconti family, in allusion to their coat of arms, which represented an immense serpent swallowing a child, though the device was not their own, but borrowed from a standard which they had taken from the Saracens. The submission of Genoa alarmed the whole of Italy. The Venetians took measures to form a league against the Visconti; and the Princes of Padua, Modena, Mantua, and Verona joined it, and the confederated lords sent a deputation to the Emperor, to beg that he would support them; and they proposed that he should enter Italy at their expense. The opportunity was too good to be lost; and the Emperor promised to do all that they wished. This league gave great trouble to John Visconti. In order to appease the threatening storm, he immediately proposed to the Emperor that he should come to Milan and receive the iron crown; while he himself, by an embassy from Milan, would endeavour to restore peace between the Venetians and the Genoese.
Petrarch appeared to John Visconti the person most likely to succeed in this negotiation, by his eloquence, and by his intimacy with Andrea Dandolo, who governed the republic of Venice. The poet now wished for repose, and journeys began to fatigue him; but the Visconti knew so well how to flatter and manage him, that he could not resist the proposal.
At the commencement of the year 1354, before he departed for Venice, Petrarch received a present, which gave him no small delight. It was a Greek Homer, sent to him by Nichola Sigeros, Praetor of Romagna. Petrarch wrote a long letter of thanks to Sigeros, in which there is a remarkable confession of the small progress which he had made in the Greek language, though at the same time he begs his friend Sigeros to send him copies of Hesiod and Euripides.
A few days afterwards he set out to Venice. He was the chief of the embassy. He went with confidence, flattering himself that he should find the Venetians more tractable and disposed to peace, both from their fear of John Visconti, and from some checks which their fleet had experienced, since their victory off Sardinia. But he was unpleasantly astonished to find the Venetians more exasperated than humbled by their recent losses, and by the union of the Lord of Milan with the Genoese. All his eloquence could not bring them to accept the proposals he had to offer. Petrarch completely failed in his negotiation, and, after passing a month at Venice, he returned to Milan full of chagrin.
Two circumstances seem to have contributed to render the Venetians intractable. The princes with whom they were leagued had taken into their pay the mercenary troops of Count Lando, which composed a very formidable force; and further, the Emperor promised to appear very soon in Italy at the head of an army.
Some months afterwards, Petrarch wrote to the Doge of Venice, saying, that he saw with grief that the hearts of the Venetians were shut against wise counsels, and he then praises John Visconti as a lover of peace and humanity.
After a considerable interval, Andrea Dandolo answered our poet’s letter, and was very sarcastic upon him for his eulogy on John Visconti. At this moment, Visconti was arming the Genoese fleet, the command of which he gave to Paganino Doria, the admiral who had beaten the Venetians in the Propontis. Doria set sail with thirty-three vessels, entered the Adriatic, sacked and pillaged some towns, and did much damage on the Venetian coast. The news of this descent spread consternation in Venice. It was believed that the Genoese fleet were in the roads; and the Doge took all possible precautions to secure the safety of the State.
But Dandolo’s health gave way at this crisis, vexed as he was to see the maiden city so humbled in her pride. His constitution rapidly declined, and he died the 8th of September, 1354. He was extremely popular among the Venetians. Petrarch, in a letter written shortly after his death, says of him: “He was a virtuous man, upright, full of love and zeal for his republic; learned, eloquent, wise, and affable. He had only one fault, to wit, that he loved war too much. From this error he judged of a cause by its event. The luckiest cause always appeared to him the most just, which made him often repeat what Scipio Africanus said, and what Lucan makes Caesar repeat: ‘Haec acies victum factura nocentem.’”
If Dandolo had lived a little longer, and continued his ethical theory of judging a cause by its success, he would have had a hint, from the disasters of Venice, that his own cause was not the most righteous. The Genoese, having surprised the Venetians off the island of Sapienza, obtained one of the completest victories on record. All the Venetian vessels, with the exception of one that escaped, were taken, together with their admiral. It is believed that, if the victors had gone immediately to Venice, they might have taken the city, which was defenceless, and in a state of consternation; but the Genoese preferred returning home to announce their triumph, and to partake in the public joy. About the time of the Doge’s death, another important public event took place in the death of John Visconti. He had a carbuncle upon his forehead, just above the eyebrows, which he imprudently caused to be cut; and, on the very day of the operation, October 4th, 1354, he expired so suddenly as not to have time to receive the sacrament.
John Visconti had three nephews, Matteo, Galeazzo, and Barnabo. They were his heirs, and took possession of his dominions in common, a few days after his death, without any dispute among themselves. The day for their inauguration was fixed, such was the superstition of the times, by an astrologer; and on that day Petrarch was commissioned to make to the assembled people an address suited to the ceremony. He was still in the midst of his harangue, when the astrologer declared with a loud voice that the moment for the ceremony was come, and that it would be dangerous to let it pass. Petrarch, heartily as he despised the false science, immediately stopped his discourse. The astrologer, somewhat disconcerted, replied that there was still a little time, and that the orator might continue to speak. Petrarch answered that he had nothing more to say. Whilst some laughed, and others were indignant at the interruption, the astrologer exclaimed “that the happy moment was come;” on which an old officer carried three white stakes, like the palisades of a town, and gave one to each of the brothers; and the ceremony was thus concluded.
The countries which the three brothers shared amongst them comprehended not only what was commonly called the Duchy, before the King of Sardinia acquired a great part of it, but the territories of Parma, Piacenza, Bologna, Lodi, Bobbio, Pontremoli, and many other places.
There was an entire dissimilarity among the brothers. Matteo hated business, and was addicted to the grossest debaucheries. Barnabo was a monster of tyranny and cruelty. Petrarch, nevertheless, condescended to be godfather to one of Barnabo’s sons, and presented the child with a gilt cup. He also composed a Latin poem, on the occasion of his godson being christened by the name of Marco, in which he passes in review all the great men who had borne that name.
Galeazzo was very different from his brothers. He had much kindliness of disposition. One of his greatest pleasures was his intercourse with men of letters. He almost worshipped Petrarch, and it was his influence that induced the poet to settle at Milan. Unlike as they were in dispositions, the brothers, nevertheless, felt how important it was that they should be united, in order to protect themselves against the league which threatened them; and, at first, they lived in the greatest harmony. Barnabo, the most warlike, was charged with whatever concerned the military. Business of every other kind devolved on Galeazzo. Matteo, as the eldest, presided over all; but, conscious of his incapacity, he took little share in the deliberations of his brothers. Nothing important was done without consulting Petrarch; and this flattering confidence rendered Milan as agreeable to him as any residence could be, consistently with his love of change.
The deaths of the Doge of Venice and of the Lord of Milan were soon followed by another, which, if it had happened some years earlier, would have strongly affected Petrarch. This was the tragic end of Rienzo. Our poet’s opinion of this extraordinary man had been changed by his later conduct, and he now took but a comparatively feeble interest in him. Under the pontificate of Clement VI., the ex-Tribune, after his fall, had been consigned to a prison at Avignon. Innocent, the succeeding Pope, thought differently of him from his predecessor, and sent the Cardinal Albornoz into Italy, with an order to establish him at Rome, and to confide the government of the city to him under the title of senator. The Cardinal obeyed the injunction; but after a brief and inglorious struggle with the faction of the Colonnas, Rienzo perished in a popular sedition on the 8th of October, 1354.
War was now raging between the States of the Venetian League and Milan, united with Genoa, when a new actor was brought upon the scene. The Emperor, who had been solicited by one half of Italy to enter the kingdom, but who hesitated from dread of the Lord of Milan, was evidently induced by the intelligence of John Visconti’s death to accept this invitation. In October, 1354, his Imperial Majesty entered Italy, with no show of martial preparation, being attended by only three hundred horsemen. On the 10th of November he arrived at Mantua, where he was received as sovereign. There he stopped for some time, before he pursued his route to Rome.
The moment Petrarch heard of his arrival, he wrote to his Imperial Majesty in transports of joy. “You are no longer,” he said, “king of Bohemia. I behold in you the king of the world, the Roman emperor, the true Caesar.” The Emperor received this letter at Mantua, and in a few days sent Sacromore de Pomieres, one of his squires, to invite Petrarch to come and meet him, expressing the utmost eagerness to see him. Petrarch could not resist so flattering an invitation; he was not to be deterred even by the unprecedented severity of the frost, and departed from Milan on the 9th of December; but, with all the speed that he could make, was not able to reach Mantua till the 12th.
The Emperor thanked him for having come to him in such dreadful weather, the like of which he had scarcely ever felt, even in Germany. “The Emperor,” says Petrarch, “received me in a manner that partook neither of imperial haughtiness nor of German etiquette. We passed sometimes whole days together, from morning to night, in conversation, as if his Majesty had had nothing else to do. He spoke to me about my works, and expressed a great desire to see them, particularly my ’Treatise on Illustrious Men.’ I told him that I had not yet put my last hand to it, and that, before I could do so, I required to have leisure and repose. He gave me to understand that he should be very glad to see it appear under his own patronage, that is to say, dedicated to himself. I said to him, with that freedom of speech which Nature has given me, and which years have fortified, ’Great prince, for this purpose, nothing more is necessary than, virtue on your part, and leisure on mine.’ He asked me to explain myself. I said, ’I must have time for a work of this nature, in which I propose to include great things in a small space. On your part, labour to deserve that your name should appear at the head of my book. For this end, it is not enough that you wear a crown; your virtues and great actions must place you among the great men whose portraits I have delineated. Live in such a manner, that, after reading the lives of your illustrious predecessors, you may feel assured that your own life shall deserve to be read by posterity.’
“The Emperor showed by a smile that my liberty had not displeased him, I seized this opportunity of presenting him with some imperial medals, in gold and in silver, and gave him a short sketch of the lives of those worthies whose images they bore. He seemed to listen to me with pleasure, and, graciously accepting the medals, declared that he never had received a more agreeable present.
“I should never end if I were to relate to you all the conversations which I held with this prince. He desired me one day to relate the history of my life to him. I declined to do so at first; but he would take no refusal, and I obeyed him. He heard me with attention, and, if I omitted any circumstances from forgetfulness or the fear of being wearisome, he brought them back to my memory. He then asked me what were my projects for the future, and my plans for the rest of my life. ’My intentions are good,’ I replied to him, ’but a bad habit, which I cannot conquer, masters my better will, and I resemble a sea beaten by two opposite winds,’ ‘I can understand that,’ he said; ’but I wish to know what is the kind of life that would most decidedly please you?’ ’A secluded life,’ I replied to him, without hesitation. ’If I could, I should go and seek for such a life at its fountain-head; that is, among the woods and mountains, as I have already done. If I could not go so far to find it, I should seek to enjoy it in the midst of cities.’
“The Emperor differed from me totally as to the benefits of a solitary life. I told him that I had composed a treatise on the subject. ’I know that,’ said the Emperor; ’and if I ever find your book, I shall throw it into the fire.’ ‘And,’ I replied, ’I shall take care that it never falls into your hands.’ On this subject we had long and frequent disputes, always seasoned with pleasantry. I must confess that the Emperor combated my system on a solitary life with surprising energy.”
Petrarch remained eight days with the King of Bohemia, at Mantua, where he was witness to all his negotiations with the Lords of the league of Lombardy, who came to confer with his Imperial Majesty, in that city, or sent thither their ambassadors. The Emperor, above all things, wished to ascertain the strength of this confederation; how much each principality would contribute, and how much might be the sum total of the whole contribution. The result of this inquiry was, that the forces of the united confederates were not sufficient to make head against the Visconti, who had thirty thousand well-disciplined men. The Emperor, therefore, decided that it was absolutely necessary to conclude a peace. This prince, pacific and without ambition, had, indeed, come into Italy with this intention; and was only anxious to obtain two crowns without drawing a sword. He saw, therefore, with satisfaction that there was no power in Italy to protract hostilities by strengthening the coalition.
He found difficulties, however, in the settlement of a general peace. The Viscontis felt their superiority; and the Genoese, proud of a victory which they had obtained over the Venetians, insisted on hard terms. The Emperor, more intent upon his personal interests than the good of Italy, merely negotiated a truce between the belligerents. He prevailed upon the confederates to disband the company of Count Lando, which cost much and effected little. It cannot be doubted that Petrarch had considerable influence in producing this dismissal, as he always held those troops of mercenaries in abhorrence. The truce being signed, his Imperial Majesty had no further occupation than to negotiate a particular agreement with the Viscontis, who had sent the chief men of Milan, with presents, to conclude a treaty with him. No one appeared more fit than Petrarch to manage this negotiation, and it was universally expected that it should be entrusted to him; but particular reasons, which Petrarch has not thought proper to record, opposed the desires of the Lords of Milan and the public wishes.
The negotiation, nevertheless, was in itself a very easy one. The Emperor, on the one hand, had no wish to make war for the sake of being crowned at Monza. On the other hand, the Viscontis were afraid of seeing the league of their enemies fortified by imperial power. They took advantage of the desire which they observed in Charles to receive this crown without a struggle. They promised not to oppose his coronation, and even to give 50,000 florins for the expense of the ceremony; but they required that he should not enter the city of Milan, and that the troops in his suite should be disarmed.
To these humiliating terms Charles subscribed. The affair was completed during the few days that Petrarch spent at Mantua. The Emperor strongly wished that he should be present at the signature of the treaty; and, in fact, though he was not one of the envoys from Milan, the success of the negotiation was generally attributed to him. A rumour to this effect reached even Avignon, where Laelius then was. He wrote to Petrarch to compliment him on the subject. The poet, in his answer, declines an honour that was not due to him.
After the signature of the treaty, Petrarch departed for Milan, where he arrived on Christmas eve, 1354. He there found four letters from Zanobi di Strata, from whom he had not had news for two years. Curious persons had intercepted their letters to each other. Petrarch often complains of this nuisance, which was common at the time.
The Emperor set out from Mantua after the festivities of Christmas. On arriving at the gates of Milan, he was invited to enter by the Viscontis; but Charles declined their invitation, saying, that he would keep the promise which he had pledged. The Viscontis told him politely that they asked his entrance as a favour, and that the precaution respecting his troops by no means extended to his personal presence, which they should always consider an honour. The Emperor entered Milan on the 4th of January, 1355. He was received with the sound of drums, trumpets, and other instruments, that made such a din as to resemble thunder. “His entry,” says Villani, “had the air of a tempest rather than of a festivity.” Meanwhile the gates of Milan were shut and strictly guarded. Shortly after his arrival, the three brothers came to tender their homage, declaring that they held of the Holy Empire all that they possessed, and that they would never employ their possessions but for his service.
Next day the three brothers, wishing to give the Emperor a high idea of their power and forces, held a grand review of their troops, horse and foot; to which, in order to swell the number, they added companies of the burgesses, well mounted, and magnificently dressed; and they detained his poor Majesty at a window, by way of amusing him, all the time they were making this display of their power. Whilst the troops were defiling, they bade him look upon the six thousand cavalry and ten thousand infantry, which they kept in their pay for his service, adding that their fortresses and castles were well furnished and garrisoned. This spectacle was anything but amusing to the Emperor; but he put a good countenance on the matter, and appeared cheerful and serene. Petrarch scarcely ever quitted his side; and the Prince conversed with him whenever he could snatch time from business, and from the rigid ceremonials that were imposed on him.
On the 6th of January, the festival of Epiphany, Charles received at Milan the iron crown, in the church of St. Ambrosio, from the hands of Robert Visconti, Archbishop of Milan. They gave the Emperor fifty thousand florins in gold, two hundred beautiful horses, covered with cloth bordered with ermine, and six hundred horsemen to escort him to Rome.
The Emperor, who regarded Milan only as a fine large prison, got out of it as soon as he could. Petrarch accompanied him as far as five miles beyond Piacenza, but refused to comply with the Emperor’s solicitations to continue with him as far as Rome.
The Emperor departed from Sienna the 28th of March, with the Empress and all his suite. On the 2nd of April he arrived at Rome. During the next two days he visited the churches in pilgrim’s attire. On Sunday, which was Easter day, he was crowned, along with his Empress; and, on this occasion, he confirmed all the privileges of the Roman Church, and all the promises that he had made to the Popes Clement VI. and Innocent VI. One of those promises was, that he should not enter Rome except upon the day of his coronation, and that he should not sleep in the city. He kept his word most scrupulously. After leaving the church of St. Peter, he went with a grand retinue to St. John’s di Latrana, where he dined, and, in the evening, under pretext of a hunting-party, he went and slept at St. Lorenzo, beyond the walls.
The Emperor arrived at Sienna on the 29th of April. He had there many conferences with the Cardinal Albornoz, to whom he promised troops for the purpose of reducing the tyrants with whom the Legate was at war. His Majesty then went to Pisa, where, on the 21st of May, 1355, a sedition broke out against him, which nearly cost him his life. He left Tuscany without delay, with his Empress and his whole suite, to return to Germany, where he arrived early in June. Many were the affronts he met with on his route, and he recrossed the Alps, as Villani says, “with his dignity humbled, though with his purse well filled.”
Laelius, who had accompanied the Emperor as far as Cremona, quitted him at that place, and went to Milan, where he delivered to Petrarch the Prince’s valedictory compliments. Petrarch’s indignation, at his dastardly flight vented itself in a letter to his Imperial Majesty himself, so full of unmeasured rebuke, that it is believed it was never sent.
Shortly after the departure of the Emperor, Petrarch had the satisfaction of hearing, in his own church of St. Ambrosio, the publication of a peace between the Venetians and Genoese. It was concluded at Milan by the mediation of the Visconti, entirely to the advantage of the Genoese, to whom their victory gained in the gulf of Sapienza had given an irresistible superiority. It cost the Venetians two hundred thousand florins. Whilst the treaty of peace was proceeding, Venice witnessed the sad and strange spectacle of Marino Faliero, her venerable Doge, four-score years old, being dragged to a public execution. Some obscurity still hangs over the true history of this affair. Petrarch himself seems to have understood it but imperfectly, though, from his personal acquaintance with Faliero, and his humane indignation at seeing an old man whom he believed to be innocent, hurled from his seat of power, stripped of his ducal robes, and beheaded like the meanest felon, he inveighs against his execution as a public murder, in his letter on the subject to Guido Settimo.
Petrarch, since his establishment at Milan, had thought it his duty to bring thither his son John, that he might watch over his education. John was at this time eighteen years of age, and was studying at Verona.
The September of 1355 was a critical month for our poet. It was then that the tertian ague commonly attacked him, and this year it obliged him to pass a whole month in bed. He was just beginning to be convalescent, when, on the 9th of September, 1355, a friar, from the kingdom of Naples, entered his chamber, and gave him a letter from Barbato di Salmone. This was a great joy to him, and tended to promote the recovery of his health. Their correspondence had been for a long time interrupted by the wars, and the unsafe state of the public roads. This letter was full of enthusiasm and affection, and was addressed to Francis Petrarch, the king of poets. The friar had told Barbato that this title was given to Petrarch over all Italy. Our poet in his answer affected to refuse it with displeasure as far beyond his deserts. “There are only two king-poets,” he says, “the one in Greece, the other in Italy. The old bard of Maeonia occupies the former kingdom, the shepherd of Mantua is in possession of the latter. As for me, I can only reign in my transalpine solitude and on the banks of the Sorgue.”
Petrarch continued rather languid during autumn, but his health was re-established before the winter.
Early in the year 1356, whilst war was raging between Milan and the Lombard and Ligurian league, a report was spread that the King of Hungary had formed a league with the Emperor and the Duke of Austria, to invade Italy. The Italians in alarm sent ambassadors to the King of Hungary, who declared that he had no hostile intentions, except against the Venetians, as they had robbed him of part of Sclavonia. This declaration calmed the other princes, but not the Viscontis, who knew that the Emperor would never forget the manner in which they had treated him. They thought that it would be politic to send an ambassador to Charles, in order to justify themselves before him, or rather to penetrate into his designs, and no person seemed to be more fit for this commission than Petrarch. Our poet had no great desire to journey into the north, but a charge so agreeable and flattering made him overlook the fatigue of travelling. He wrote thus to Simonides on the day before his departure:—“They are sending me to the north, at the time when I am sighing for solitude and repose. But man was made for toil: the charge imposed on me does not displease me, and I shall be recompensed for my fatigue if I succeed in the object of my mission. The Lord of Liguria sends me to treat with the Emperor. After having conferred with him on public affairs, I reckon on being able to treat with him respecting my own, and be my own ambassador. I have reproached this prince by letter with his shameful flight from our country. I shall make him the same reproaches, face to face, and viva voce. In thus using my own liberty and his patience, I shall avenge at once Italy, the empire, and my own person. At my return I shall bury myself in a solitude so profound that toil and envy will not be able to find me out. Yet what folly! Can I flatter myself to find any place where envy cannot penetrate?”
[Illustration: MILAN CATHEDRAL.]
Next day he departed with Sacromoro di Pomieres, whose company was a great solace to him. They arrived at Basle, where the Emperor was expected; but they waited in vain for him a whole month. “This prince,” says Petrarch, “finishes nothing; one must go and seek him in the depths of barbarism.” It was fortunate for him that he stayed no longer, for, a few days after he took leave of Basle, the city was almost wholly destroyed by an earthquake.
Petrarch arrived at Prague in Bohemia towards the end of July, 1356. He found the Emperor wholly occupied with that famous Golden Bull, the provisions of which he settled with the States, at the diet of Nuremberg, and which he solemnly promulgated at another grand diet held at Christmas, in the same year. This Magna Charta of the Germanic constitution continued to be the fundamental law of the empire till its dissolution.
Petrarch made but a short stay at Prague, notwithstanding his Majesty’s wish to detain him. The Emperor, though sorely exasperated against the Visconti, had no thoughts of carrying war into Italy. His affairs in Germany employed him sufficiently, besides the embellishment of the city of Prague. At the Bohemian court our poet renewed a very amicable acquaintance with two accomplished prelates, Ernest, Archbishop of Pardowitz, and John Oczkow, Bishop of Olmuetz. Of these churchmen he speaks in the warmest terms, and he afterwards corresponded with them. We find him returned to Milan, and writing to Simonides on the 20th of September.
Some days after Petrarch’s return from Germany, a courier arrived at Milan with news of the battle of Poitiers, in which eighty thousand French were defeated by thirty thousand Englishmen, and in which King John of France was made prisoner.[M] Petrarch was requested by Galeazzo Visconti on this occasion to write for him two condoling letters, one to Charles the Dauphin, and another to the Cardinal of Boulogne. Petrarch was thunderstruck at the calamity of King John, of whom he had an exalted idea. “It is a thing,” he says, “incredible, unheard-of, and unexampled in history, that an invincible hero, the greatest king that ever lived, should have been conquered and made captive by an enemy so inferior.”
On this great event, our poet composed an allegorical eclogue, in which the King of France, under the name of Pan, and the King of England, under that of Articus, heartily abuse each other. The city of Avignon is brought in with the designation of Faustula. England reproaches the Pope with his partiality for the King of France, to whom he had granted the tithes of his kingdom, by which means he was enabled to levy an army. Articus thus apostrophizes Faustula:—
Ah meretrix oblique tuens,
ait Articus illi—
Immemorem sponsae cupidus
quam mungit adulter!
Haec tua tota fides, sic sic
aliena ministras!
Erubuit nihil ausa palam,
nisi mollia pacis
Verba, sed assuetis noctem
complexibus egit—
Ah, harlot! squinting with
lascivious brows
Upon a hapless wife’s
adulterous spouse,
Is this thy faith, to waste
another’s wealth.
The guilty fruit of perfidy
and stealth!
She durst not be my foe in
open light.
But in my foe’s embraces
spent the night.
Meanwhile, Marquard, Bishop of Augsburg, vicar of the Emperor in Italy, having put himself at the head of the Lombard league against the Viscontis, entered their territories with the German troops, and was committing great devastations. But the brothers of Milan turned out, beat the Bishop, and took him prisoner. It is evident, from these hostilities of the Emperor’s vicar against the Viscontis, that Petrarch’s embassy to Prague had not had the desired success. The Emperor, it is true, plainly told him that he had no thoughts of invading Italy in person. And this was true; but there is no doubt that he abetted and secretly supported the enemies of the Milan chiefs. Powerful as the Visconti were, their numerous enemies pressed them hard; and, with war on all sides, Milan was in a critical situation. But Petrarch, whilst war was at the very gates, continued retouching his Italian poetry.
At the commencement of this year, 1356, he received a letter from Avignon, which Socrates, Laelius, and Guido Settimo had jointly written to him. They dwelt all three in the same house, and lived in the most social union. Petrarch made them a short reply, in which he said, “Little did I think that I should ever envy those who inhabit Babylon. Nevertheless, I wish that I were with you in that house of yours, inaccessible to the pestilent air of the infamous city. I regard it as an elysium in the midst of Avernus.”
At this time, Petrarch received a diploma that was sent to him by John, Bishop of Olmuetz, Chancellor of the Empire, in which diploma the Emperor created him a count palatine, and conferred upon him the rights and privileges attached to this dignity. These, according to the French abridger of the History of Germany, consisted in creating doctors and notaries, in legitimatizing the bastards of citizens, in crowning poets, in giving dispensations with respect to age, and in other things. To this diploma sent to Petrarch was attached a bull, or capsule of gold. On one side was the impression of the Emperor, seated on his throne, with an eagle and lion beside him; on the other was the city of Rome, with its temples and walls. The Emperor had added to this dignity privileges which he granted to very few, and the Chancellor, in his communication, used very flattering terms. Petrarch says, in his letter of thanks, “I am exceedingly grateful for the signal distinction which the Emperor has graciously vouchsafed to me, and for the obliging terms with which you have seasoned the communication. I have never sought in vain for anything from his Imperial Majesty and yourself. But I wish not for your gold.”
In the summer of 1357, Petrarch, wishing to screen himself from the excessive heat, took up his abode for a time on the banks of the Adda at Garignano, a village three miles distant from Milan, of which he gives a charming description. “The village,” he says, “stands on a slight elevation in the midst of a plain, surrounded on all sides by springs and streams, not rapid and noisy like those of Vaucluse, but clear and modest. They wind in such a manner, that you know not either whither they are going, or whence they have come. As if to imitate the dances of the nymphs, they approach, they retire, they unite, and they separate alternately. At last, after having formed a kind of labyrinth, they all meet, and pour themselves into the same reservoir.” John Visconti had chosen this situation whereon to build a Carthusian monastery. This was what tempted Petrarch to found here a little establishment. He wished at first to live within the walls of the monastery, and the Carthusians made him welcome to do so; but he could not dispense with servants and horses, and he feared that the drunkenness of the former might trouble the silence of the sacred retreat. He therefore hired a house in the neighbourhood of the holy brothers, to whom he repaired at all hours of the day. He called this house his Linterno, in memory of Scipio Africanus, whose country-house bore that name. The peasants, hearing him call the domicile Linterno, corrupted the word into Inferno, and, from this mispronunciation, the place was often jocularly called by that name.
Petrarch was scarcely settled in this agreeable solitude, when he received a letter from his friend Settimo, asking him for an exact and circumstantial detail of his circumstances and mode of living, of his plans and occupations, of his son John, &c. His answer was prompt, and is not uninteresting. “The course of my life,” he says, “has always been uniform ever since the frost of age has quenched the ardour of my youth, and particularly that fatal flame which so long tormented me. But what do I say?” he continues; “it is a celestial dew which has produced this extinction. Though I have often changed my place of abode, I have always led nearly the same kind of life. What it is, none knows better than yourself. I once lived beside you for two years. Call to mind how I was then occupied, and you will know my present occupations. You understand me so well that you ought to be able to guess, not only what I am doing, but what I am dreaming.
“Like a traveller, I am quickening my steps in proportion as I approach the term of my course. I read and write night and day; the one occupation refreshes me from the fatigue of the other These are my employments—these are my pleasures. My tasks increase upon my hands; one begets another; and I am dismayed when I look at what I have undertaken to accomplish in so short a space as the remainder of my life. * * * My health is good; my body is so robust that neither ripe years, nor grave occupations, nor abstinence, nor penance, can totally subdue that kicking ass on whom I am constantly making war. I count upon the grace of Heaven, without which I should infallibly fall, as I fell in other times. All my reliance is on Christ. With regard to my fortune, I am exactly in a just mediocrity, equally distant from the two extremes * * * *
“I inhabit a retired corner of the city towards the west. Their ancient devotion attracts the people every Sunday to the church of St. Ambrosio, near which I dwell. During the rest of the week, this quarter is a desert.
“Fortune has changed nothing in my nourishment, or my hours of sleep, except that I retrench as much as possible from indulgence in either. I lie in bed for no other purpose than to sleep, unless I am ill. I hasten from bed as soon as I am awake, and pass into my library. This takes place about the middle of the night, save when the nights are shortest. I grant to Nature nothing but what she imperatively demands, and which it is impossible to refuse her.
“Though I have always loved solitude and silence, I am a great gossip with my friends, which arises, perhaps, from my seeing them but rarely. I atone for this loquacity by a year of taciturnity. I mutely recall my parted friends by correspondence. I resemble that class of people of whom Seneca speaks, who seize life in detail, and not by the gross. The moment I feel the approach of summer, I take a country-house a league distant from town, where the air is extremely pure. In such a place I am at present, and here I lead my wonted life, more free than ever from the wearisomeness of the city. I have abundance of everything; the peasants vie with each other in bringing me fruit, fish, ducks, and all sorts of game. There is a beautiful Carthusian monastery in my neighbourhood, where, at all hours of the day, I find the innocent pleasures which religion offers. In this sweet retreat I feel no want but that of my ancient friends. In these I was once rich; but death has taken away some of them, and absence robs me of the remainder. Though my imagination represents them, still I am not the less desirous of their real presence. There would remain but few things for me to desire, if fortune would restore to me but two friends, such as you and Socrates. I confess that I flattered myself a long time to have had you both with me. But, if you persist in your rigour, I must console myself with the company of my religionists. Their conversation, it is true, is neither witty nor profound, but it is simple and pious. Those good priests will be of great service to me both in life and death. I think I have now said enough about myself, and, perhaps, more than enough. You ask me about the state of my fortune, and you wish to know whether you may believe the rumours that are abroad about my riches. It is true that my income is increased; but so, also, proportionably, is my outlay. I am, as I have always been, neither rich nor poor. Riches, they say, make men poor by multiplying their wants and desires; for my part, I feel the contrary; the more I have the less I desire. Yet, I suppose, if I possessed great riches, they would have the same effect upon me as upon other people.
“You ask news about my son. I know not very well what to say concerning him. His manners are gentle, and the flower of his youth holds out a promise, though what fruit it may produce I know not. I think I may flatter myself that he will be an honest man. He has talent; but what avails talent without study! He flies from a book as he would from a serpent. Persuasions, caresses, and threats are all thrown away upon him as incitements to study. I have nothing wherewith to reproach myself; and I shall be satisfied if he turns out an honest man, as I hope he will. Themistocles used to say that he liked a man without letters better than letters without a man.”
In the month of August, 1357, Petrarch received a letter from Benintendi, the Chancellor of Venice, requesting him to send a dozen elegiac verses to be engraved on the tomb of Andrea Dandolo. The children of the Doge had an ardent wish that our poet should grant them this testimony of his friendship for their father. Petrarch could not refuse the request, and composed fourteen verses, which contain a sketch of the great actions of Dandolo. But they were verses of command, which the poet made in despite of the Muses and of himself.
In the following year, 1358, Petrarch was almost entirely occupied with his treatise, entitled, “De Remediis utriusque Fortunae,” (A Remedy against either extreme of Fortune.) This made a great noise when it appeared. Charles V. of France had it transcribed for his library, and translated; and it was afterwards translated into Italian and Spanish.
Petrarch returned to Milan, and passed the autumn at his house, the Linterno, where he met with an accident, that for some time threatened dangerous consequences. He thus relates it, in a letter to his friend, Neri Morandi:—“I have a great volume of the epistles of Cicero, which I have taken the pains to transcribe myself, for the copyists understand nothing. One day, when I was entering my library, my gown got entangled with this large book, so that the volume fell heavily on my left leg, a little above the heel. By some fatality, I treated the accident too lightly. I walked, I rode on horseback, according to my usual custom; but my leg became inflamed, the skin changed colour, and mortification began to appear. The pain took away my cheerfulness and sleep. I then perceived that it was foolish courage to trifle with so serious an accident. Doctors were called in. They feared at first that it would be necessary to amputate the limb; but, at last, by means of regimen and fomentation, the afflicted member was put into the way of healing. It is singular that, ever since my infancy, my misfortunes have always fallen on this same left leg. In truth, I have always been tempted to believe in destiny; and why not, if, by the word destiny, we understand Providence?”
As soon as his leg was recovered, he made a trip to Bergamo. There was in that city a jeweller named Enrico Capri, a man of great natural talents, who cherished a passionate admiration for the learned, and above all for Petrarch, whose likeness was pictured or statued in every room of his house. He had copies made at a great expense of everything that came from his pen. He implored Petrarch to come and see him at Bergamo. “If he honours my household gods,” he said, “but for a single day with his presence, I shall be happy all my life, and famous through all futurity.” Petrarch consented, and on the 13th of October, 1358, the poet was received at Bergamo with transports of joy. The governor of the country and the chief men of the city wished to lodge him in some palace; but Petrarch adhered to his jeweller, and would not take any other lodging but with his friend.
A short time after his return to Milan, Petrarch had the pleasure of welcoming to his house John Boccaccio, who passed some days with him. The author of the Decamerone regarded Petrarch as his literary master. He owed him a still higher obligation, according to his own statement; namely, that of converting his heart, which, he says, had been frivolous and inclined to gallantry, and even to licentiousness, until he received our poet’s advice. He was about forty-five years old when he went to Milan. Petrarch made him sensible that it was improper, at his age, to lose his time in courting women; that he ought to employ it more seriously, and turn towards heaven, the devotion which he misplaced on earthly beauties. This conversation is the subject of one of Boccaccio’s eclogues, entitled, “Philostropos.” His eclogues are in the style of Petrarch, obscure and enigmatical, and the subjects are muffled up under emblems and Greek names.
After spending some days with Petrarch, that appeared short to them both, Boccaccio, pressed by business, departed about the beginning of April, 1359. The great novelist soon afterwards sent to Petrarch from Florence a beautiful copy of Dante’s poem, written in his own hand, together with some indifferent Latin verses, in which he bestows the highest praises on the author of the Inferno. At that time, half the world believed that Petrarch was jealous of Dante’s fame; and the rumour was rendered plausible by the circumstance—for which he has accounted very rationally—that he had not a copy of Dante in his library.
In the month of May in this year, 1359, a courier from Bohemia brought Petrarch a letter from the Empress Anne, who had the condescension to write to him with her own hand to inform him that she had given birth to a daughter. Great was the joy on this occasion, for the Empress had been married five years, but, until now, had been childless. Petrarch, in his answer, dated the 23rd of the same month, after expressing his sense of the honour which her Imperial Majesty had done him, adds some common-places, and seasons
Petrarch repaired to Linterno, on the 1st of October, 1359; but his stay there was very short. The winter set in sooner than usual. The constant rains made his rural retreat disagreeable, and induced him to return to the city about the end of the month.
On rising, one morning, soon after his return to Milan, he found that he had been robbed of everything valuable in his house, excepting his books. As it was a domestic robbery, he could accuse nobody of it but his son John and his servants, the former of whom had returned from Avignon. On this, he determined to quit his house at St. Ambrosio, and to take a small lodging in the city; here, however, he could not live in peace. His son and servants quarrelled every day, in his very presence, so violently that they exchanged blows. Petrarch then lost all patience, and turned the whole of his pugnacious inmates out of doors. His son John had now become an arrant debauchee; and it was undoubtedly to supply his debaucheries that he pillaged his own father. He pleaded strongly to be readmitted to his home; but Petrarch persevered for some time in excluding him, though he ultimately took him back.
It appears from one of Petrarch’s letters, that many people at Milan doubted his veracity about the story of the robbery, alleging that it was merely a pretext to excuse his inconstancy in quitting his house at St. Ambrosio; but that he was capable of accusing his own son on false grounds is a suspicion which the whole character of Petrarch easily repels. He went and settled himself in the monastery of St. Simplician, an abbey of the Benedictines of Monte Cassino, pleasantly situated without the walls of the city.
He was scarcely established in his new home at St. Simplician’s, when Galeazzo Visconti arrived in triumph at Milan, after having taken possession of Pavia. The capture of this city much augmented the power of the Lords of Milan; and nothing was wanting to their satisfaction but the secure addition to their dominions of Bologna, to which Barnabo Visconti was laying siege, although John of Olegea had given it up to the Church in consideration of a pension and the possession of the city of Fermo.
This affair had thrown the court of Avignon into much embarrassment, and the Pope requested Nicholas Acciajuoli, Grand Seneschal of Naples, who had been sent to the Papal city by his Neapolitan Majesty, to return by way of Milan, and there negotiate a peace between the Church and Barnabo Visconti. Acciajuoli reached Milan at the end of May, very eager to see Petrarch, of whom he had heard much, without having yet made his acquaintance. Petrarch describes their first interview in a letter to Zanobi da Strada, and seems to have been captivated by the gracious manners of the Grand Seneschal.
With all his popularity, the Seneschal was not successful in his mission. When the Seneschal’s proposals were read to the impetuous Barnabo, he said, at the end of every sentence “Io voglio Bologna.” It is said that Petrarch detached Galeazzo Visconti from the ambitious projects of his brother; and that it was by our poet’s advice that Galeazzo made a separate peace with the Pope; though, perhaps, the true cause of his accommodation with the Church was his being in treaty with France and soliciting the French monarch’s daughter, Isabella, in marriage for his son Giovanni. After this marriage had been celebrated with magnificent festivities, Petrarch was requested by Galeazzo to go to Paris, and to congratulate the unfortunate King John upon his return to his country. Our poet had a transalpine prejudice against France; but he undertook this mission to its capital, and was deeply touched by its unfortunate condition.
If the aspect of the country in general was miserable, that of the capital was still worse. “Where is Paris,” exclaims Petrarch, “that metropolis, which, though inferior to its reputation, was, nevertheless, a great city?” He tells us that its streets were covered with briars and grass, and that it looked like a vast desert.
Here, however, in spite of its desolate condition, Petrarch witnessed the joy with which the Parisians received their King John and the Dauphin Charles. The King had not been well educated, yet he respected literature and learned men. The Dauphin was an accomplished prince; and our poet says that he was captivated by his modesty, sense, and information.
Petrarch arrived at Milan early in March, 1361, bringing letters from King John and his son the Dauphin, in which those princes entreat the two Lords of Milan to persuade Petrarch by every means to come and establish himself at their court. No sooner had he refused their pressing invitations, than he received an equally earnest request from the Emperor to accept his hospitality at Prague.
At this period, it had given great joy in Bohemia that the Empress had produced a son, and that the kingdom now possessed an heir apparent. His Imperial Majesty’s satisfaction made him, for once, generous, and he distributed rich presents among his friends. Nor was our poet forgotten on this occasion. The Emperor sent him a gold embossed cup of admirable workmanship, accompanied by a letter, expressing his high regard, and repeating his request that he would pay him a visit in Germany. Petrarch returned him a letter of grateful thanks, saying: “Who would not be astonished at seeing transferred to my use a vase consecrated by the mouth of Caesar? But I will not profane the sacred gift by the common use of it. It shall adorn my table only on days of solemn festivity.” With regard to the Imperial invitation, he concludes a long apology for not accepting it immediately, but promising that, as soon as the summer was over, if he could find a companion for the journey, he would go to the court of Prague, and remain as long as it pleased his Majesty, since the presence of Caesar would console him for the absence of his books, his friends, and his country. This epistle is dated July 17th, 1861.
Petrarch quitted Milan during this year, a removal for which various reasons are alleged by his biographers, though none of them appear to me quite satisfactory.
He had now a new subject of grief to descant upon. The Marquis of Montferrat, unable to contend against the Visconti, applied to the Pope for assistance. He had already made a treaty with the court of London, by which it was agreed that a body of English troops were to be sent to assist the Marquis against the Visconti. They entered Italy by Nice. It was the first time that our countrymen had ever entered the Saturnian land. They did no credit to the English character for humanity, but ravaged lands and villages, killing men and violating women. Their general appellation was the bulldogs of England. What must have been Petrarch’s horror at these unkennelled hounds! In one of his letters he vents his indignation at their atrocities; but, by-and-by, in the same epistle, he glides into his bookworm habit of apostrophizing the ancient heroes of Rome, Brutus, Camillus, and God knows how many more!
[Illustration: THE LIBRARY OF ST. MARK, ST. MARK’S PLACE, VENICE.]
The plague now again broke out in Italy; and the English and other predatory troops contributed much to spread its ravages. It extended to many places; but most of all it afflicted Milan.
It is probable that these disasters were among the causes of Petrarch’s leaving Milan. He settled at Padua, when the plague had not reached it. At this time, Petrarch lost his son John. Whether he died at Milan or at Padua is not certain, but, wherever he died, it was most probably of the plague. John had not quite attained his twenty-fourth year.
In the same year, 1361, he married his daughter Francesca, now near the age of twenty, to Francesco di Brossano, a gentleman of Milan. Petrarch speaks highly of his son-in-law’s talents, and of the mildness of his character. Boccaccio has drawn his portrait in the most pleasing colours. Of the poet’s daughter, also, he tells us, “that without being handsome, she had a very agreeable face, and much resembled her father.” It does not seem that she inherited his genius; but she was an excellent wife, a tender mother, and a dutiful daughter. Petrarch was certainly pleased both with her and with his son-in-law; and, if he did not live with the married pair, he was, at least, near them, and much in their society.
When our poet arrived at Padua, Francesco di Carrara, the son of his friend Jacopo, reigned there in peace and alone. He had inherited his father’s affection for Petrarch. Here, too, was his friend Pandolfo Malatesta, one of the bravest condottieri of the fourteenth century, who had been driven away from Milan by the rage and jealousy of Barnabo.
The plague, which still continued to infest Southern Europe in 1362, had even in the preceding year deprived our poet of his beloved friend Socrates, who died at Avignon. “He was,” says Petrarch, “of all men the dearest to my heart. His sentiments towards me never varied during an acquaintance of thirty-one years.”
The plague and war rendered Italy at this time so disagreeable to Petrarch, that he resolved on returning to Vaucluse. He, therefore, set out from Padua for Milan, on the 10th of January, 1362, reckoning that when the cold weather was over he might depart from the latter place on his route to Avignon. But when he reached Milan, he found that the state of the country would not permit him to proceed to the Alps.
The Emperor of Germany now sent Petrarch a third letter of invitation to come and see him, which our poet promised to accept; but alleged that he was prevented by the impossibility of getting a safe passage. Boccaccio, hearing that Petrarch meditated a journey to the far North, was much alarmed, and reproached him for his intention of dragging the Muses into Sarmatia, when Italy was the true Parnassus.
In June, 1362, the plague, which had begun its ravages at Padua, chased Petrarch from that place, and he took the resolution of establishing himself at Venice, which it had not reached. The course of the pestilence, like that of the cholera, was not general, but unaccountably capricious. Villani says that it acted like hail, which will desolate fields to the right and left, whilst it spares those in the middle. The war had not permitted our poet to travel either to Avignon or into Germany. The plague had driven him out of Milan and Padua. “I am not flying from death,” he said, “but seeking repose.”
Having resolved to repair to Venice, Petrarch as usual took his books along with him. From one of his letters to Boccaccio, it appears that it was his intention to bestow his library on some religious community, but, soon after his arrival at Venice, he conceived the idea of offering this treasure to the Venetian Republic. He wrote to the Government that he wished the blessed Evangelist, St. Mark, to be the heir of those books, on condition that they should all be placed in safety, that they should neither be sold nor separated, and that they should be sheltered from fire and water, and carefully preserved for the use and amusement of the learned and noble in Venice. He expressed his hopes, at the same time, that the illustrious city would acquire other trusts of the same kind for the good of the public, and that the citizens who loved their country, the nobles above all, and even strangers, would follow his example in bequeathing books to the church of St. Mark, which might one day contain a great collection similar to those of the ancients.
The procurators of the church of St. Mark having offered to defray the expense of lodging and preserving his library, the republic decreed that our poet’s offer did honour to the Venetian state. They assigned to Petrarch for his own residence a large palace, called the Two Towers, formerly belonging to the family of Molina. The mansion was very lofty, and commanded a prospect of the harbour. Our poet took great pleasure in this view, and describes it with vivid interest. “From this port,” he says, “I see vessels departing, which are as large as the house I inhabit, and which have masts taller than its towers. These ships resemble a mountain floating on the sea; they go to all parts of the world amidst a thousand dangers; they carry our wines to the English, our honey to the Scythians, our saffron, our oils, and our linen to the Syrians, Armenians, Persians, and Arabians; and, wonderful to say, convey our wood to the Greeks and Egyptians. From all these countries they bring back in return articles of merchandise, which they diffuse over all Europe. They go even as far as the Tanais. The navigation of our seas does not extend farther north; but, when they have arrived there, they quit their vessels, and travel on to trade with India and China; and, after passing the Caucasus and the Ganges, they proceed as far as the Eastern Ocean.”
It is natural to suppose that Petrarch took all proper precautions for the presentation of his books; nevertheless, they are not now to be seen at Venice. Tomasini tells us that they had been placed at the top of the church of St. Mark, that he demanded a sight of them, but that he found them almost entirely spoiled, and some of them even petrified.
Whilst Petrarch was forming his new establishment at Venice, the news arrived that Pope Innocent VI. had died on the 12th of September. “He was a good, just, and simple man,” says the continuator of Nangis. A simple man he certainly was, for he believed Petrarch to be a sorcerer on account of his reading Virgil. Innocent was succeeded in the pontificate, to the surprise of all the world, by William Grimoard, abbot of St. Victor at Marseilles, who took the title of Urban V. The Cardinals chose him, though he was not of their Sacred College, from their jealousy lest a pope should be elected from the opposite party of their own body. Petrarch rejoiced at his election, and ascribed it to the direct interference of Heaven. De Sade says that the new Pope desired Petrarch to be the apostolic secretary, but that he was not to be tempted by a gilded chain.
About this time Petrarch received news of the death of Azzo Correggio, one of his dearest friends, whose widow and children wrote to him on this occasion, the latter telling him that they regarded him as a father.
Boccaccio came to Venice to see Petrarch in 1363, and their meeting was joyous. They spent delightfully together the months of June, July, and August, 1363. Boccaccio had not long left him, when, in the following year, our poet heard of the death of his friend Laelius, and his tears were still fresh for his loss, when he received another shock in being bereft of Simonides. It requires a certain age and degree of experience to appreciate this kind of calamity, when we feel the desolation of losing our accustomed friends, and almost wish ourselves out of life that we may escape from its solitude. Boccaccio returned to Florence early in September, 1363.
In 1364, peace was concluded between Barnabo Visconti and Urban V. Barnabo having refused to treat with the Cardinal Albornoz, whom he personally hated, his Holiness sent the Cardinal Androine de la Roche to Italy as his legate. Petrarch repaired to Bologna to pay his respects to the new representative of the Pope. He was touched by the sad condition in which he found that city, which had been so nourishing when he studied at its university. “I seem,” he says, “to be in a dream when I see the once fair city desolated by war, by slavery, and by famine. Instead of the joy that once reigned here, sadness is everywhere spread, and you hear only sighs and wailings in place of songs. Where you formerly saw troops of girls dancing, there are now only bands of robbers and assassins.”
Lucchino del Verme, one of the most famous condottieri of his time, had commanded troops in the service of the Visconti, at whose court he made the acquaintance of Petrarch. Our poet invited him to serve the Venetians in the war in which they were engaged with the people of Candia. Lucchino went to Venice whilst Petrarch was absent, reviewed the troops, and embarked for Candia on board the fleet, which consisted
Shortly after these Venetian fetes, we find our poet writing a long letter to Boccaccio, in which he gives a curious and interesting description of the Jongleurs of Italy. He speaks of them in a very different manner from those pictures that have come down to us of the Provencal Troubadours. The latter were at once poets and musicians, who frequented the courts and castles of great lords, and sang their praises. Their strains, too, were sometimes satirical. They amused themselves with different subjects, and wedded their verses to the sound of the harp and other instruments. They were called Troubadours from the word trobar, “to invent.” They were original poets, of the true minstrel breed, similar to those whom Bishop Percy ascribes to England in the olden time, but about the reality of whom, as a professional body, Ritson has shown some cause to doubt. Of the Italian Jongleurs, Petrarch gives us a humble notion. “They are a class,” he says, “who have little wit, but a great deal of memory, and still more impudence. Having nothing of their own to recite, they snatch at what they can get from others, and go about to the courts of princes to declaim verses, in the vulgar tongue, which they have got by heart. At those courts they insinuate themselves into the favour of the great, and get subsistence and presents. They seek their means of livelihood, that is, the verses they recite, among the best authors, from whom they obtain, by dint of solicitation, and even by bribes of money, compositions for their rehearsal. I have often repelled their importunities, but sometimes, touched by their entreaties, I have spent hours in composing productions for them. I have seen them leave me in rags and poverty, and return, some time afterwards, clothed in silks, and with purses well furnished, to thank me for having relieved them.”
In the course of the same amusing correspondence with Boccaccio, which our poet maintained at this period, he gives an account of an atheist and blasphemer at Venice, with whom he had a long conversation. It ended in our poet seizing the infidel by the mantle, and ejecting him from his house with unceremonious celerity. This conclusion of their dialogue gives us a higher notion of Petrarch’s piety than of his powers of argument.
Petrarch went to spend the autumn of 1365 at Pavia, which city Galeazzo Visconti made his principal abode. To pass the winter till Easter, our poet returned first to Venice, and then to Padua, according to his custom, to do the duties of his canonry. It was then that his native Florence, wishing to recall a man who did her so much honour, thought of asking for him from the Pope the canonry of either Florence or Fiesole. Petrarch fully appreciated the shabby kindness of his countrymen. A republic that could afford to be lavish in all other expenses, limited their bounty towards him to the begging of a canonicate for him from his Holiness, though Florence had confiscated his father’s property. But the Pope had other views for him, and had actually appointed him to the canonry of Carpentras, when a false rumour of his death unhappily induced the Pontiff to dispose not only of that living, but of Parma and others which he had resigned to indigent friends.
During the February of 1366 there was great joy in the house of Petrarch, for his daughter, Francesca, the wife of Francesco di Brossano, gave birth to a boy, whom Donato degli Albanzani, a peculiarly-favoured friend of the poet’s, held over the baptismal font, whilst he was christened by the name of Francesco.
Meanwhile, our poet was delighted to hear of reformations in the Church, which signalized the commencement of Urban V.’s pontificate. After some hesitation, Petrarch ventured to write a strong advice to the Pope to remove the holy seat from Avignon to Rome. His letter is long, zealous, superstitious, and, as usual, a little pedantic. The Pope did not need this epistle to spur his intentions as to replacing the holy seat at Rome; but it so happened that he did make the removal no very long time after Petrarch had written to him.
On the 20th of July, 1366, our poet rose, as was his custom, to his matin devotions, and reflected that he was precisely then entering on his sixty-third year. He wrote to Boccaccio on the subject. He repeats the belief, at that time generally entertained, that the sixty-third year of a man’s life is its most dangerous crisis. It was a belief connected with astrology, and a superstitious idea of the influence of numbers; of course, if it retains any attention at present, it must subsist on practical observation: and I have heard sensible physicians, who had no faith in the influence of the stars, confess that they thought that time of life, commonly called the grand climacteric, a critical period for the human constitution.
In May, 1367, Pope Urban accomplished his determination to remove his court from Avignon in spite of the obstinacy of his Cardinals; but he did not arrive at Rome till the month of October. He was joyously received by the Romans; and, in addition to other compliments, had a long letter from Petrarch, who was then at Venice. Some days after the date of this letter, our poet received one from Galeazzo Visconti. The Pope, it seems, wished, at whatever price, to exterminate the Visconti. He thundered this year against Barnabo with a terrible bull, in which he published a crusade against him. Barnabo, to whom, with all his faults, the praise of courage cannot be denied, brought down his troops from the Po, in order to ravage Mantua, and to make himself master of that city. Galeazzo, his brother, less warlike, thought of employing negotiation for appeasing the storm; and he invited Petrarch to Pavia, whither our poet arrived in 1368. He attempted to procure a peace for the Visconti, but was not successful.
It was not, however, solely to treat for a peace with his enemies that Galeazzo drew our poet to his court. He was glad that he should be present at the marriage of his daughter Violante with Lionel, Duke of Clarence, son of Edward III. of England. The young English prince, followed by many nobles of our land, passed through France, and arrived at Milan on the 14th of May. His nuptials took place about a month later. At the marriage-dinner Petrarch was seated at the table where there were only princes, or nobles of the first rank. It is a curious circumstance that Froissart, so well known as an historian of England, came at this time to Milan, in the suite of the Duke of Clarence, and yet formed no acquaintance with our poet. Froissart was then only about thirty years old. It might have been hoped that the two geniuses would have become intimate friends; but there is no trace of their having even spoken to each other. Petrarch’s neglect of Froissart may not have been so wonderful; but it is strange that the latter should not have been ambitious to pay his court to the greatest poet then alive. It is imaginable, however, that Petrarch, with all his natural gentleness, was proud in his demeanour to strangers; and if so, Froissart was excusable for an equally-proud reserve.
In the midst of the fetes that were given for the nuptials of the English prince, Petrarch received news of the death of his grandchild. This little boy had died at Pavia, on the very day of the marriage of Lionel and Violante, when only two years and four months old. Petrarch caused a marble mausoleum to be erected over him, and twelve Latin lines of his own composition to be engraved upon it. He was deeply touched by the loss of his little grandson. “This child,” he says, “had a singular resemblance to me, insomuch that any one who had not seen its mother would have taken me for its father.”
A most interesting letter from Boccaccio to our poet found Petrarch at Pavia, whither he had retired from Milan, wearied with the marriage fetes. The summer season was now approaching, when he was accustomed to be ill; and he had, besides, got by the accident of a fall a bad contusion on his leg. He was anxious to return to Padua, and wished to embark on the Po. But war was abroad; the river banks were crowded with troops of the belligerent parties; and no boatmen could be found for some time who would go with him for love or money. At last, he found the master of a vessel bold enough to take him aboard. Any other vessel would have been attacked and pillaged; but Petrarch had no fear; and, indeed, he was stopped in his river passage only to be loaded with presents. He arrived in safety at Padua, on the 9th of June, 1368.
The Pope wished much to see our poet at Rome; but Petrarch excused himself on account of his health and the summer season, which was always trying to him. But he promised to repair to his Holiness as soon as his health should permit, not to ask benefices of the holy father, but only his blessing. During the same year, we find Petrarch complaining often and painfully of his bodily infirmities. In a letter to Coluccio Salutati, he says:—“Age, which makes others garrulous, only makes me silent. When young, I used to write many and long letters. At present, I write only to my particular friends, and even to them very short letters.” Petrarch was now sixty-four years old. He had never seen Pope Urban V., as he tells us himself; but he was very desirous of seeing him, and of seeing Rome adorned by the two great luminaries of the world, the Pope and the Emperor. Pope Urban, fearing the heats of Italy, to which he was not accustomed, had gone to pass the dog-days at Monte-Fiascone. When he returned to Rome, in October, on his arrival at the Colline gate, near the church of St. Angelo, he found the Emperor, who was waiting for him. The Emperor, the moment he saw his Holiness, dismounted from his horse, took the reins of that of the Pope, and conducted him on foot to the church of St. Peter. As to this submission of civil to ecclesiastical dignity, different opinions were entertained, even at Rome; and the wiser class of men disapproved of it. Petrarch’s opinion on the subject is not recorded; but, during this year, there is no proof that he had any connection with the Emperor; and my own opinion is that he did not approve of his conduct. It is certain that Petrarch condemned the Pope’s entering Rome at the head of 2000 soldiery. “The Roman Pontiff,” he remarks, “should trust to his dignity and to his sanctity, when coming into our capital, and not to an army with their swords and cuirasses. The cross of Jesus is the only standard which he ought to rear. Trumpets and drums were out of place. It would have been enough to have sung hallelujahs.”
Petrarch, in his letter to Boccaccio, in the month of September, says that he had got the fever; and he was still so feeble that he was obliged to employ the hand of a stranger in writing to him. He indites as follows:—“I have had the fever for forty days. It weakened me so much that I could not go to my church, though it is near my house, without being carried. I feel as if my health would never be restored. My constitution seems to be entirely worn out.” In another letter to the Cardinal Cabassole, who informed him of the Pope’s wish to see him, he says: “His Holiness does me more honour than I deserve. It is to you that I owe this obligation. Return a thousand thanks to the holy father in your own name and in mine.” The Pope was so anxious to see Petrarch that he wrote to him with his own hand, reproaching him for refusing his invitation. Our poet, after returning a second apology, passed the winter in making preparations for this journey; but before setting out he thought proper to make his will. It was written with his own hand at Padua.
In his testament he forbids weeping for his death, justly remarking that tears do no good to the dead, and may do harm to the living. He asks only prayers and alms to the poor who will pray for him. “As for my burial,” he says, “let it be made as my friends think fit. What signifies it to me where my body is laid?” He then makes some bequests in favour of the religious orders; and he founds an anniversary in his own church of Padua, which is still celebrated every year on the 9th of July.
Then come his legacies to his friends. He bequeathes to the Lord of Padua his picture of the Virgin, painted by Giotto; “the beauty of which,” he says, “is little known to the ignorant, though the masters of art will never look upon it without admiration.”
To Donato di Prato Vecchio, master of grammar at Venice, he leaves all the money that he had lent him. He bequeathes the horses he may have at his death to Bonzanello di Vigoncia and Lombardo da Serigo, two friends of his, citizens of Padua, wishing them to draw lots for the choice of the horses. He avows being indebted to Lombardo da Serigo 134 golden ducats, advanced for the expenses of his house. He also bequeathes to the same person a goblet of silver gilt (undoubtedly the same which the Emperor Charles had sent him in 1362). He leaves to John Abucheta, warden of his church, his great breviary, which he bought at Venice for 100 francs, on condition that, after his death, this breviary shall remain in the sacristy for the use of the future priests of the church. To John Boccaccio he bequeathes 50 gold florins of Florence, to buy him a winter-habit for his studies at night. “I am ashamed,” he adds, “to leave so small a sum to so great a man;” but he entreats his friends in general to impute the smallness of their legacies to that of his fortune. To Tomaso Bambasi, of Ferrara, he makes a present of his good lute, that he may make use of it in singing the praises of God. To Giovanni Dandi, physician of Padua, he leaves 50 ducats of gold, to buy a gold ring, which he may wear in remembrance of him.
[Illustration: FERRARA.]
He appoints Francesco da Brossano, citizen of Milan, his heir, and desires him, not only as his heir, but as his dear son, to divide into two parts the money he should find—the one for himself, the other for the person to whom it was assigned. “It would seem by this,” says De Sade, “that Petrarch would not mention his daughter by name in a public will, because she was not born in marriage.” Yet his shyness to name her makes it singular that he should style Brossano his son. In case Brossano should die before him, he appoints Lombardo da Serigo his eventual heir. De Sade considers the appointment as a deed of trust. With respect to his little property at Vaucluse, he leaves it to the hospital in that diocese. His last bequest is to his brother Gherardo, a Carthusian of Montrieux. He desires his heir to write to him immediately after his decease, and to give him the option of a hundred florins of gold, payable at once, or by five or ten florins every year.
A few days after he had made this will, he set out for Rome. The pleasure with which he undertook the journey made him suppose that he could support it. But when he reached Ferrara he fell down in a fit, in which he continued thirty hours, without sense or motion; and it was supposed that he was dead. The most violent remedies were used to restore him to consciousness, but he says that he felt them no more than a statue.
Nicholas d’Este II., the son of Obizzo, was at that time Lord of Ferrara, a friend and admirer of Petrarch. The physicians thought him dead, and the whole city was in grief. The news spread to Padua, Venice, Milan, and Pavia. Crowds came from all parts to his burial. Ugo d’Este, the brother of Nicholas, a young man of much merit, who had an enthusiastic regard for Petrarch, paid him unremitting attention during his illness. He came three or four times a day to see him, and sent messengers incessantly to inquire how he was. Our poet acknowledged that he owed his life to the kindness of those two noblemen.
When Petrarch was recovering, he was impatient to pursue his route, though the physicians assured him that he could not get to Rome alive. He would have attempted the journey in spite of their warnings, if his strength had seconded his desires, but he was unable to sit his horse. They brought him back to Padua, laid on a soft seat on a boat. His unhoped-for return caused as much surprise as joy in that city, where he was received by its lords and citizens with as much joy as if he had come back from the other world. To re-establish his health, he went to a village called Arqua, situated on the slope of a hill famous for the salubrity of its air, the goodness of its wines, and the beauty of its vineyards. An everlasting spring reigns there, and the place commands a view of pleasingly-scattered villas. Petrarch built himself a house on the high ground of the village, and he added to the vines of the country a great number of other fruit-trees.
He had scarcely fixed himself at Arqua, when he put his last hand to a work which he had begun in the year 1367. To explain the subject of this work, and the circumstances which gave rise to it, I think it necessary to state what was the real cause of our poet’s disgust at Venice. He appeared there, no doubt, to lead an agreeable life among many friends, whose society was delightful to him. But there reigned in this city what Petrarch thought licentiousness in conversation. The most ignorant persons were in the habit of undervaluing the finest geniuses. It fills one with regret to find Petrarch impatient of a liberty of speech, which, whatever its abuses may be, cannot be suppressed, without crushing the liberty of human thought. At Venice, moreover, the philosophy of Aristotle was much in vogue, if doctrines could be called Aristotelian, which had been disfigured by commentators, and still worse garbled by Averroes. The disciples of Averroes at Venice insisted on the world having been co-eternal with God, and made a joke of Moses and his book of Genesis. “Would the eternal architect,” they said, “remain from all eternity doing nothing? Certainly not! The world’s youthful appearance is owing to its revolutions, and the changes it has undergone by deluges and conflagrations.” “Those free-thinkers,” Petrarch tells us, “had a great contempt for Christ and his Apostles, as well as for all those who did not bow the knee to the Stagirite.” They called the doctrines of Christianity fables, and hell and heaven the tales of asses. Finally, they believed that Providence takes no care of anything under the region of the moon. Four young Venetians of this sect had attached themselves to Petrarch, who endured their society, but opposed their opinions. His opposition offended them, and they resolved to humble him in the public estimation. They constituted themselves a tribunal to try his merits: they appointed an advocate to plead for him, and they concluded by determining that he was a good man, but illiterate!
This affair made a great stir at Venice. Petrarch seems at first to have smiled with sensible contempt at so impertinent a farce; but will it be believed that his friends, and among them Donato and Boccaccio, advised and persuaded him to treat it seriously, and to write a book about it? Petrarch accordingly put his pen to the subject. He wrote a treatise, which he entitled “De sui ipsius et aliorum Ignorantia—” (On his own Ignorance, and on that of others).
Petrarch had himself formed the design of confuting the doctrines of Averroes; but he engaged Ludovico Marsili, an Augustine monk of Florence, to perform the task. This monk, in Petrarch’s opinion, possessed great natural powers, and our poet exhorts him to write against that rabid animal (Averroes) who barks with so much fury against Christ and his Apostles. Unfortunately, the rabid animals who write against the truths we are most willing to believe are difficult to be killed.
The good air of the Euganean mountains failed to re-establish the health of Petrarch. He continued ill during the summer of 1370. John di Dondi, his physician, or rather his friend, for he would have no physician, would not quit Padua without going to see him. He wrote to him afterwards that he had discovered the true cause of his disease, and that it arose from his eating fruits, drinking water, and frequent fastings. His medical adviser, also, besought him to abstain from all salted meats, and raw fruits, or herbs. Petrarch easily renounced salted provisions, “but, as to fruits,” he says, “Nature must have been a very unnatural mother to give us such agreeable food, with such delightful hues and fragrance, only to seduce her children with poison covered over with honey.”
Whilst Petrarch was thus ill, he received news very unlikely to forward his recovery. The Pope took a sudden resolution to return to Avignon. That city, in concert with the Queen of Naples and the Kings of France and Arragon, sent him vessels to convey him to Avignon. Urban gave as a reason for his conduct the necessity of making peace between the crowns of France and England, but no one doubted that the love of his own country, the difficulty of inuring himself to the climate of Rome, the enmity and rebellious character of the Italians, and the importunities of his Cardinals, were the true cause of his return. He was received with great demonstrations of joy; but St. Bridget had told him that if he went to Avignon he should die soon afterwards, and it so happened that her prophecy was fulfilled, for the Pope not long after his arrival in Provence was seized with a mortal illness, and died on the 19th of December, 1370. In the course of his pontificate, he had received two singular honours. The Emperor of the West had performed the office of his equerry, and the Emperor of the East abjured schism, acknowledging him as primate of the whole Christian Church.
The Cardinals chose as Urban’s successor a man who did honour to their election, namely, Pietro Rogero, nephew of Clement VI., who took the name of Gregory XI. Petrarch knew him, he had seen him at Padua in 1307, when the Cardinal was on his way to Rome, and rejoiced at his accession. The new Pontiff caused a letter to be written to our poet, expressing his wish to see him, and to be of service to him.
In a letter written about this time to his friend Francesco Bruni, we perceive that Petrarch is not quite so indifferent to the good things of the world as the general tenor of his letters would lead us to imagine. He writes:—“Were I to say that I want means to lead the life of a canon, I should be wrong, but when I say that my single self have more acquaintances than all the chapter put together, and, consequently, that I am put to more expenses in the way of hospitality, then I am right. This embarrassment increases every day, and my resources diminish. I have made vain efforts to free myself
“I am desirous to found a little oratory for the Virgin Mary; and shall do so, though I should sell or pawn my books. After that I shall go to Avignon, if my strength permits. If it does not, I shall send one of my people to the Cardinal Cabassole, and to you, that you may attempt to accomplish what I have often wished, but uselessly, as both you and he well know. If the holy father wishes to stay my old age, and put me into somewhat better circumstances, as he appears to me to wish, and as his predecessor promised me, the thing would be very easy. Let him do as it may please him, much, little, or nothing; I shall be always content. Only let him not say to me as Clement VI. used to do, ’ask what you wish for.’ I cannot do so, for several reasons. In the first place, I do not myself know exactly what would suit me. Secondly, if I were to demand some vacant place, it might be given away before my demand reached the feet of his Holiness. Thirdly, I might make a request that might displease him. His extreme kindness might pledge him to grant it; and I should be made miserable by obtaining it.
“Let him give me, then, whatever he pleases, without waiting for my petitioning for it. Would it become me, at my years, to be a solicitor for benefices, having never been so in my youth? I trust, in this matter, to what you may do with the Cardinal Sabina. You are the only friends who remain to me in that country. These thirty years the Cardinal has given me marks of his affection and good-will. I am about to write to him a few words on the subject; and I shall refer him to this letter, to save my repeating to him those miserable little details with which I should not detain you, unless it seemed to be necessary.”
A short time afterwards, Petrarch heard, with no small satisfaction, of the conduct of Cardinal Cabassole, at Perugia. When the Cardinal came to take leave of the Pope the evening before his departure for that city, he said, “Holy father, permit me to recommend Petrarch to you, on account of my love for him. He is, indeed, a man unique upon earth—a true phoenix.” Scarcely was he gone, when the Cardinal of Boulogne, making pleasantries on the word phoenix, turned into ridicule both the praises of Cabassole and him who was their object. Francesco Bruni, in writing to Petrarch about the kindness of
In the letter which Bruni wrote to Petrarch, to apprize him of Cabassole’s departure, and of what he had said to the Pope in his favour, he gave him notice of the promotion of twelve new cardinals, whom Gregory had just installed, with a view to balance the domineering authority of the others. “And I fear,” he adds, “that the Pope’s obligations to satiate those new and hungry comers may retard the effects of his good-will towards you.” “Let his Holiness satiate them,” replied Petrarch; “let him appease their thirst, which is more than the Tagus, the Pactolus, and the ocean itself could do—I agree to it; and let him not think of me. I am neither famished nor thirsty. I shall content myself with their leavings, and with what the holy father may think meet to give, if he deigns to think of me.”
Bruni was right. The Pope, beset by applications on all hands, had no time to think of Petrarch. Bruni for a year discontinued his correspondence. His silence vexed our poet. He wrote to Francesco, saying, “You do not write to me, because you cannot communicate what you would wish. You understand me ill, and you do me injustice. I desire nothing, and I hope for nothing, but an easy death. Nothing is more ridiculous than an old man’s avarice; though nothing is more common. It is like a voyager wishing to heap up provisions for his voyage when he sees himself approaching the end of it. The holy father has written me a most obliging letter: is not that sufficient for me? I have not a doubt of his good-will towards me, but he is encompassed by people who thwart his intentions. Would that those persons could know how much I despise them, and how much I prefer my mediocrity to the vain grandeur which renders them so proud!” After a tirade against his enemies in purple, evidently some of the Cardinals, he reproaches Bruni for having dwelt so long for lucre in the ill-smelling Avignon; he exhorts him to leave it, and to come and end his days at Florence. He says that he does not write to the Pope for fear of appearing to remind him of his promises. “I have received,” he adds, “his letter and Apostolic blessing; I beg you to communicate to his Holiness, in the clearest manner, that I wish for no more.”
From this period Petrarch’s health was never re-established. He was languishing with wishes to repair to Perugia, and to see his dear friend the Cardinal Cabassole. At the commencement of spring he mounted a horse, in order to see if he could support the journey; but his weakness was such that he could only ride a few steps. He wrote to the Cardinal expressing his regrets, but seems to console himself by recalling to his old friend the days they had spent together at Vaucluse, and their long walks, in which they often strayed so far, that the servant who came to seek for them and to announce that dinner was ready could not find them till the evening.
It appears from this epistle that our poet had a general dislike to cardinals. “You are not,” he tells Cabassole, “like most of your brethren, whose heads are turned by a bit of red cloth so far as to forget that they are mortal men. It seems, on the contrary, as if honours rendered you more humble, and I do not believe that you would change your mode of thinking if they were to put a crown on your head.” The good Cardinal, whom Petrarch paints in such pleasing colours, could not accustom himself to the climate of Italy. He had scarcely arrived there when he fell ill, and died on the 26th of August in the same year.
Of all the friends whom Petrarch had had at Avignon, he had now none left but Mattheus le Long, Archdeacon of Liege, with whom his ties of friendship had subsisted ever since they had studied together at Bologna. From him he received a letter on the 5th of January, 1372, and in his answer, dated the same day at Padua, he gives this picture of his condition, and of the life which he led:—
“You ask about my condition—it is this. I am, thanks to God, sufficiently tranquil, and free, unless I deceive myself, from all the passions of my youth. I enjoyed good health for a long time, but for two years past I have become infirm. Frequently, those around me have believed me dead, but I live still, and pretty much the same as you have known me. I could have mounted higher; but I wished not to do so, since every elevation is suspicious. I have acquired many friends and a good many books: I have lost my health and many friends; I have spent some time at Venice. At present I am at Padua, where I perform the functions of canon. I esteem myself happy to have quitted Venice, on account of that war which has been declared between that Republic and the Lord of Padua. At Venice I should have been suspected: here I am caressed. I pass the greater part of the year in the country, which I always prefer to the town. I repose, I write, I think; so you see that my way of life and my pleasures are the same as in my youth. Having studied so long it is astonishing that I have learnt so little. I hate nobody, I envy nobody. In that first season of life which is full of error and presumption, I despised all the world except myself. In middle life, I despised only myself. In my aged years,
In this letter, Petrarch speaks of a sharp war that had arisen between Venice and Padua. A Gascon, named Rainier, who commanded the troops of Venice, having thrown bridges over the Brenta, established his camp at Abano, whence he sent detachments to ravage the lands of Padua. Petrarch was in great alarm; for Arqua is only two leagues from Abano. He set out on the 15th of November for Padua, to put himself and his books under protection. A friend at Verona wrote to him, saying, “Only write your name over the door of your house, and fear nothing; it will be your safeguard.” The advice, it is hardly necessary to say, was absurd. Among the pillaging soldiery there were thousands who could not have read the poet’s name if they had seen it written, and of those who were accomplished enough to read, probably many who would have thought Petrarch as fit to be plundered as another man. Petrarch, therefore, sensibly replied, “I should be sorry to trust them. Mars respects not the favourites of the Muses; I have no such idea of my name, as that it would shelter me from the furies of war.” He was even in pain about his domestics, whom he left at Arqua, and who joined him some days afterwards.
Pandolfo Malatesta, learning what was passing in the Paduan territory, and the danger to which Petrarch was exposed, sent to offer him his horses, and an escort to conduct him to Pesaro, which was at that time his residence. He was Lord of Pesaro and Fossombrone. The envoy of Pandolfo found our poet at Padua, and used every argument to second his Lord’s invitation; but Petrarch excused himself on account of the state of his health, the insecurity of the highways, and the severity of the weather. Besides, he said that it would be disgraceful to him to leave Padua in the present circumstances, and that it would expose him to the suspicion of cowardice, which he never deserved.
Pandolfo earnestly solicited from Petrarch a copy of his Italian works. Our poet in answer says to him, “I have sent to you by your messenger these trifles which were the amusement of my youth. They have need of all your indulgence. It is shameful for an old man to send you things of this nature; but you have earnestly asked for them, and can I refuse you anything? With what grace could I deny you verses which are current in the streets, and are in the mouth of all the world, who prefer them to the more solid compositions that I have produced in my riper years?” This letter is dated at Padua, on the 4th of January, 1373. Pandolfo Malatesta died a short time after receiving it.
Several Powers interfered to mediate peace between Venice and Padua, but their negotiations ended in nothing, the spirits of both belligerents were so embittered. The Pope had sent as his nuncio for this purpose a young professor of law, named Uguzzone da Thiene, who was acquainted with Petrarch. He lodged with our poet when he came to Padua, and he communicated to him some critical remarks which had been written at Avignon on Petrarch’s letter to Pope Urban V., congratulating him on his return to Rome. A French monk of the order of St. Bernard passed for the author of this work. As it spoke irreverently of Italy, it stirred up the bile of Petrarch, and made him resume the pen with his sickly hand. His answer to the offensive production flows with anger, and is harsh even to abusiveness. He declaims, as usual, in favour of Italy, which he adored, and against France, which he disliked.
After a suspension the war was again conducted with fury, till at last a peace was signed at Venice on the 11th of September, 1373. The conditions were hard and humiliating to the chief of Padua. The third article ordained that he should come in person, or send his son, to ask pardon of the Venetian Republic for the insults he had offered her, and swear inviolable fidelity to her. The Carrara sent his son Francesco Novello, and requested Petrarch to accompany him. Our poet had no great wish to do so, and had too good an excuse in the state of his health, which was still very fluctuating, but the Prince importuned him, and he thought that he could not refuse a favour to such a friend.
Francesco Novello, accompanied by Petrarch, and by a great suite of Paduan gentlemen, arrived at Venice on the 27th of September, where they were well received, especially the poet. On the following day the chiefs of the maiden city gave him a public audience. But, whether the majesty of the Venetian Senate affected Petrarch, or his illness returned by accident, so it was that he could not deliver the speech which he had prepared, for his memory failed him. But the universal desire to hear him induced the Senators to postpone their sitting to the following day. He then spoke with energy, and was extremely applauded. Franceso Novello begged pardon, and took the oath of fidelity.
Francesco da Carrara loved and revered Petrarch, and used to go frequently to see him without ceremony in his small mansion at Arqua. The Prince one day complained to him that he had written for all the world excepting himself. Petrarch thought long and seriously about what he should compose that might please the Carrara; but the task was embarrassing. To praise him directly might seem sycophantish and fulsome to the Prince himself. To censure him would be still more indelicate. To escape the difficulty, he projected a treatise on the best mode of governing a State, and on the qualities required in the person who has such a charge. This subject furnished occasion for giving indirect praises, and, at the same time, for pointing out some defects which he had remarked in his patron’s government.
It cannot be denied that there are some excellent maxims respecting government in this treatise, and that it was a laudable work for the fourteenth century. But since that period the subject has been so often discussed by minds of the first order, that we should look in vain into Petrarch’s Essay for any truths that have escaped their observation. Nature offers herself in virgin beauty to the primitive poet. But abstract truth comes not to the philosopher, till she has been tried by the test of time.
After his return from Venice, Petrarch only languished. A low fever, that undermined his constitution, left him but short intervals of health, but made no change in his mode of life; he passed the greater part of the day in reading or writing. It does not appear, however, that he composed any work in the course of the year 1374. A few letters to Boccaccio are all that can be traced to his pen during that period. Their date is not marked in them, but they were certainly written shortly before his death. None of them possess any particular interest, excepting that always in which he mentions the Decameron.
It seems at first sight not a little astonishing that Petrarch, who had been on terms of the strictest friendship with Boccaccio for twenty-four years, should never till now have read his best work. Why did not Boccaccio send him his Decameron long before? The solution of this question must be made by ascribing the circumstance to the author’s sensitive respect for the austerely moral character of our poet.
It is not known by what accident the Decameron fell into Petrarch’s hands, during the heat of the war between Venice and Padua. Even then his occupations did not permit him to peruse it thoroughly; he only slightly ran through it, after which he says in his letter to Boccaccio, “I have not read your book with sufficient attention to pronounce an opinion upon it; but it has given me great pleasure. That which is too free in the work is sufficiently excusable for the age at which you wrote it, for its elegant language, for the levity of the subject, for the class of readers to whom it is suited. Besides, in the midst of much gay and playful matter, several grave and pious thoughts are to be found. Like the rest of the world, I have been particularly struck by the beginning and the end. The description which you give of the state of our country during the plague, appeared to me most true and most pathetic. The story which forms the conclusion made so vivid an impression on me, that I wished to get it by heart, in order to repeat it to some of my friends.”
Petrarch, perceiving that this touching story of Griseldis made an impression on all the world, had an idea of translating it into Latin, for those who knew not the vulgar tongue. The following anecdote respecting it is told by Petrarch himself:—“One of his friends, a man of knowledge and intellect, undertook to read it to a company; but he had hardly got into the midst of it, when his tears would not permit him to continue. Again he tried to resume the reading, but with no better success.”
Another friend from Verona having heard what had befallen the Paduan, wished to try the same experiment; he took up the composition, and read it aloud from beginning to end without the smallest change of voice or countenance, and said, in returning the book, “It must be owned that this is a touching story, and I should have wept, also, if I believed it to be true; but it is clearly a fable. There never was and there never will be such a woman as Griseldis."[N]
This letter, which Petrarch sent to Boccaccio, accompanied by a Latin translation of his story, is dated, in a MS. of the French King’s library, the 8th of June, 1374. It is perhaps, the last letter which he ever wrote. He complains in it of “mischievous people, who opened packets to read the letters contained in them, and copied what they pleased. Proceeding in their licence, they even spared themselves the trouble of transcription, and kept the packets themselves.” Petrarch, indignant at those violators of the rights and confidence of society, took the resolution of writing no more, and bade adieu to his friends and epistolary correspondence, “Valete amici, valete epistolae.”
Petrarch died a very short time after despatching this letter. His biographers and contemporary authors are not agreed as to the day of his demise, but the probability seems to be that it was the 18th of July. Many writers of his life tell us that he expired in the arms of Lombardo da Serigo, whom Philip Villani and Gianozzo Manetti make their authority for an absurd tradition connected with his death. They pretend that when he breathed his last several persons saw a white cloud, like the smoke of incense, rise to the roof of his chamber, where it stopped for some time and then vanished, a miracle, they add, clearly proving that his soul was acceptable to God, and ascended to heaven. Giovanni Manzini gives a different account. He says that Petrarch’s people found him in his library, sitting with his head reclining on a book. Having often seen him in this attitude, they were not alarmed at first; but, soon finding that he exhibited no signs of life, they gave way to their sorrow. According to Domenico Aretino, who was much attached to Petrarch, and was at that time at Padua, so that he may be regarded as good authority, his death was occasioned by apoplexy.
The news of his decease made a deep impression throughout Italy; and, in the first instance, at Arqua and Padua, and in the cities of the Euganean hills. Their people hastened in crowds to pay their last duties to the man who had honoured their country by his residence. Francesco da Carrara repaired to Arqua with all his nobility to assist at his obsequies. The Bishop went thither with his chapter and with all his clergy, and the common people flocked together to share in the general mourning.
The body of Petrarch, clad in red satin, which was the dress of the canons of Padua, supported by sixteen doctors on a bier covered with cloth of gold bordered with ermine, was carried to the parish church of Arqua, which was fitted up in a manner suitable to the ceremony. After the funeral oration had been pronounced by Bonaventura da Praga, of the order of the hermits of St. Augustin, the corpse was interred in a chapel which Petrarch himself had erected in the parish church in honour of the Virgin. A short time afterwards, Francesco Brossano, having caused a tomb of marble to be raised on four pillars opposite to the same church, transferred the body to that spot, and engraved over it an epitaph in some bad Latin lines, the rhyming of which is their greatest merit. In the year 1637, Paul Valdezucchi, proprietor of the house and grounds of Petrarch at Arqua, caused a bust of bronze to be placed above his mausoleum.
In the year 1630, his monument was violated by some sacrilegious thieves, who carried off some of his bones for the sake of selling them. The Senate of Venice severely punished the delinquents, and by their decree upon the subject testified their deep respect for the remains of this great man.
The moment the poet’s will was opened, Brossano, his heir, hastened to forward to his friends the little legacies which had been left them; among the rest his fifty florins to Boccaccio. The answer of that most interesting man is characteristic of his sensibility, whilst it unhappily shows him to be approaching the close of his life (for he survived Petrarch but a year), in pain and extreme debility. “My first impulse,” he says to Brossano, “on hearing of the decease of my master,” so he always denominated our poet, “was to have hastened to his tomb to bid him my last adieu, and to mix my tears with yours. But ever since I lectured in public on the Divina Commedia of Dante, which is now ten months, I have suffered under a malady which has so weakened and changed me, that you would not recognise me. I have totally lost the stoutness and complexion which I had when you saw me at Venice. My leanness is extreme, my sight is dim, my hands shake, and my knees totter, so that I can hardly drag myself to my country-house at Certaldo, where I only languish. After reading your letter, I wept a whole night for my dear master, not on his own account, for his piety permits us not to doubt that he is now happy, but for myself and for his friends whom he has left in this world, like a vessel in a stormy sea without a pilot. By my own grief I judge of yours, and of that of Tullia, my beloved sister, your worthy spouse. I envy Arqua the happiness of holding deposited in her soil him whose heart was the abode of the Muses, and the sanctuary of philosophy and eloquence. That village, scarcely known to Padua, will henceforth be famed throughout the world. Men will respect it like Mount Pausilippo for containing the ashes of Virgil, the shore of the Euxine for possessing the tomb of Ovid, and Smyrna for its being believed to be the burial-place of Homer.” Among other things, Boccaccio inquires what has become of his divine poem entitled Africa, and whether it had been committed to the flames, a fate with which Petrarch, from excess of delicacy, often threatened his compositions.
From this letter it appears that this epic, to which he owed the laurel and no small part of his living reputation, had not yet been published, with the exception of thirty-four verses, which had appeared at Naples through the indiscretion of Barbatus. Boccaccio said that Petrarch kept it continually locked up, and had been several times inclined to burn it. The author of the Decameron himself did not long survive his master: he died the 21st of December, 1375.
Petrarch so far succeeded in clearing the road to the study of antiquities, as to deserve the title which he justly retains of the restorer of classical learning; nor did his enthusiasm for ancient monuments prevent him from describing them with critical taste. He gave an impulse to the study of geography by his Itinerarium Syriacum. That science had been partially revived in the preceding century, by the publication of Marco Polo’s travels, and journeys to distant countries had been accomplished more frequently than before, not only by religious missionaries, but by pilgrims who travelled from purely rational curiosity: but both of these classes of travellers, especially the religionists, dealt profusely in the marvellous; and their falsehoods were further exaggerated by copyists, who wished to profit by the sale of MSS. describing their adventures. As an instance of the doubtful wonders related by wayfaring men, may be noticed what is told of Octorico da Pordenone, who met, at Trebizond, with a man who had trained four thousand partridges to follow him on journeys for three days together, who gathered around like chickens when he slept, and who returned home after he had sold to the Emperor as many of them as his imperial majesty chose to select.
His treatise, “De Remediis utriusque Fortunae” (On the Remedies for both Extremes of Fortune) was one of his great undertakings in the solitude of Vaucluse, though it was not finished till many years afterwards, when it was dedicated to Azzo Correggio. Here he borrows, of course, largely from the ancients; at the same time he treats us to some observations on human nature sufficiently original to keep his work from the dryness of plagiarism.
His treatise on “A Solitary Life” was written as an apology for his own love of retirement—retirement, not solitude, for Petrarch had the social feeling too strongly in his nature to desire a perfect hermitage. He loved to have a friend now and then beside him, to whom he might say how sweet is solitude. Even his deepest retirement in the “shut-up valley” was occasionally visited by dear friends, with whom his discourse was so interesting that they wandered in the woods so long and so far, that the servant could not find them to announce that their dinner was ready. In his rapturous praise of living alone, our poet, therefore, says more than he sincerely meant; he liked retirement, to be sure, but then it was with somebody within reach of him, like the young lady in Miss Porter’s novel, who was fond of solitude, and walked much in Hyde Park by herself, with her footman behind her.
His treatise, “De Otio Religiosorum,” was written in 1353, after an agreeable visit to his brother, who was a monk. It is a commendation of the monastic life. He may be found, I dare say, to exaggerate the blessing of that mode of life which, in proportion to our increasing activity and intelligence, has sunk in the estimation of Protestant society, so that we compare the whole monkish fraternity with the drones in a hive, an ignavum pecus, whom the other bees are right in expelling.
Though I shall never pretend to be the translator of Petrarch, I recoil not, after writing his Life, from giving a sincere account of the impression which his poetry produces on my mind. I have studied the Italian language with assiduity, though perhaps at a later period of my life than enables the ear to be perfectly sensitive to its harmony, for it is in youth, nay, almost in childhood alone, that the melody and felicitous expressions of any tongue can touch our deepest sensibility; but still I have studied it with pains—I believe I can thoroughly appreciate Dante; I can perceive much in Petrarch that is elevated and tender; and I approach the subject unconscious of the slightest splenetic prejudice.
I demur to calling him the first of modern poets who refined and dignified the language of love. Dante had certainly set him the example. It is true that, compared with his brothers of classical antiquity in love-poetry, he appears like an Abel of purity offering innocent incense at the side of so many Cains making their carnal sacrifices. Tibullus alone anticipates his tenderness. At the same time, while Petrarch is purer than those classical lovers, he is never so natural as they sometimes are when their passages are least objectionable, and the sun-bursts of his real, manly, and natural human love seem to me often to come to us straggling through the clouds of Platonism.
I will not expatiate on the concetti that may be objected to in many of his sonnets, for they are so often in such close connection with exquisitely fine thoughts, that, in tearing away the weed, we might be in danger of snapping the flower.
I feel little inclined, besides, to dwell on Petrarch’s faults with that feline dilation of vision which sees in the dark what would escape other eyes in daylight, for, if I could make out the strongest critical case against him, I should still have to answer this question, “How comes it that Petrarch’s poetry, in spite of all these faults, has been the favourite of the world for nearly five hundred years?”
So strong a regard for Petrarch is rooted in the mind of Italy, that his renown has grown up like an oak which has reached maturity amidst the storms of ages, and fears not decay from revolving centuries. One of the high charms of his poetical language is its pure and melting melody, a charm untransferable to any more northern tongue.
No conformation of words will charm the ear unless they bring silent thoughts of corresponding sweetness to the mind; nor could the most sonorous, vapid verses be changed into poetry if they were set to the music of the Spheres. It is scarcely necessary to say that Petrarch has intellectual graces of thought and spiritual felicities of diction, without which his tactics in the mere march of words would be a worthless skill.
The love of Petrarch was misplaced, but its utterance was at once so fervid and delicate, and its enthusiasm so enduring, that the purest minds feel justified in abstracting from their consideration the unhappiness of the attachment, and attending only to its devout fidelity. Among his deepest admirers we shall find women of virtue above suspicion, who are willing to forget his Laura being married, or to forgive the circumstance for the eloquence of his courtship and the unwavering faith of his affection. Nor is this predilection for Petrarch the result of female vanity and the mere love of homage. No; it is a wise instinctive consciousness in women that the offer of love to them, without enthusiasm, refinement, and constancy, is of no value at all. Without these qualities in their wooers, they are the slaves of the stronger sex. It is no wonder, therefore, that they are grateful to Petrarch for holding up the perfect image of a lover, and that they regard him as a friend to that passion, on the delicacy and constancy of which the happiness, the most hallowed ties, and the very continuance of the species depend.
In modern Italian criticism there are two schools of taste, whose respective partizans may be called the Petrarchists and the Danteists. The latter allege that Petrarch’s amatory poetry, from its platonic and mystic character, was best suited to the age of cloisters, of dreaming voluptuaries, and of men living under tyrannical Governments, whose thoughts and feelings were oppressed and disguised. The genius of Dante, on the other hand, they say, appeals to all that is bold and natural in the human breast, and they trace the grand revival of his popularity in our own times to the re-awakened spirit of liberty. On this side of the question the most eminent Italian scholars and poets are certainly ranged. The most gifted man of that country with whom I was ever personally acquainted, Ugo Foscolo, was a vehement Danteist. Yet his copious memory was well stored with many a sonnet of Petrarch, which he could repeat by heart; and with all his Danteism, he infused the deepest tones of admiration into his recitation of the Petrarchan sonnets.
And altogether, Foscolo, though a cautious, is a candid admirer of our poet. He says, “The harmony, elegance, and perfection of his poetry are the result of long labour; but its original conceptions and pathos always sprang from the sudden inspiration of a deep and powerful passion. By an attentive perusal of all the writings of Petrarch, it may be reduced almost to a certainty that, by dwelling perpetually on the same ideas, and by allowing his mind to prey incessantly on itself, the whole train of his feelings and reflections acquired one strong character and tone, and, if he was ever able to suppress them for a time, they returned to him with increased violence; that, to tranquillize this agitated state of his mind, he, in the first instance, communicated in a free
I quote Ugo Foscolo, because he is not only a writer of strong poetic feeling as well as philosophic judgment, but he is pre-eminent in that Italian critical school who see the merits of Petrarch in no exaggerated light, but, on the whole, prefer Dante to him as a poet. Petrarch’s love-poetry, Foscolo remarks, may be considered as the intermediate link between that of the classics and the moderns. * * * * Petrarch both feels like the ancient and philosophizes like the modern poets. When he paints after the manner of the classics, he is equal to them.
I despair of ever seeing in English verse a translation of Petrarch’s Italian poetry that shall be adequate and popular. The term adequate, of course, always applies to the translation of genuine poetry in a subdued sense. It means the best that can be expected, after making allowance for that escape of etherial spirit which is inevitable in the transfer of poetic thoughts from one language to another. The word popular is also to be taken in a limited meaning regarding all translations. Cowper’s ballad of John Gilpin is twenty times more popular than his Homer; yet the latter work is deservedly popular in comparison with the bulk of translations from antiquity. The same thing may be said of Cary’s Dante; it is, like Cowper’s Homer, as adequate and popular as translated poetry can be expected to be. Yet I doubt if either of those poets could have succeeded so well with Petrarch. Lady Dacre has shown much grace and ingenuity in the passages of our poet which she has versified; but she could not transfer into English those graces of Petrarchan diction, which are mostly intransferable. She could not bring the Italian language along with her.
Is not this, it may be asked, a proof that Petrarch is not so genuine a poet as Homer and Dante, since his charm depends upon the delicacies of diction that evaporate in the transfer from tongue to tongue, more than on hardy thoughts that will take root in any language to which they are transplanted? In a general view, I agree with this proposition; yet, what we call felicitous diction can never have a potent charm without refined thoughts, which, like essential odours, may be too impalpable to bear transfusion. Burns has the happiest imaginable Scottish diction; yet, what true Scotsman would bear to see him done into French? And, with the exception of German, what language has done justice to Shakespeare?
The reader must be a true Petrarchist who is unconscious of a general similarity in the character of his sonnets, which, in the long perusal of them, amounts to monotony. At the same time, it must be said that this monotonous similarity impresses the mind of Petrarch’s reader exactly in proportion to the slenderness of his acquaintance with the poet. Does he approach Petrarch’s sonnets for the first time, they will probably appear to him all as like to each other as the sheep of a flock; but, when he becomes more familiar with them, he will perceive an interesting individuality in every sonnet, and will discriminate their individual character as precisely as the shepherd can distinguish every single sheep of his flock by its voice and face. It would be rather tedious to pull out, one by one, all the sheep and lambs of our poet’s flock of sonnets, and to enumerate the varieties of their bleat; and though, by studying the subject half his lifetime, a man might classify them by their main characteristics, he would find they defy a perfect classification, as they often blend different qualities. Some of them have a uniform expression of calm and beautiful feeling. Others breathe ardent and almost hopeful passion. Others again show him jealous, despondent, despairing; sometimes gloomily, and sometimes with touching resignation. But a great many of them have a mixed character, where, in the space of a line, he passes from one mood of mind to another.
As an example of pleasing and calm reflection, I would cite the first of his sonnets, according to the order in which they are usually printed. It is singular to find it confessing the poet’s shame at the retrospect of so many years spent.
Voi ch’ ascoltate in rime sparse il suono.
Ye who shall hear amidst my
scatter’d lays
The sighs with which I fann’d
and fed my heart.
When, young and glowing, I
was but in part
The man I am become in later
days;
Ye who have mark’d the
changes of my style
From vain despondency to hope
as vain,
From him among you, who has
felt love’s pain,
I hope for pardon, ay, and
pity’s smile,
Though conscious, now, my
passion was a theme,
Long, idly dwelt on by the
public tongue,
I blush for all the vanities
I’ve sung,
And find the world’s
applause a fleeting dream.
The following sonnet (cxxvi.) is such a gem of Petrarchan and Platonic homage to beauty that I subjoin my translation of it with the most sincere avowal of my conscious inability to do it justice.
In what ideal world or part
of heaven
Did Nature find the model
of that face
And form, so fraught with
loveliness and grace,
In which, to our creation,
she has given
Her prime proof of creative
power above?
What fountain nymph or goddess
ever let
Such lovely tresses float
of gold refined
Upon the breeze, or in a single
Sonnet lxix. is remarkable for the fineness of its closing thought.
Time was her tresses by the
breathing air
Were wreathed to many a ringlet
golden bright,
Time was her eyes diffused
unmeasured light,
Though now their lovely beams
are waxing rare,
Her face methought that in
its blushes show’d
Compassion, her angelic shape
and walk,
Her voice that seem’d
with Heaven’s own speech to talk;
At these, what wonder that
my bosom glow’d!
A living sun she seem’d—a
spirit of heaven.
Those charms decline:
but does my passion? No!
I love not less—the
slackening of the bow
Assuages not the wound its
shaft has given.
The following sonnet is remarkable for its last four lines having puzzled all the poet’s commentators to explain what he meant by the words “Al man ond’ io scrivo e fatta arnica, a questo volta.” I agree with De Sade in conjecturing that Laura in receiving some of his verses had touched the hand that presented them, in token of her gratitude.[O]
In solitudes I’ve ever
loved to abide
By woods and streams, and
shunn’d the evil-hearted,
Who from the path of heaven
are foully parted;
Sweet Tuscany has been to
me denied,
Whose sunny realms I would
have gladly haunted,
Yet still the Sorgue his beauteous
hills among
Has lent auxiliar murmurs
to my song,
And echoed to the plaints
my love has chanted.
Here triumph’d, too,
the poet’s hand that wrote
These lines—the
power of love has witness’d this.
Delicious victory! I
know my bliss,
She knows it too—the
saint on whom I dote.
Of Petrarch’s poetry that is not amatory, Ugo Foscolo says with justice, that his three political canzoni, exquisite as they are in versification and style, do not breathe that enthusiasm which opened to Pindar’s grasp all the wealth of imagination, all the treasures of historic lore and moral truth, to illustrate and dignify his strain. Yet the vigour, the arrangement, and the perspicuity of the ideas in these canzoni of Petrarch, the tone of conviction and melancholy in which the patriot upbraids and mourns over his country, strike the heart with such force, as to atone for the absence of grand and exuberant imagery, and of the irresistible impetus which peculiarly belongs to the ode.
Petrarch’s principal Italian poem that is not thrown into the shape of the sonnet is his Trionfi, or Triumphs, in five parts. Though not consisting of sonnets, however, it has the same amatory and constant allusions to Laura as the greater part of his poetry. Here, as elsewhere, he recurs from time to time to the history of his passion, its rise, its progress, and its end. For this purpose, he describes human life in its successive stages, omitting no opportunity of introducing his mistress and himself.
1. Man in his youthful state is the slave of love. 2. As he advances in age, he feels the inconveniences of his amatory propensities, and endeavours to conquer them by chastity. 3. Amidst the victory which he obtains over himself, Death steps in, and levels alike the victor and the vanquished. 4. But Fame arrives after death, and makes man as it were live again after death, and survive it for ages by his fame. 5. But man even by fame cannot live for ever, if God has not granted him a happy existence throughout eternity. Thus Love triumphs over Man; Chastity triumphs over Love; Death triumphs over both; Fame triumphs over Death; Time triumphs over Fame; and Eternity triumphs over Time.
The subordinate parts and imagery of the Trionfi have a beauty rather arabesque than classical, and resembling the florid tracery of the later oriental Gothic architecture. But the whole effect of the poem is pleasing, from the general grandeur of its design.
In summing up Petrarch’s character, moral, political, and poetical, I should not stint myself to the equivocal phrase used by Tacitus respecting Agricola: Bonum virum facile dixeris, magnum libenter, but should at once claim for his memory the title both of great and good. A restorer of ancient learning, a rescuer of its treasures from oblivion, a despiser of many contemporary superstitions, a man, who, though no reformer himself, certainly contributed to the Reformation, an Italian patriot who was above provincial partialities, a poet who still lives in the hearts of his country, and who is shielded from oblivion by more generations than there were hides in the sevenfold shield of Ajax—if this was not a great man, many who are so called must bear the title unworthily. He was a faithful friend, and a devoted lover, and appears to have been one of the most fascinating beings that ever existed. Even when his failings were admitted, it must still be said that even his failings leaned to virtue’s side, and, altogether we may pronounce that
His life was gentle, and the
elements
So mix’d in him that
Nature might stand up
And say to all the world,
“This was a man!”
[Footnote A: Before the publication of De Sade’s “Memoires pour la vie de Petrarque” the report was that Petrarch first saw Laura at Vaucluse. The truth of their first meeting in the church of St. Clara depends on the authenticity of the famous note on the M.S. Virgil of Petrarch, which is now in the Ambrosian Library at Milan.]
[Footnote B: Petrarch, in his dialogue with St. Augustine, states that he was older than Laura by a few years.]
[Footnote C: “The Floral games were instituted in France in 1324. They were founded by Clementina Isaure, Countess of Toulouse, and annually celebrated in the month of May. The Countess published an edict, which assembled all the poets of France, in artificial arbours, dressed with flowers; and he that produced the best poem was rewared with a violet of gold. There were, likewise, inferior prizes of flowers made in silver. In the meantime, the conquerors were crowned with natural chaplets of their own respective flowers. During the ceremony degrees were also conferred. He who had won a prize three times was pronounced a doctor ‘en gaye science,’ the name of the poetry of the Provencal Troubadours. This institution, however fantastic, soon became common, through the whole of France.”—Warton’s History of English Poetry, vol i. p 467.]
[Footnote D: I have transferred the following anecdote from Levati’s Viaggi di Petrarea (vol. i. p. 119 et seq.). It behoves me to confess, however, that I recollect no allusion to it in any of Petrarch’s letters, and I have found many things in Levati’s book which make me distrust his authority.]
[Footnote E: Quest’ anima gentil che si disparte.—Sonnet xxiii.]
[Footnote F: Dated 21st December. 1335.]
[Footnote G: Guido Sette of Luni, in the Genoese territory, studied law together with Petrarch; but took to it with better liking. He devoted himself to the business of the bar at Avignon with much reputation. But the legal and clerical professions were then often united; for Guido rose in the church to be an archbishop. He died in 1368, renowned as a church luminary.]
[Footnote H: Canzoni 8, 9, and 10.]
[Footnote I: Valery, in his “Travels in Italy” gives the following note respecting out poet. I quote from the edition of the work published at Brussels in 1835:—“Petrarque rapporte dans ses lettres latines que le laurier du Capitole lui avait attire une multitude d’envieux; que le jour de son couronnement, au lieu d’eau odorante qu’il etait d’usage de repandre dans ces solennites, il recut sur la tete une eau corrosive, qui le rendit chauve le reste de sa vie. Son historien Dolce raconte meme qu’une vieille lui jetta son pot de chambre rempli d’une acre urine, gardee, peut-etre, pour cela depuis sept semaines.”]
[Footnote J: Sonnet cxcvi.]
[Footnote K: Translation.—In the twenty-fifth year of his age, after a short though happy existence, our John departed this life in the year of Christ 1361, on the 10th of July, or rather on the 9th, at the midhour between Friday and Saturday. Sent into the world to my mortification and suffering, he was to me in life the cause of deep and unceasing solicitude, and in death of poignant grief. The news reached me on the evening of the 13th of the same month that he had fallen at Milan, in the general mortality caused by that unwonted scourge which at
[Footnote L: Petrarch’s words are: “civi servare suo;” but he takes the liberty of considering Charles as—adoptively—Italian, though that Prince was born at Prague.]
[Footnote M: Most historians relate that the English, at Poitiers, amounted to no more than eight or ten thousand men; but, whether they consisted of eight thousand or thirty thousand, the result was sufficiently glorious for them, and for their brave leader, the Black Prince.]
[Footnote N: This is the story of the patient Grisel, which is familiar in almost every language.]
[Footnote O: Cercato ho sempre solitaria vita.—Sonnet 221, De Sade, vol. ii. p. 8.]
[Illustration: LAURA.]
ETC.
SONNET I.
Voi, ch’ ascoltate in rime sparse il suono.
Ye who in rhymes
dispersed the echoes hear
Of those sad sighs with which
my heart I fed
When early youth my mazy wanderings
led,
Fondly diverse from what I
now appear,
Fluttering ’twixt frantic
hope and frantic fear,
From those by whom my various
style is read,
I hope, if e’er their
hearts for love have bled,
Not only pardon, but perhaps
a tear.
But now I clearly see that
of mankind
Long time I was the tale:
whence bitter thought
And self-reproach with frequent
blushes teem;
While of my frenzy, shame
the fruit I find,
And sad repentance, and the
proof, dear-bought,
That the world’s joy
is but a flitting dream.
CHARLEMONT.
O ye, who list
in scatter’d verse the sound
Of all those sighs with which
my heart I fed,
When I, by youthful error
first misled,
Unlike my present self in
heart was found;
Who list the plaints, the
reasonings that abound
Throughout my song, by hopes,
and vain griefs bred;
If e’er true love its
influence o’er ye shed,
Oh! let your pity be with
pardon crown’d.
But now full well I see how
to the crowd
For length of time I proved
a public jest:
E’en by myself my folly
is allow’d:
And of my vanity the fruit
is shame,
Repentance, and a knowledge
strong imprest,
That worldly pleasure is a
passing dream.
NOTT.
Ye, who may listen
to each idle strain
Bearing those sighs, on which
my heart was fed
In life’s first morn,
by youthful error led,
(Far other then from what
I now remain!)
That thus in varying numbers
I complain,
Numbers of sorrow vain and
vain hope bred,
If any in love’s lore
be practised,
His pardon,—e’en
his pity I may obtain:
But now aware that to mankind
my name
Too long has been a bye-word
and a scorn,
I blush before my own severer
thought;
Of my past wanderings the
sole fruit is shame,
And deep repentance, of the
knowledge born
That all we value in this
world is naught.
DACRE.
SONNET II.
Per far una leggiadra sua vendetta.
HOW HE BECAME THE VICTIM OF LOVE.
For many a crime
at once to make me smart,
And a delicious vengeance
to obtain,
Love secretly took up his
bow again,
As one who acts the cunning
coward’s part;
My courage had retired within
my heart,
There to defend the pass bright
eyes might gain;
When his dread archery was
pour’d amain
Where blunted erst had fallen
every dart.
Scared at the sudden brisk
attack, I found
Nor time, nor vigour to repel
the foe
With weapons suited to the
direful need;
No kind protection of rough
rising ground,
Where from defeat I might
securely speed,
Which fain I would e’en
now, but ah, no method know!
NOTT.
One sweet and
signal vengeance to obtain
To punish in a day my life’s
long crime,
As one who, bent on harm,
waits place and time,
Love craftily took up his
bow again.
My virtue had retired to watch
my heart,
Thence of weak eyes the danger
to repell,
When momently a mortal blow
there fell
Where blunted hitherto dropt
every dart.
And thus, o’erpower’d
in that first attack,
She had nor vigour left enough,
nor room
Even to arm her for my pressing
need,
Nor to the steep and painful
mountain back
To draw me, safe and scathless
from that doom,
Whence, though alas! too weak,
she fain had freed.
MACGREGOR.
Era ‘l giorno ch’ al sol si scoloraro.
HE BLAMES LOVE FOR WOUNDING HIM ON A HOLY DAY (GOOD FRIDAY).
’Twas on
the morn, when heaven its blessed ray
In pity to its suffering master
veil’d,
First did I, Lady, to your
beauty yield,
Of your victorious eyes th’
unguarded prey.
Ah! little reck’d I
that, on such a day,
Needed against Love’s
arrows any shield;
And trod, securely trod, the
fatal field:
Whence, with the world’s,
began my heart’s dismay.
On every side Love found his
WRANGHAM.
’Twas on
the blessed morning when the sun
In pity to our Maker hid his
light,
That, unawares, the captive
I was won,
Lady, of your bright eyes
which chain’d me quite;
That seem’d to me no
time against the blows
Of love to make defence, to
frame relief:
Secure and unsuspecting, thus
my woes
Date their commencement from
the common grief.
Love found me feeble then
and fenceless all,
Open the way and easy to my
heart
Through eyes, where since
my sorrows ebb and flow:
But therein was, methinks,
his triumph small,
On me, in that weak state,
to strike his dart,
Yet hide from you so strong
his very bow.
MACGREGOR.
Quel ch’ infinita providenza ed arte.
HE CELEBRATES THE BIRTHPLACE OF LAURA.
He that with wisdom,
goodness, power divine,
Did ample Nature’s perfect
book design,
Adorn’d this beauteous
world, and those above,
Kindled fierce Mars, and soften’d
milder Jove:
When seen on earth the shadows
to fulfill
Of the less volume which conceal’d
his will,
Took John and Peter from their
homely care,
And made them pillars of his
temple fair.
Nor in imperial Rome would
He be born,
Whom servile Judah yet received
with scorn:
E’en Bethlehem could
her infant King disown,
And the rude manger was his
early throne.
Victorious sufferings did
his pomp display,
Nor other chariot or triumphal
way.
At once by Heaven’s
example and decree,
Such honour waits on such
humility.
BASIL KENNET.
The High Eternal,
in whose works supreme
The Master’s vast creative
power hath spoke:
At whose command each circling
sphere awoke,
Jove mildly rose, and Mars
with fiercer beam:
To earth He came, to ratify
the scheme
Reveal’d to us through
prophecy’s dark cloak,
To sound redemption, speak
man’s fallen yoke:
He chose the humblest for
that heavenly theme.
But He conferr’d not
on imperial Rome
His birth’s renown;
He chose a lowlier sky,—
To stand, through Him, the
proudest spot on earth!
And now doth shine within
its humble home
A star, that doth each other
so outvie,
That grateful nature hails
its lovely birth.
WOLLASTON.
Who show’d
such infinite providence and skill
In his eternal government
divine,
Who launch’d the spheres,
gave sun and moon to shine,
And brightest wonders the
dark void to fill;
On earth who came the Scriptures
to maintain,
Which for long years the truth
had buried yet,
Took John and Peter from the
fisher’s net
And gave to each his part
in the heavenly reign.
He for his birth fair Rome
preferr’d not then,
But lowly Bethlehem; thus
o’er proudest state
He ever loves humility to
raise.
Now rises from small spot
like sun again,
Whom Nature hails, the place
grows bright and great
Which birth so heavenly to
our earth displays.
MACGREGOR.
Quand’ io movo i sospiri a chiamar voi.
HE PLAYS UPON THE NAME LAURETA OR LAURA.
In sighs when
I outbreathe your cherish’d name,
That name which love has writ
upon my heart,
LAUd instantly upon my doting
tongue,
At the first thought of its
sweet sound, is heard;
Your REgal state, which I
encounter next,
Doubles my valour in that
high emprize:
But TAcit ends the word; your
praise to tell
Is fitting load for better
backs than mine.
Thus all who call you, by
the name itself,
Are taught at once to LAUd
and to REvere,
O worthy of all reverence
and esteem!
Save that perchance Apollo
may disdain
That mortal tongue of his
immortal boughs
Should ever so presume as
e’en to speak.
ANON.
Si traviato e ’l folle mio desio.
OF HIS FOOLISH PASSION FOR LAURA.
So wayward now
my will, and so unwise,
To follow her who turns from
me in flight,
And, from love’s fetters
free herself and light,
Before my slow and shackled
motion flies,
That less it lists, the more
my sighs and cries
Would point where passes the
safe path and right,
Nor aught avails to check
or to excite,
For Love’s own nature
curb and spur defies.
Thus, when perforce the bridle
he has won,
And helpless at his mercy
I remain,
Against my will he speeds
me to mine end
’Neath yon cold laurel,
whose false boughs upon
Hangs the harsh fruit, which,
tasted, spreads the pain
I sought to stay, and mars
where it should mend.
MACGREGOR.
My tameless will
doth recklessly pursue
Her, who, unshackled by love’s
heavy chain,
Flies swiftly from its chase,
whilst I in vain
My fetter’d journey
pantingly renew;
The safer track I offer to
its view,
But hopeless is my power to
restrain,
It rides regardless of the
spur or rein;
Love makes it scorn the hand
WOLLASTON.
La gola e ‘l sonno e l’ oziose piume.
TO A FRIEND, ENCOURAGING HIM TO PURSUE POETRY.
Torn is each virtue
from its earthly throne
By sloth, intemperance, and
voluptuous ease;
E’en nature deviates
from her wonted ways,
Too much the slave of vicious
custom grown.
Far hence is every light celestial
gone,
That guides mankind through
life’s perplexing maze;
And those, whom Helicon’s
sweet waters please,
From mocking crowds receive
contempt alone.
Who now would laurel, myrtle-wreaths
obtain?
Let want, let shame, Philosophy
attend!
Cries the base world, intent
on sordid gain.
What though thy favourite
path be trod by few;
Let it but urge thee more,
dear gentle friend!
Thy great design of glory
to pursue.
ANON.
Intemperance,
slumber, and the slothful down
Have chased each virtue from
this world away;
Hence is our nature nearly
led astray
From its due course, by habitude
o’erthrown;
Those kindly lights of heaven
so dim are grown,
Which shed o’er human
life instruction’s ray;
That him with scornful wonder
they survey,
Who would draw forth the stream
of Helicon.
“Whom doth the laurel
please, or myrtle now?
Naked and poor, Philosophy,
art thou!”
The worthless crowd, intent
on lucre, cries.
Few on thy chosen road will
thee attend;
Yet let it more incite thee,
gentle friend,
To prosecute thy high-conceived
emprize.
NOTT.
A pie de’ colli ove la bella vesta.
HE FEIGNS AN ADDRESS FROM SOME BIRDS WHICH HE HAD PRESENTED.
Beneath the verdant
hills—where the fair vest
Of earthly mould first took
the Lady dear,
Who him that sends us, feather’d
captives, here
Awakens often from his tearful
rest—
Lived we in freedom and in
quiet, blest
With everything which life
below might cheer,
No foe suspecting, harass’d
by no fear
That aught our wanderings
ever could molest;
But snatch’d from that
serener life, and thrown
To the low wretched state
we here endure,
One comfort, short of death,
survives alone:
Vengeance upon our captor
full and sure!
Who, slave himself at others’
power, remains
Pent in worse prison, bound
by sterner chains.
MACGREGOR.
Beneath those
very hills, where beauty threw
Her mantle first o’er
that earth-moulded fair,
Who oft from sleep, while
shedding many a tear,
Awakens him that sends us
unto you,
Our lives in peacefulness
and freedom flew,
E’en as all creatures
wish who hold life dear;
Nor deem’d we aught
could in its course come near,
Whence to our wanderings danger
might accrue.
But from the wretched state
to which we’re brought,
Leaving another with sereneness
fraught,
Nay, e’en from death,
one comfort we obtain;
That vengeance follows him
who sent us here;
Another’s utmost thraldom
doomed to bear,
Bound he now lies with a still
stronger chain.
NOTT.
Quando ‘l pianeta che distingue l’ ore.
WITH A PRESENT OF FRUIT IN SPRING.
When the great
planet which directs the hours
To dwell with Taurus from
the North is borne,
Such virtue rays from each
enkindled horn,
Rare beauty instantly all
nature dowers;
Nor this alone, which meets
our sight, that flowers
Richly the upland and the
vale adorn,
But Earth’s cold womb,
else lustreless and lorn,
Is quick and warm with vivifying
powers,
Till herbs and fruits, like
these I send, are rife.
—So she, a sun
amid her fellow fair,
Shedding the rays of her bright
eyes on me,
Thoughts, acts, and words
of love wakes into life—
But, ah! for me is no new
Spring, nor e’er,
Smile they on whom she will,
again can be.
MACGREGOR.
When Taurus in
his house doth Phoebus keep,
There pours so bright a virtue
from his crest
That Nature wakes, and stands
in beauty drest,
The flow’ring meadows
start with joy from sleep:
Nor they alone rejoice—earth’s
bosom deep
(Though not one beam illumes
her night of rest)
Responsive smiles, and from
her fruitful breast
Gives forth her treasures
for her sons to reap.
Thus she, who dwells amid
her sex a sun,
Shedding upon my soul her
eyes’ full light,
Each thought creates, each
deed, each word of love:
But though my heart’s
proud mastery she hath won
Alas! within me dwells eternal
night:
My spirit ne’er Spring’s
genial breath doth prove.
WOLLASTON.
Gloriosa Colonna, in cui s’ appoggia.
TO STEFANO COLONNA THE ELDER, INVITING HIM TO THE COUNTRY.
Glorious Colonna!
still the strength and stay
Of our best hopes, and the
great Latin name
Whom power could never from
the true right way
Seduce by flattery or by terror
tame:
No palace, theatres, nor arches
MACGREGOR.
Glorious Colonna!
thou, the Latins’ hope,
The proud supporter of our
lofty name,
Thou hold’st thy path
of virtue still the same,
Amid the thunderings of Rome’s
Jove—the Pope.
Not here do human structures
interlope
The fir to rival, or the pine-tree’s
claim,
The soul may revel in poetic
flame
Upon yon mountain’s
green and gentle slope.
And thus from earth to heaven
the spirit soars,
Whilst Philomel her tale of
woe repeats
Amid the sympathising shades
of night,
Thus through man’s breast
love’s current sweetly pours:
Yet still thine absence half
the joy defeats,—
Alas! my friend, why dim such
radiant light?
WOLLASTON.
Lassare il velo o per sole o per ombra.
PERCEIVING HIS PASSION, LAURA’S SEVERITY INCREASES.
Never thy veil,
in sun or in the shade,
Lady, a moment I have seen
Quitted, since of my heart
the queen
Mine eyes confessing thee
my heart betray’d
While my enamour’d thoughts
I kept conceal’d.
Those fond vain hopes by which
I die,
In thy sweet features kindness
beam’d:
Changed was the gentle language
of thine eye
Soon as my foolish heart itself
reveal’d;
And all that mildness which
I changeless deem’d—
All, all withdrawn which most
my soul esteem’d.
Yet still the veil I must
obey,
Which, whatsoe’er the
aspect of the day,
Thine eyes’ fair radiance
hides, my life to overshade.
CAPEL LOFFT.
Wherefore, my
unkind fair one, say,
Whether the sun fierce darts
his ray,
Or whether gloom o’erspreads
the sky,
That envious veil is ne’er
thrown by;
Though well you read my heart,
and knew
How much I long’d your
charms to view?
While I conceal’d each
tender thought,
That my fond mind’s
destruction wrought,
Your face with pity sweetly
shone;
But, when love made my passion
known,
Your sunny locks were seen
no more,
Nor smiled your eyes as heretofore;
Behind a jealous cloud retired
Those beauties which I most
admired.
And shall a veil thus rule
my fate?
O cruel veil, that whether
heat
Or cold be felt, art doom’d
to prove
Fatal to me, shadowing the
lights I love!
NOTT.
Se la mia vita dall’ aspro tormento.
HE HOPES THAT TIME WILL RENDER HER MORE MERCIFUL.
If o’er
each bitter pang, each hidden throe
Sadly triumphant I my years
drag on,
Till even the radiance of
those eyes is gone,
Lady, which star-like now
illume thy brow;
And silver’d are those
locks of golden glow,
And wreaths and robes of green
aside are thrown,
And from thy cheek those hues
of beauty flown,
Which check’d so long
the utterance of my woe,
Haply my bolder tongue may
then reveal
The bosom’d annals of
my heart’s fierce fire,
The martyr-throbs that now
in night I veil:
And should the chill Time
frown on young Desire.
Still, still some late remorse
that breast may feel,
And heave a tardy sigh—ere
love with life expire.
WRANGHAM.
Lady, if grace
to me so long be lent
From love’s sharp tyranny
and trials keen,
Ere my last days, in life’s
far vale, are seen,
To know of thy bright eyes
the lustre spent,
The fine gold of thy hair
with silver sprent,
Neglected the gay wreaths
and robes of green,
Pale, too, and thin the face
which made me, e’en
’Gainst injury, slow
and timid to lament:
Then will I, for such boldness
love would give,
Lay bare my secret heart,
in martyr’s fire
Years, days, and hours that
yet has known to live;
And, though the time then
suit not fair desire,
At least there may arrive
to my long grief,
Too late of tender sighs the
poor relief.
MACGREGOR.
Quando fra l’ altre donne ad ora ad ora.
THE BEAUTY OF LAURA LEADS HIM TO THE CONTEMPLATION OF THE SUPREME GOOD.
Throned on her
angel brow, when Love displays
His radiant form among all
other fair,
Far as eclipsed their choicest
charms appear,
I feel beyond its wont my
passion blaze.
And still I bless the day,
the hour, the place,
When first so high mine eyes
I dared to rear;
And say, “Fond heart,
thy gratitude declare,
That then thou had’st
the privilege to gaze.
’Twas she inspired the
tender thought of love,
Which points to heaven, and
teaches to despise
The earthly vanities that
others prize:
She gave the soul’s
light grace, which to the skies
Bids thee straight onward
in the right path move;
Whence buoy’d by hope
e’en, now I soar to worlds above.”
WRANGHAM.
When Love, whose
proper throne is that sweet face,
At times escorts her ’mid
the sisters fair,
As their each beauty is than
hers less rare,
So swells in me the fond desire
apace.
I bless the hour, the season
and the place,
So high and heavenward when
my eyes could dare;
And say: “My heart!
in grateful memory bear
This lofty honour and surpassing
grace:
From her descends the tender
truthful thought,
Which follow’d, bliss
supreme shall thee repay,
Who spurn’st the vanities
that win the crowd:
From her that gentle graceful
love is caught,
To heaven which leads thee
by the right-hand way,
And crowns e’en here
with hopes both pure and proud.”
MACGREGOR.
Occhi miei lassi, mentre ch’ io vi giro.
HE INVITES HIS EYES TO FEAST THEMSELVES ON LAURA.
My wearied eyes!
while looking thus
On that fair fatal face to
us,
Be wise, be brief, for—hence
my sighs—
Already Love our bliss denies.
Death only can the amorous
track
Shut from my thoughts which
leads them back
To the sweet port of all their
weal;
But lesser objects may conceal
Our light from you, that meaner
far
In virtue and perfection are.
Wherefore, poor eyes! ere
yet appears,
Already nigh, the time of
tears,
Now, after long privation
past,
Look, and some comfort take
at last.
MACGREGOR.
Io mi rivolgo indietro a ciascun passo.
ON QUITTING LAURA.
With weary frame
which painfully I bear,
I look behind me at each onward
pace,
And then take comfort from
your native air,
Which following fans my melancholy
face;
The far way, my frail life,
the cherish’d fair
Whom thus I leave, as then
my thoughts retrace,
I fix my feet in silent pale
despair,
And on the earth my tearful
eyes abase.
At times a doubt, too, rises
on my woes,
“How ever can this weak
and wasted frame
Live from life’s spirit
and one source afar?”
Love’s answer soon the
truth forgotten shows—
“This high pure privilege
true lovers claim,
Who from mere human feelings
franchised are!”
MACGREGOR.
I look behind
each step I onward trace,
Scarce able to support my
wearied frame,
Ah, wretched me! I pantingly
exclaim,
And from her atmosphere new
strength embrace;
I think on her I leave—my
heart’s best grace—
My lengthen’d journey—life’s
capricious flame—
I pause in withering fear,
with purpose tame,
Whilst down my cheek tears
quick each other chase.
My doubting heart thus questions
WOLLASTON.
Movesi ’l vecchierel canuto e bianco.
HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A PILGRIM.
The palmer bent,
with locks of silver gray,
Quits the sweet spot where
he has pass’d his years,
Quits his poor family, whose
anxious fears
Paint the loved father fainting
on his way;
And trembling, on his aged
limbs slow borne,
In these last days that close
his earthly course,
He, in his soul’s strong
purpose, finds new force,
Though weak with age, though
by long travel worn:
Thus reaching Rome, led on
by pious love,
He seeks the image of that
Saviour Lord
Whom soon he hopes to meet
in bliss above:
So, oft in other forms I seek
to trace
Some charm, that to my heart
may yet afford
A faint resemblance of thy
matchless grace.
DACRE.
As parts the aged
pilgrim, worn and gray,
From the dear spot his life
where he had spent,
From his poor family by sorrow
rent,
Whose love still fears him
fainting in decay:
Thence dragging heavily, in
life’s last day,
His suffering frame, on pious
journey bent,
Pricking with earnest prayers
his good intent,
Though bow’d with years,
and weary with the way,
He reaches Rome, still following
his desire
The likeness of his Lord on
earth to see,
Whom yet he hopes in heaven
above to meet;
So I, too, seek, nor in the
fond quest tire,
Lady, in other fair if aught
there be
That faintly may recall thy
beauties sweet.
MACGREGOR.
Piovonmi amare lagrime dal viso.
HIS STATE WHEN LAURA IS PRESENT, AND WHEN SHE DEPARTS.
Down my cheeks
bitter tears incessant rain,
And my heart struggles with
convulsive sighs,
When, Laura, upon you I turn
my eyes,
For whom the world’s
allurements I disdain,
But when I see that gentle
smile again,
That modest, sweet, and tender
smile, arise,
It pours on every sense a
blest surprise;
Lost in delight is all my
torturing pain.
Too soon this heavenly transport
sinks and dies:
When all thy soothing charms
my fate removes
At thy departure from my ravish’d
view.
To that sole refuge its firm
faith approves
My spirit from my ravish’d
bosom flies,
And wing’d with fond
remembrance follows you.
CAPEL LOFFT.
Tears, bitter
tears adown my pale cheek rain,
Bursts from mine anguish’d
breast a storm of sighs,
Whene’er on you I turn
my passionate eyes,
For whom alone this bright
world I disdain.
True! to my ardent wishes
and old pain
That mild sweet smile a peaceful
balm supplies,
Rescues me from the martyr
fire that tries,
Rapt and intent on you whilst
I remain;
Thus in your presence—but
my spirits freeze
When, ushering with fond acts
a warm adieu,
My fatal stars from life’s
quench’d heaven decay.
My soul released at last with
Love’s apt keys
But issues from my heart to
follow you,
Nor tears itself without much
thought away.
MACGREGOR.
Quand’ io son tutto volto in quella parte.
HE FLIES, BUT PASSION PURSUES HIM.
When I reflect
and turn me to that part
Whence my sweet lady beam’d
in purest light,
And in my inmost thought remains
that light
Which burns me and consumes
in every part,
I, who yet dread lest from
my heart it part
And see at hand the end of
this my light,
Go lonely, like a man deprived
of light,
Ignorant where to go; whence
to depart.
Thus flee I from the stroke
which lays me dead,
Yet flee not with such speed
but that desire
Follows, companion of my flight
alone.
Silent I go:—but
these my words, though dead,
Others would cause to weep—this
I desire,
That I may weep and waste
myself alone.
CAPEL LOFFT.
When all my mind
I turn to the one part
Where sheds my lady’s
face its beauteous light,
And lingers in my loving thought
the light
That burns and racks within
me ev’ry part,
I from my heart who fear that
it may part,
And see the near end of my
single light,
Go, as a blind man, groping
without light,
Who knows not where yet presses
to depart.
Thus from the blows which
ever wish me dead
I flee, but not so swiftly
that desire
Ceases to come, as is its
wont, with me.
Silent I move: for accents
of the dead
Would melt the general age:
and I desire
That sighs and tears should
only fall from me.
MACGREGOR.
Son animali al mondo di si altera.
HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A MOTH.
Creatures there
are in life of such keen sight
That no defence they need
from noonday sun,
And others dazzled by excess
of light
Who issue not abroad till
day is done,
And, with weak fondness, some
because ’tis bright,
Who in the death-flame for
enjoyment run,
Thus proving theirs a different
virtue quite—
Alas! of this last kind myself
MACGREGOR.
Vergognando talor ch’ ancor si taccia.
THE PRAISES OF LAURA TRANSCEND HIS POETIC POWERS.
Ashamed sometimes
thy beauties should remain
As yet unsung, sweet lady,
in my rhyme;
When first I saw thee I recall
the time,
Pleasing as none shall ever
please again.
But no fit polish can my verse
attain,
Not mine is strength to try
the task sublime:
My genius, measuring its power
to climb,
From such attempt doth prudently
refrain.
Full oft I oped my lips to
chant thy name;
Then in mid utterance the
lay was lost:
But say what muse can dare
so bold a flight?
Full oft I strove in measure
to indite;
But ah, the pen, the hand,
the vein I boast,
At once were vanquish’d
by the mighty theme!
NOTT.
Ashamed at times
that I am silent, yet,
Lady, though your rare beauties
prompt my rhyme,
When first I saw thee I recall
the time
Such as again no other can
be met.
But, with such burthen on
my shoulders set.
My mind, its frailty feeling,
cannot climb,
And shrinks alike from polish’d
and sublime,
While my vain utterance frozen
terrors let.
Often already have I sought
to sing,
But midway in my breast the
voice was stay’d,
For ah! so high what praise
may ever spring?
And oft have I the tender
verse essay’d,
But still in vain; pen, hand,
and intellect
In the first effort conquer’d
are and check’d.
MACGREGOR.
Mille fiate, o dolce mia guerrera.
HIS HEART, REJECTED BY LAURA, WILL PERISH, UNLESS SHE RELENT.
A thousand times,
sweet warrior, have I tried,
Proffering my heart to thee,
some peace to gain
From those bright eyes, but
still, alas! in vain,
To such low level stoops not
thy chaste pride.
If others seek the love thus
thrown aside,
Vain were their hopes and
labours to obtain;
The heart thou spurnest I
alike disdain,
To thee displeasing, ’tis
by me denied.
But if, discarded thus, it
find not thee
Its joyless exile willing
to befriend,
Alone, untaught at others’
will to wend,
Soon from life’s weary
burden will it flee.
How heavy then the guilt to
both, but more
To thee, for thee it did the
most adore.
MACGREGOR.
A thousand times,
sweet warrior, to obtain
Peace with those beauteous
eyes I’ve vainly tried,
Proffering my heart; but with
that lofty pride
To bend your looks so lowly
you refrain:
Expects a stranger fair that
heart to gain,
In frail, fallacious hopes
will she confide:
It never more to me can be
allied;
Since what you scorn, dear
lady, I disdain.
In its sad exile if no aid
you lend
Banish’d by me; and
it can neither stay
Alone, nor yet another’s
call obey;
Its vital course must hasten
to its end:
Ah me, how guilty then we
both should prove,
But guilty you the most, for
you it most doth love.
NOTT.
A qualunque animale alberga in terra.
NIGHT BRINGS HIM NO REST. HE IS THE PREY OF DESPAIR.
To every animal
that dwells on earth,
Except to those which have
in hate the sun,
Their time of labour is while
lasts the day;
But when high heaven relumes
its thousand stars,
This seeks his hut, and that
its native wood,
Each finds repose, at least
until the dawn.
But I, when fresh and fair
begins the dawn
To chase the lingering shades
that cloak’d the earth,
Wakening the animals in every
wood,
No truce to sorrow find while
rolls the sun;
And, when again I see the
glistening stars,
Still wander, weeping, wishing
for the day.
When sober evening chases
the bright day,
And this our darkness makes
for others dawn,
Pensive I look upon the cruel
stars
Which framed me of such pliant
passionate earth,
And curse the day that e’er
I saw the sun,
Which makes me native seem
of wildest wood.
And yet methinks was ne’er
in any wood,
So wild a denizen, by night
or day,
As she whom thus I blame in
shade and sun:
Me night’s first sleep
o’ercomes not, nor the dawn,
For though in mortal coil
I tread the earth,
My firm and fond desire is
from the stars.
Ere up to you I turn, O lustrous
stars,
Or downwards in love’s
labyrinthine wood,
Leaving my fleshly frame in
mouldering earth,
Could I but pity find in her,
one day
Would many years redeem, and
to the dawn
With bliss enrich me from
the setting sun!
Oh! might I be with her where
sinks the sun,
No other eyes upon us but
the stars,
Alone, one sweet night, ended
by no dawn,
Nor she again transfigured
in green wood,
To cheat my clasping arms,
as on the day,
When Phoebus vainly follow’d
her on earth.
I shall lie low in earth,
in crumbling wood.
And clustering stars shall
gem the noon of day,
Ere on so sweet a dawn shall
rise that sun.
MACGREGOR.
Each creature
on whose wakeful eyes
The bright sun pours his golden
fire,
By day a destined toil pursues;
And, when heaven’s lamps
illume the skies,
All to some haunt for rest
retire,
Till a fresh dawn that toil
renews.
But I, when a new morn doth
rise,
Chasing from earth its murky
shades,
While ring the forests with
delight,
Find no remission of my sighs;
And, soon as night her mantle
spreads,
I weep, and wish returning
light
Again when eve bids day retreat,
O’er other climes to
dart its rays;
Pensive those cruel stars
I view,
Which influence thus my amorous
fate;
And imprecate that beauty’s
blaze,
Which o’er my form such
wildness threw.
No forest surely in its glooms
Nurtures a savage so unkind
As she who bids these sorrows
flow:
Me, nor the dawn nor sleep
o’ercomes;
For, though of mortal mould,
my mind
Feels more than passion’s
mortal glow.
Ere up to you, bright orbs,
I fly,
Or to Love’s bower speed
down my way,
While here my mouldering limbs
remain;
Let me her pity once espy;
Thus, rich in bliss, one little
day
Shall recompense whole years
of pain.
Be Laura mine at set of sun;
Let heaven’s fires only
mark our loves,
And the day ne’er its
light renew;
My fond embrace may she not
shun;
Nor Phoebus-like, through
laurel groves,
May I a nymph transform’d
pursue!
But I shall cast this mortal
veil on earth,
And stars shall gild the noon,
ere such bright scenes have birth.
NOTT.
Nel dolce tempo della prima etade.
HIS SUFFERINGS SINCE HE BECAME THE SLAVE OF LOVE.
In the sweet season
when my life was new,
Which saw the birth, and still
the being sees
Of the fierce passion for
my ill that grew,
Fain would I sing—my
sorrow to appease—
How then I lived, in liberty,
at ease,
While o’er my heart
held slighted Love no sway;
And how, at length, by too
high scorn, for aye,
I sank his slave, and what
befell me then,
Whereby to all a warning I
remain;
Although my sharpest pain
Be elsewhere written, so that
many a pen
Is tired already, and, in
every vale,
The echo of my heavy sighs
is rife,
Some credence forcing of my
anguish’d life;
And, as her wont, if here
my memory fail,
Be my long martyrdom its saving
plea,
And the one thought which
so its torment made,
As every feeling else to throw
in shade,
And make me of myself forgetful
be—
Ruling life’s inmost
core, its bare rind left for me.
Long years and many had pass’d
o’er my head,
Since, in Love’s first
assault, was dealt my wound,
And from my brow its youthful
air had fled,
While cold and cautious thoughts
my heart around
Had made it almost adamantine
ground,
To loosen which hard passion
gave no rest:
No sorrow yet with tears had
bathed my breast,
Nor broke my sleep: and
what was not in mine
A miracle to me in others
seem’d.
Life’s sure test death
is deem’d,
As cloudless eve best proves
the past day fine;
Ah me! the tyrant whom I sing,
descried
Ere long his error, that,
till then, his dart
Not yet beneath the gown had
pierced my heart,
And brought a puissant lady
as his guide,
’Gainst whom of small
or no avail has been
Genius, or force, to strive
or supplicate.
These two transform’d
me to my present state,
Making of breathing man a
laurel green,
Which loses not its leaves
though wintry blasts be keen.
What my amaze, when first
I fully learn’d
The wondrous change upon my
person done,
And saw my thin hairs to those
green leaves turn’d
(Whence yet for them a crown
I might have won);
My feet wherewith I stood,
and moved, and run—
Thus to the soul the subject
members bow—
Become two roots upon the
shore, not now
Of fabled Peneus, but a stream
as proud,
And stiffen’d to a branch
my either arm!
Nor less was my alarm,
When next my frame white down
was seen to shroud,
While, ’neath the deadly
leven, shatter’d lay
My first green hope that soar’d,
too proud, in air,
Because, in sooth, I knew
not when nor where
I left my latter state; but,
night and day,
Where it was struck, alone,
in tears, I went,
Still seeking it alwhere,
and in the wave;
And, for its fatal fall, while
able, gave
My tongue no respite from
its one lament,
For the sad snowy swan both
form and language lent.
Thus that loved wave—my
mortal speech put by
For birdlike song—I
track’d with constant feet,
Still asking mercy with a
stranger cry;
But ne’er in tones so
tender, nor so sweet,
Knew I my amorous sorrow to
repeat,
As might her hard and cruel
bosom melt:
Judge, still if memory sting,
what then I felt!
But ah! not now the past,
it rather needs
Of her my lovely and inveterate
foe
The present power to show,
Though such she be all language
as exceeds.
She with a glance who rules
us as her own,
Opening my breast my heart
in hand to take,
Thus said to me: “Of
this no mention make.”
I saw her then, in alter’d
air, alone,
So that I recognised her not—O
shame
Be on my truant mind and faithless
sight!
And when the truth I told
her in sore fright,
She soon resumed her old accustom’d
frame,
While, desperate and half
dead, a hard rock mine became.
As spoke she, o’er her
mien such feeling stirr’d,
That from the solid rock,
with lively fear,
“Haply I am not what
you deem,” I heard;
And then methought, “If
she but help me here,
No life can ever weary be,
or drear;
To make me weep, return, my
banish’d Lord!”
I know not how, but thence,
the power restored,
Blaming no other than myself,
I went,
And, nor alive, nor dead,
the long day past.
But, because time flies fast,
And the pen answers ill my
good intent,
Full many a thing long written
in my mind
I here omit; and only mention
such
Whereat who hears them now
will marvel much.
Death so his hand around my
vitals twined,
Not silence from its grasp
my heart could save,
Or succour to its outraged
virtue bring:
As speech to me was a forbidden
thing,
To paper and to ink my griefs
I gave—
Life, not my own, is lost
through you who dig my grave.
I fondly thought before her
eyes, at length,
Though low and lost, some
mercy to obtain;
And this the hope which lent
my spirit strength.
Sometimes humility o’ercomes
disdain,
Sometimes inflames it to worse
spite again;
This knew I, who so long was
left in night,
That from such prayers had
disappear’d my light;
Till I, who sought her still,
nor found, alas!
Even her shade, nor of her
feet a sign,
Outwearied and supine,
As one who midway sleeps,
upon the grass
Threw me, and there, accusing
the brief ray,
Of bitter tears I loosed the
prison’d flood,
To flow and fall, to them
as seem’d it good.
Ne’er vanish’d
snow before the sun away,
As then to melt apace it me
befell,
Till, ’neath a spreading
beech a fountain swell’d;
Long in that change my humid
course I held,—
Who ever saw from Man a true
fount well?
And yet, though strange it
sound, things known and sure I tell.
The soul from God its nobler
nature gains
(For none save He such favour
could bestow)
And like our Maker its high
state retains,
To pardon who is never tired,
nor slow,
If but with humble heart and
suppliant show,
For mercy for past sins to
Him we bend;
And if, against his wont,
He seem to lend,
Awhile, a cold ear to our
earnest prayers,
’Tis that right fear
the sinner more may fill;
For he repents but ill
His old crime for another
who prepares.
Thus, when my lady, while
her bosom yearn’d
With pity, deign’d to
look on me, and knew
That equal with my fault its
penance grew,
To my old state and shape
I soon return’d.
But nought there is on earth
in which the wise
May trust, for, wearying braving
her afresh,
To rugged stone she changed
my quivering flesh.
So that, in their old strain,
my broken cries
In vain ask’d death,
or told her one name to deaf skies.
A sad and wandering shade,
I next recall,
Through many a distant and
deserted glen,
That long I mourn’d
my indissoluble thrall.
At length my malady seem’d
ended, when
I to my earthly frame return’d
again,
Haply but greater grief therein
to feel;
Still following my desire
with such fond zeal
That once (beneath the proud
sun’s fiercest blaze,
Returning from the chase,
as was my wont)
Naked, where gush’d
a font,
My fair and fatal tyrant met
my gaze;
I whom nought else could pleasure,
paused to look,
While, touch’d with
shame as natural as intense,
Herself to hide or punish
my offence,
She o’er my face the
crystal waters shook
—I still speak
true, though truth may seem a lie—
Instantly from my proper person
torn,
A solitary stag, I felt me
borne
In winged terrors the dark
forest through,
As still of my own dogs the
rushing storm I flew
My song! I never was
that cloud of gold
Which once descended in such
precious rain,
Easing awhile with bliss Jove’s
amorous pain;
I was a flame, kindled by
one bright eye,
I was the bird which gladly
soar’d on high,
Exalting her whose praise
in song I wake;
Nor, for new fancies, knew
I to forsake
My first fond laurel, ’neath
whose welcome shade
Ever from my firm heart all
meaner pleasures fade.
MACGREGOR.
Se l’ onorata fronde, che prescrive.
TO STRAMAZZO OF PERUGIA, WHO INVITED HIM TO WRITE POETRY.
If the world-honour’d
leaf, whose green defies
The wrath of Heaven when thunders
mighty Jove,
Had not to me prohibited the
crown
Which wreathes of wont the
gifted poet’s brow,
I were a friend of these your
idols too,
Whom our vile age so shamelessly
ignores:
But that sore insult keeps
me now aloof
From the first patron of the
olive bough:
For Ethiop earth beneath its
tropic sun
Ne’er burn’d with
such fierce heat, as I with rage
At losing thing so comely
and beloved.
Resort then to some calmer
fuller fount,
For of all moisture mine is
drain’d and dry,
Save that which falleth from
mine eyes in tears.
MACGREGOR.
Amor piangeva, ed io con lui talvolta.
HE CONGRATULATES BOCCACCIO ON HIS RETURN TO THE RIGHT PATH.
Love grieved,
and I with him at times, to see
By what strange practices
and cunning art,
You still continued from his
fetters free,
From whom my feet were never
far apart.
Since to the right way brought
by God’s decree,
Lifting my hands to heaven
with pious heart,
I thank Him for his love and
MACGREGOR.
Piu di me lieta non si vede a terra.
ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
Than me more joyful
never reach’d the shore
A vessel, by the winds long
tost and tried,
Whose crew, late hopeless
on the waters wide,
To a good God their thanks,
now prostrate, pour;
Nor captive from his dungeon
ever tore,
Around whose neck the noose
of death was tied,
More glad than me, that weapon
laid aside
Which to my lord hostility
long bore.
All ye who honour love in
poet strain,
To the good minstrel of the
amorous lay
Return due praise, though
once he went astray;
For greater glory is, in Heaven’s
blest reign,
Over one sinner saved, and
higher praise,
Than e’en for ninety-nine
of perfect ways.
MACGREGOR.
Il successor di Carlo, che la chioma.
ON THE MOVEMENT OF THE EMPEROR AGAINST THE INFIDELS, AND THE RETURN OF THE POPE TO ROME.
The high successor
of our Charles,[P] whose hair
The crown of his great ancestor
adorns,
Already has ta’en arms,
to bruise the horns
Of Babylon, and all her name
who bear;
Christ’s holy vicar
with the honour’d load
Of keys and cloak, returning
to his home,
Shall see Bologna and our
noble Rome,
If no ill fortune bar his
further road.
Best to your meek and high-born
lamb belongs
To beat the fierce wolf down:
so may it be
With all who loyalty and love
deny.
Console at length your waiting
country’s wrongs,
And Rome’s, who longs
once more her spouse to see,
And gird for Christ the good
sword on thy thigh.
MACGREGOR.
[Footnote P: Charlemagne.]
O aspettata in ciel, beata e bella.
IN SUPPORT OF THE PROPOSED CRUSADE AGAINST THE INFIDELS.
O spirit wish’d
and waited for in heaven,
That wearest gracefully our
human clay,
Not as with loading sin and
earthly stain,
Who lov’st our Lord’s
high bidding to obey,—
Henceforth to thee the way
is plain and even
By which from hence to bliss
we may attain.
To waft o’er yonder
main
Thy bark, that bids the world
adieu for aye
To seek a better strand,
The western winds their ready
Haply the faithful
vows, and zealous prayers,
And pious tears by holy mortals
shed,
Have come before the mercy-seat
above:
Yet vows of ours but little
can bestead,
Nor human orison such merit
bears
As heavenly justice from its
course can move.
But He, the King whom angels
serve and love,
His gracious eyes hath turn’d
upon the land
Where on the cross He died;
And a new Charlemagne hath
qualified
To work the vengeance that
on high was plann’d,
For whose delay so long hath
Europe sigh’d.
Such mighty aid He brings
his faithful spouse,
That at its sound the pride
Of Babylon with trembling
terror bows.
All dwellers ’twixt
the hills and wild Garonne,
The Rhodanus, and Rhine, and
briny wave,
Are banded under red-cross
banners brave;
And all who honour’d
guerdon fain would have
From Pyrenees to the utmost
west, are gone,
Leaving Iberia lorn of warriors
keen,
And Britain, with the islands
that are seen
Between the columns and the
starry wain,
(Even to that land where shone
The far-famed lore of sacred
Helicon,)
Diverse in language, weapon,
garb and strain,
Of valour true, with pious
zeal rush on.
What cause, what love, to
this compared may be?
What spouse, or infant train
E’er kindled such a
righteous enmity?
There is a portion
of the world that lies
Far distant from the sun’s
all-cheering ray,
For ever wrapt in ice and
gelid snows;
There under cloudy skies,
in stinted day,
A people dwell, whose heart
their clime outvies
By nature framed stern foemen
of repose.
Now new devotion in their
bosom glows,
With Gothic fury now they
grasp the sword.
Turk, Arab, and Chaldee,
With all between us and that
sanguine sea,
Who trust in idol-gods, and
slight the Lord,
Thou know’st how soon
their feeble strength would yield;
A naked race, fearful and
indolent,
Unused the brand to wield,
Whose distant aim upon the
wind is sent.
Now is the time
to shake the ancient yoke
From off our necks, and rend
the veil aside
That long in darkness hath
involved our eyes;
Let all whom Heaven with genius
hath supplied,
And all who great Apollo’s
name invoke,
With fiery eloquence point
out the prize,
With tongue and pen call on
the brave to rise;
If Orpheus and Amphion, legends
old,
No marvel cause in thee,
It were small wonder if Ausonia
see
Collecting at thy call her
children bold,
Lifting the spear of Jesus
joyfully.
Nor, if our ancient mother
judge aright,
Doth her rich page unfold
Such noble cause in any former
fight.
Thou who hast
scann’d, to heap a treasure fair,
Story of ancient day and modern
time,
Soaring with earthly frame
to heaven sublime,
Thou know’st, from Mars’
bold son, her ruler prime,
To great Augustus, he whose
waving hair
Was thrice in triumph wreathed
with laurel green,
How Rome hath of her blood
still lavish been
To right the woes of many
an injured land;
And shall she now be slow,
Her gratitude, her piety to
show?
In Christian zeal to buckle
on the brand,
For Mary’s glorious
Son to deal the blow?
What ills the impious foeman
must betide
Who trust in mortal hand,
If Christ himself lead on
the adverse side!
And turn thy thoughts
to Xerxes’ rash emprize,
Who dared, in haste to tread
our Europe’s shore,
Insult the sea with bridge,
and strange caprice;
And thou shalt see for husbands
then no more
The Persian matrons robed
in mournful guise,
And dyed with blood the seas
of Salamis,
Nor sole example this:
(The ruin of that Eastern
king’s design),
That tells of victory nigh:
See Marathon, and stern Thermopylae,
Closed by those few, and chieftain
leonine,
And thousand deeds that blaze
in history.
Then bow in thankfulness both
heart and knee
Before his holy shrine,
Who such bright guerdon hath
reserved for thee.
Thou shalt see
Italy and that honour’d shore,
O song! a land debarr’d
and hid from me
By neither flood nor hill!
But love alone, whose power
hath virtue still
To witch, though all his wiles
be vanity,
Nor Nature to avoid the snare
hath skill.
Go, bid thy sisters hush their
jealous fears,
For other loves there be
Than that blind boy, who causeth
smiles and tears.
MISS * * * (FOSCOLO’S ESSAY).
O thou, in heaven
expected, bright and blest,
Spirit! who, from the common
frailty free
Of human kind, in human form
art drest,
God’s handmaid, dutiful
and dear to thee
Henceforth the pathway easy
lies and plain,
By which, from earth, we bless
eternal gain:
Lo! at the wish, to waft thy
venturous prore
From the blind world it fain
would leave behind
And seek that better shore,
Springs the sweet comfort
of the western wind,
Which safe amid this dark
and dangerous vale,
Where we our own, the primal
sin deplore,
Right on shall guide her,
from her old chains freed,
And, without let or fail,
Where havens her best hope,
to the true East shall lead.
Haply the suppliant
tears of pious men,
Their earnest vows and loving
prayers at last
Unto the throne of heavenly
grace have past;
Yet, breathed by human helplessness,
ah! when
Had purest orison the skill
All, by the gay
Garonne, the kingly Rhine,
Between the blue Rhone and
salt sea who dwell,
All in whose bosoms worth
and honour swell,
Eagerly haste the Christian
cross to join;
Spain of her warlike sons,
from the far west
Unto the Pyrenee, pours forth
her best:
Britannia and the Islands,
which are found
Northward from Calpe, studding
Ocean’s breast,
E’en to that land renown’d
In the rich lore of sacred
Helicon,
Various in arms and language,
garb and guise,
With pious fury urge the bold
emprize.
What love was e’er so
just, so worthy, known?
Or when did holier flame
Kindle the mind of man to
a more noble aim?
Far in the hardy
north a land there lies,
Buried in thick-ribb’d
ice and constant snows,
Where scant the days and clouded
are the skies,
And seldom the bright sun
his glad warmth throws;
There, enemy of peace by nature,
springs
A people to whom death no
terror brings;
If these, with new devotedness,
we see
In Gothic fury baring the
keen glaive,
Turk, Arab, and Chaldee!
All, who, between us and the
Red Sea wave,
To heathen gods bow the idolatrous
knee,
Arm and advance! we heed not
your blind rage;
A naked race, timid in act,
and slow,
Unskill’d the war to
wage,
Whose far aim on the wind
contrives a coward blow.
Now is the hour
to free from the old yoke
Our galled necks, to rend
the veil away
Too long permitted our dull
sight to cloak:
Now too, should all whose
breasts the heavenly ray
Of genius lights, exert its
powers sublime,
And or in bold harangue, or
burning rhyme,
Point the proud prize and
fan the generous flame.
If Orpheus and Amphion credit
claim,
Legends of distant time,
Less marvel ’twere,
if, at thy earnest call,
Italia, with her children,
should awake,
And wield the willing lance
for Christ’s dear sake.
Our ancient mother, read she
right, in all
Her fortune’s history
ne’er
A cause of combat knew so
glorious and so fair!
Thou, whose keen
mind has every theme explored,
And truest ore from Time’s
rich treasury won,
On earthly pinion who hast
heavenward soar’d,
Well knowest, from her founder,
Mars’ bold son,
Turn, too, when
Xerxes our free shores to tread
Rush’d in hot haste,
and dream’d the perilous main
With scourge and fetter to
chastise and chain,
—What see’st?
Wild wailing o’er their husbands dead,
Persia’s pale matrons
wrapt in weeds of woe,
And red with gore the gulf
of Salamis!
To prove our triumph certain,
to foreshow
The utter ruin of our Eastern
foe,
No single instance this;
Miltiades and Marathon recall,
See, with his patriot few,
Leonidas
Closing, Thermopylae, thy
bloody pass!
Like them to dare and do,
to God let all
With heart and knee bow down,
Who for our arms and age has
kept this great renown.
Thou shalt see
Italy, that honour’d land,
Which from my eyes, O Song!
nor seas, streams, heights,
So long have barr’d
and bann’d,
But love alone, who with his
haughty lights
The more allures me as he
worse excites,
Till nature fails against
his constant wiles.
Go then, and join thy comrades;
not alone
Beneath fair female zone
Dwells Love, who, at his will,
moves us to tears or smiles.
MACGREGOR.
Verdi panni, sanguigni, oscuri o persi.
WHETHER OR NOT HE SHOULD CEASE TO LOVE LAURA.
Green robes and
red, purple, or brown, or gray
No lady ever wore,
Nor hair of gold in sunny
tresses twined,
So beautiful as she, who spoils
my mind
Of judgment, and from freedom’s
lofty path
So draws me with her that
I may not bear
Any less heavy yoke.
And if indeed at times—for
wisdom fails
Where martyrdom breeds doubt—
The soul should ever arm it
to complain
Suddenly from each reinless
rude desire
Her smile recalls, and razes
from my heart
Every rash enterprise, while
all disdain
Is soften’d in her sight.
For all that I have ever borne
for love,
And still am doom’d
to bear,
Till she who wounded it shall
heal my heart,
Rejecting homage e’en
while she invites,
Be vengeance done! but let
not pride nor ire
’Gainst my humility
the lovely pass
By which I enter’d bar.
The hour and day wherein I
oped my eyes
On the bright black and white,
Which drive me thence where
eager love impell’d
Where of that life which now
my sorrow makes
New roots, and she in whom
our age is proud,
Whom to behold without a tender
awe
Needs heart of lead or wood.
The tear then from these eyes
that frequent falls—
HE thus my pale cheek bathes
Who planted first within my
fenceless flank
Love’s shaft—diverts
me not from my desire;
And in just part the proper
sentence falls;
For her my spirit sighs, and
worthy she
To staunch its secret wounds.
Spring from within me these
conflicting thoughts,
To weary, wound myself,
Each a sure sword against
its master turn’d:
Nor do I pray her to be therefore
freed,
For less direct to heaven
all other paths,
And to that glorious kingdom
none can soar
Certes in sounder bark.
Benignant stars their bright
companionship
Gave to the fortunate side
When came that fair birth
on our nether world,
Its sole star since, who,
as the laurel leaf,
The worth of honour fresh
and fragrant keeps,
Where lightnings play not,
nor ungrateful winds
Ever o’ersway its head.
Well know I that the hope
to paint in verse
Her praises would but tire
The worthiest hand that e’er
put forth its pen:
Who, in all Memory’s
richest cells, e’er saw
Such angel virtue so rare
beauty shrined,
As in those eyes, twin symbols
of all worth,
Sweet keys of my gone heart?
Lady, wherever shines the
sun, than you
Love has no dearer pledge.
MACGREGOR.
Giovane donna sott’ un verde lauro.
THOUGH DESPAIRING OF PITY, HE VOWS TO LOVE HER UNTO DEATH.
A youthful lady
’neath a laurel green
Was seated, fairer, colder
than the snow
On which no sun has shone
for many years:
Her sweet speech, her bright
face, and flowing hair
So pleased, she yet is present
to my eyes,
And aye must be, whatever
fate prevail.
These my fond thoughts of
her shall fade and fail
When foliage ceases on the
laurel green;
Nor calm can be my heart,
nor check’d these eyes
Until the fire shall freeze,
or burns the snow:
Easier upon my head to count
each hair
Than, ere that day shall dawn,
the parting years.
But, since time flies, and
roll the rapid years,
And death may, in the midst,
of life, assail,
With full brown locks, or
scant and silver hair,
I still the shade of that
sweet laurel green
Follow, through fiercest sun
and deepest snow,
Till the last day shall close
my weary eyes.
Oh! never sure were seen such
brilliant eyes,
In this our age or in the
older years,
Which mould and melt me, as
the sun melts snow,
Into a stream of tears adown
the vale,
Watering the hard roots of
that laurel green,
Whose boughs are diamonds
and gold whose hair.
I fear that Time my mien may
change and hair,
Ere, with true pity touch’d,
shall greet my eyes
My idol imaged in that laurel
green:
For, unless memory err, through
seven long years
Till now, full many a shore
has heard my wail,
By night, at noon, in summer
and in snow.
Thus fire within, without
the cold, cold snow,
Alone, with these my thoughts
and her bright hair,
Alway and everywhere I bear
my ail,
Haply to find some mercy in
the eyes
Of unborn nations and far
future years,
If so long flourishes our
laurel green.
The gold and topaz of the
sun on snow
Are shamed by the bright hair
above those eyes,
Searing the short green of
my life’s vain years.
MACGREGOR.
Quest’ anima gentil che si diparte.
ON LAURA DANGEROUSLY ILL.
That graceful
soul, in mercy call’d away
Before her time to bid the
world farewell,
If welcomed as she ought in
the realms of day,
In heaven’s most blessed
regions sure shall dwell.
There between Mars and Venus
if she stay,
Her sight the brightness of
the sun will quell,
Because, her infinite beauty
to survey,
The spirits of the blest will
round her swell.
If she decide upon the fourth
fair nest
Each of the three to dwindle
will begin,
And she alone the fame of
beauty win,
Nor e’en in the fifth
circle may she rest;
Thence higher if she soar,
I surely trust
Jove with all other stars
in darkness will be thrust.
MACGREGOR.
Quanto piu m’ avvicino al giorno estremo.
HE CONSOLES HIMSELF THAT HIS LIFE IS ADVANCING TO ITS CLOSE.
Near and more
near as life’s last period draws,
Which oft is hurried on by
human woe,
I see the passing hours more
swiftly flow,
And all my hopes in disappointment
close.
And to my heart I say, amidst
its throes,
“Not long shall we discourse
of love below;
For this my earthly load,
like new-fall’n snow
Fast melting, soon shall leave
us to repose.
With it will sink in dust
each towering hope,
Cherish’d so long within
my faithful breast;
No more shall we resent, fear,
smile, complain:
Then shall we clearly trace
why some are blest,
Through deepest misery raised
to Fortune’s top,
And why so many sighs so oft
are heaved in vain.”
WRANGHAM.
The nearer I approach
my life’s last day,
The certain day that limits
human woe,
I better mark, in Time’s
swift silent flow,
How the fond hopes he brought
all pass’d away.
Of love no longer—to
myself I say—
We now may commune, for, as
virgin snow,
The hard and heavy load we
drag below
Dissolves and dies, ere rest
in heaven repay.
And prostrate with it must
each fair hope lie
Which here beguiled us and
betray’d so long,
And joy, grief, fear and pride
alike shall cease:
And then too shall we see
with clearer eye
How oft we trod in weary ways
and wrong,
And why so long in vain we
sigh’d for peace.
MACGREGOR.
Gia fiammeggiava l’ amorosa stella.
LAURA, WHO IS ILL, APPEARS TO HIM IN A DREAM, AND ASSURES HIM THAT SHE STILL LIVES.
Throughout the
orient now began to flame
The star of love; while o’er
the northern sky
That, which has oft raised
Juno’s jealousy,
Pour’d forth its beauteous
scintillating beam:
Beside her kindled hearth
the housewife dame,
Half-dress’d, and slipshod,
’gan her distaff ply:
And now the wonted hour of
woe drew nigh,
That wakes to tears the lover
from his dream:
When my sweet hope unto my
mind appear’d,
Not in the custom’d
way unto my sight;
For grief had bathed my lids,
and sleep had weigh’d;
Ah me, how changed that form
by love endear’d!
“Why lose thy fortitude?”
methought she said,
“These eyes not yet
from thee withdraw their light.”
NOTT.
Already in the
east the amorous star
Illumined heaven, while from
her northern height
Great Juno’s rival through
the dusky night
Her beamy radiance shot.
Returning care
Had roused th’ industrious
hag, with footstep bare,
And loins ungirt, the sleeping
fire to light;
And lovers thrill’d
that season of despight,
Which wont renew their tears,
and wake despair.
When my soul’s hope,
now on the verge of fate,
(Not by th’ accustomed
way; for that in sleep
Was closed, and moist with
griefs,) attain’d my heart.
Alas, how changed! “Servant,
no longer weep,”
She seem’d to say; “resume
thy wonted state:
Not yet thine eyes from mine
are doom’d to part.”
CHARLEMONT.
Already, in the
east, the star of love
Was flaming, and that other
in the north,
Which Juno’s jealousy
is wont to move,
Its beautiful and lustrous
rays shot forth;
Barefooted and half clad,
the housewife old
Had stirr’d her fire,
and set herself to weave;
Each tender heart the thoughtful
time controll’d
Which evermore the lover wakes
MACGREGOR.
Apollo, s’ ancor vive il bel desio.
HE COMPARES HER TO A LAUREL, WHICH HE SUPPLICATES APOLLO TO DEFEND.
O Phoebus, if
that fond desire remains,
Which fired thy breast near
the Thessalian wave;
If those bright tresses, which
such pleasure gave,
Through lapse of years thy
memory not disdains;
From sluggish frosts, from
rude inclement rains.
Which last the while thy beams
our region leave,
That honour’d sacred
tree from peril save,
Whose name of dear accordance
waked our pains!
And, by that amorous hope
which soothed thy care,
What time expectant thou wert
doom’d to sigh
Dispel those vapours which
disturb our sky!
So shall we both behold our
favorite fair
With wonder, seated on the
grassy mead,
And forming with her arms
herself a shade.
NOTT.
If live the fair
desire, Apollo, yet
Which fired thy spirit once
on Peneus’ shore,
And if the bright hair loved
so well of yore
In lapse of years thou dost
not now forget,
From the long frost, from
seasons rude and keen,
Which last while hides itself
thy kindling brow,
Defend this consecrate and
honour’d bough,
Which snared thee erst, whose
slave I since have been.
And, by the virtue of the
love so dear
Which soothed, sustain’d
thee in that early strife,
Our air from raw and lowering
vapours clear:
So shall we see our lady,
to new life
Restored, her seat upon the
greensward take,
Where her own graceful arms
a sweet shade o’er her make.
MACGREGOR.
Solo e pensoso i piu deserti campi.
HE SEEKS SOLITUDE, BUT LOVE FOLLOWS HIM EVERYWHERE.
Alone, and lost
in thought, the desert glade
Measuring I roam with ling’ring
steps and slow;
And still a watchful glance
around me throw,
Anxious to shun the print
of human tread:
No other means I find, no
surer aid
From the world’s prying
eye to hide my woe:
So well my wild disorder’d
gestures show,
And love lorn looks, the fire
within me bred,
That well I deem each mountain,
wood and plain,
And river knows, what I from
man conceal,
What dreary hues my life’s
fond prospects dim.
Yet whate’er wild or
savage paths I’ve ta’en,
Where’er I wander, love
attends me still,
Soft whisp’ring to my
soul, and I to him.
ANON., OX., 1795.
Alone, and pensive,
near some desert shore,
Far from the haunts of men
I love to stray,
And, cautiously, my distant
path explore
Where never human footsteps
mark’d the way.
Thus from the public gaze
I strive to fly,
And to the winds alone my
griefs impart;
While in my hollow cheek and
haggard eye
Appears the fire that burns
my inmost heart.
But ah, in vain to distant
scenes I go;
No solitude my troubled thoughts
allays.
Methinks e’en things
inanimate must know
The flame that on my soul
in secret preys;
Whilst Love, unconquer’d,
with resistless sway
Still hovers round my path,
still meets me on my way.
J.B. TAYLOR.
Alone and pensive,
the deserted plain,
With tardy pace and sad, I
wander by;
And mine eyes o’er it
rove, intent to fly
Where distant shores no trace
of man retain;
No help save this I find,
some cave to gain
Where never may intrude man’s
curious eye,
Lest on my brow, a stranger
long to joy,
He read the secret fire which
makes my pain
For here, methinks, the mountain
and the flood,
Valley and forest the strange
temper know
Of my sad life conceal’d
from others’ sight—
Yet where, where shall I find
so wild a wood,
A way so rough that there
Love cannot go
Communing with me the long
day and night?
MACGREGOR.
S’ io credessi per morte essere scarco.
HE PRAYS FOR DEATH, BUT IN VAIN.
Had I believed
that Death could set me free
From the anxious amorous thoughts
my peace that mar,
With these my own hands which
yet stainless are,
Life had I loosed, long hateful
grown to me.
Yet, for I fear ’twould
but a passage be
From grief to grief, from
old to other war,
Hither the dark shades my
escape that bar,
I still remain, nor hope relief
to see.
High time it surely is that
he had sped
The fatal arrow from his pitiless
bow,
In others’ blood so
often bathed and red;
And I of Love and Death have
pray’d it so—
He listens not, but leaves
me here half dead.
Nor cares to call me to himself
below.
MACGREGOR.
Oh! had I deem’d
that Death had freed my soul
From Love’s tormenting,
overwhelming thought,
To crush its aching burthen
I had sought,
My wearied life had hasten’d
to its goal;
My shivering bark yet fear’d
another shoal,
To find one tempest with another
bought,
Thus poised ’twixt earth
and heaven I dwell as naught,
Not daring to assume my life’s
control.
But sure ’tis time that
Death’s relentless bow
Had wing’d that fatal
arrow to my heart,
So often bathed in life’s
dark crimson tide:
But though I crave he would
this boon bestow,
He to my cheek his impress
doth impart,
And yet o’erlooks me
in his fearful stride.
WOLLASTON.
Si e debile il filo a cui s’ attene.
HE GRIEVES IN ABSENCE FROM LAURA.
The thread on
which my weary life depends
So fragile is and weak,
If none kind succour lends,
Soon ’neath the painful
burden will it break;
Since doom’d to take
my sad farewell of her,
In whom begins and ends
My bliss, one hope, to stir
My sinking spirit from its
black despair,
Whispers, “Though lost
awhile
That form so dear and fair,
Sad soul! the trial bear,
For thee e’en yet the
sun may brightly shine,
And days more happy smile,
Once more the lost loved treasure
may be thine.”
This thought awhile sustains
me, but again
To fail me and forsake in
worse excess of pain.
Time flies apace: the
silent hours and swift
So urge his journey on,
Short span to me is left
Even to think how quick to
death I run;
Scarce, in the orient heaven,
yon mountain crest
Smiles in the sun’s
first ray,
When, in the adverse west,
His long round run, we see
his light decay
So small of life the space,
So frail and clogg’d
with woe,
To mortal man below,
That, when I find me from
that beauteous face
Thus torn by fate’s
decree,
Unable at a wish with her
to be,
So poor the profit that old
comforts give,
I know not how I brook in
such a state to live.
Each place offends, save where
alone I see
Those eyes so sweet and bright,
Which still shall bear the
key
Of the soft thoughts I hide
from other sight;
And, though hard exile harder
weighs on me,
Whatever mood betide,
I ask no theme beside,
For all is hateful that I
since have seen.
What rivers and what heights,
What shores and seas between
Me rise and those twin lights,
Which made the storm and blackness
of my days
One beautiful serene,
To which tormented Memory
still strays:
Free as my life then pass’d
from every care,
So hard and heavy seems my
present lot to bear.
Alas! self-parleying thus,
I but renew
The warm wish in my mind,
Which first within it grew
The day I left my better half
behind:
If by long absence love is
quench’d, then who
Guides me to the old bait,
Whence all my sorrows date?
Why rather not my lips in
silence seal’d?
By finest crystal ne’er
Were hidden tints reveal’d
So faithfully and fair,
As my sad spirit naked lays
and bare
Its every secret part,
And the wild sweetness thrilling
in my heart,
Through eyes which, restlessly,
o’erfraught with tears,
Seek her whose sight alone
with instant gladness cheers.
Strange pleasure!—yet
so often that within
The human heart to reign
Is found—to woo
and win
Each new brief toy that men
most sigh to gain:
And I am one from sadness
who relief
So draw, as if it still
My study were to fill
These eyes with softness,
and this heart with grief:
As weighs with me in chief
Nay rather with sole force,
The language and the light
Of those dear eyes to urge
me on that course,
So where its fullest source
Long sorrow finds, I fix my
often sight,
And thus my heart and eyes
like sufferers be,
Which in love’s path
have been twin pioneers to me.
The golden tresses which should
make, I ween,
The sun with envy pine;
And the sweet look serene,
Where love’s own rays
so bright and burning shine,
That, ere its time, they make
my strength decline,
Each wise and truthful word,
Rare in the world, which late
She smiling gave, no more
are seen or heard.
But this of all my fate
Is hardest to endure,
That here I am denied
The gentle greeting, angel-like
and pure,
Which still to virtue’s
side
Inclined my heart with modest
magic lure;
So that, in sooth, I nothing
hope again
Of comfort more than this,
how best to bear my pain.
And—with fit ecstacy
my loss to mourn—
The soft hand’s snowy
charm,
The finely-rounded arm,
The winning ways, by turns,
that quiet scorn,
Chaste anger, proud humility
adorn,
The fair young breast that
shrined
Intellect pure and high,
Are now all hid the rugged
Alp behind.
My trust were vain to try
And see her ere I die,
For, though awhile he dare
Such dreams indulge, Hope
ne’er can constant be,
But falls back in despair
Her, whom Heaven honours,
there again to see,
Where virtue, courtesy in
her best mix,
And where so oft I pray my
future home to fix.
My Song! if thou shalt see,
Our common lady in that dear
retreat,
We both may hope that she
Will stretch to thee her fair
and fav’ring hand,
Whence I so far am bann’d;
—Touch, touch it
not, but, reverent at her feet,
Tell her I will be there with
earliest speed,
A man of flesh and blood,
or else a spirit freed.
MACGREGOR.
Orso, e’ non furon mai fiumi ne stagni.
HE COMPLAINS OF THE VEIL AND HAND OF LAURA, THAT THEY DEPRIVE HIM OF THE SIGHT OF HER EYES.
Orso, my friend,
was never stream, nor lake,
Nor sea in whose broad lap
all rivers fall,
Nor shadow of high hill, or
wood, or wall,
Nor heaven-obscuring clouds
which torrents make,
Nor other obstacles my grief
MACGREGOR.
Io temo si de’ begli occhi l’ assalto.
HE EXCUSES HIMSELF FOR HAVING SO LONG DELAYED TO VISIT HER.
So much I fear
to encounter her bright eye.
Alway in which my death and
Love reside,
That, as a child the rod,
its glance I fly,
Though long the time has been
since first I tried;
And ever since, so wearisome
or high,
No place has been where strong
will has not hied,
Her shunning, at whose sight
my senses die,
And, cold as marble, I am
laid aside:
Wherefore if I return to see
you late,
Sure ’tis no fault,
unworthy of excuse,
That from my death awhile
I held aloof:
At all to turn to what men
shun, their fate,
And from such fear my harass’d
heart to loose,
Of its true faith are ample
pledge and proof.
MACGREGOR.
S’ amore o morte non da qualche stroppio.
HE ASKS FROM A FRIEND THE LOAN OF THE WORKS OF ST. AUGUSTIN.
If Love or Death
no obstacle entwine
With the new web which here
my fingers fold,
And if I ’scape from
beauty’s tyrant hold
While natural truth with truth
reveal’d I join,
Perchance a work so double
will be mine
Between our modern style and
language old,
That (timidly I speak, with
hope though bold)
Even to Rome its growing fame
may shine:
But, since, our labour to
perfect at last
Some of the blessed threads
are absent yet
Which our dear father plentifully
met,
Wherefore to me thy hands
so close and fast
Against their use? Be
prompt of aid and free,
And rich our harvest of fair
things shall be.
MACGREGOR.
Quando dal proprio sito si rimove.
WHEN LAURA DEPARTS, THE HEAVENS GROW DARK WITH STORMS.
When from its
proper soil the tree is moved
Which Phoebus loved erewhile
in human form,
Grim Vulcan at his labour
sighs and sweats,
Renewing ever the dread bolts
of Jove,
Who thunders now, now speaks
in snow and rain,
Nor Julius honoureth than
Janus more:
Earth moans, and far from
us the sun retires
Since his dear mistress here
MACGREGOR.
Ma poi che ’l dolce riso umile e piano.
HER RETURN GLADDENS THE EARTH AND CALMS THE SKY.
But when her sweet
smile, modest and benign,
No longer hides from us its
beauties rare,
At the spent forge his stout
and sinewy arms
Plieth that old Sicilian smith
in vain,
For from the hands of Jove
his bolts are taken
Temper’d in AEtna to
extremest proof;
And his cold sister by degrees
grows calm
And genial in Apollo’s
kindling beams.
Moves from the rosy west a
summer breath,
Which safe and easy wafts
the seaward bark,
And wakes the sweet flowers
in each grassy mead.
Malignant stars on every side
depart,
Dispersed before that bright
enchanting face,
For which already many tears
are shed.
MACGREGOR.
Il figliuol di Latona avea gia nove.
THE GRIEF OF PHOEBUS AT THE LOSS OF HIS LOVE.
Nine times already
had Latona’s son
Look’d from the highest
balcony of heaven
For her, who whilom waked
his sighs in vain,
And sighs as vain now wakes
in other breasts;
Then seeking wearily, nor
knowing where
She dwelt, or far or near,
and why delay’d,
He show’d himself to
us as one, insane
For grief, who cannot find
some loved lost thing:
And thus, for clouds of sorrow
held aloof,
Saw not the fair face turn,
which, if I live,
In many a page shall praised
and honour’d be,
The misery of her loss so
changed her mien
That her bright eyes were
dimm’d, for once, with tears,
Thereon its former gloom the
air resumed.
MACGREGOR.
Quel che ’n Tessaglia ebbe le man si pronte.
SOME HAVE WEPT FOR THEIR WORST ENEMIES, BUT LAURA DEIGNS HIM NOT A SINGLE TEAR.
He who for empire
at Pharsalia threw,
Reddening its beauteous plain
with civil gore,
As Pompey’s corse his
conquering soldiers bore,
Wept when the well-known features
met his view:
The shepherd youth, who fierce
Goliath slew,
Had long rebellious children
to deplore,
And bent, in generous grief,
the brave Saul o’er
His shame and fall when proud
Gilboa knew:
But you, whose cheek with
pity never paled,
Who still have shields at
hand to guard you well
Against Love’s bow,
which shoots its darts in vain,
Behold me by a thousand deaths
assail’d,
And yet no tears of thine
compassion tell,
But in those bright eyes anger
and disdain.
MACGREGOR.
Il mio avversario, in cui veder solete.
LAURA AT HER LOOKING-GLASS.
My foe, in whom
you see your own bright eyes,
Adored by Love and Heaven
with honour due,
With beauties not its own
enamours you,
Sweeter and happier than in
mortal guise.
Me, by its counsel, lady,
from your breast,
My chosen cherish’d
home, your scorn expell’d
In wretched banishment, perchance
not held
Worthy to dwell where you
alone should rest.
But were I fasten’d
there with strongest keys,
That mirror should not make
you, at my cost,
Severe and proud yourself
alone to please.
Remember how Narcissus erst
was lost!
His course and thine to one
conclusion lead,
Of flower so fair though worthless
here the mead.
MACGREGOR.
My mirror’d
foe reflects, alas! so fair
Those eyes which Heaven and
Love have honour’d too!
Yet not his charms thou dost
enamour’d view,
But all thine own, and they
beyond compare:
O lady! thou hast chased me
at its prayer
From thy heart’s throne,
where I so fondly grew;
O wretched exile! though too
well I knew
A reign with thee I were unfit
to share.
But were I ever fix’d
thy bosom’s mate,
A flattering mirror should
not me supplant,
And make thee scorn me in
thy self-delight;
Thou surely must recall Narcissus’
fate,
But if like him thy doom should
thee enchant,
What mead were worthy of a
flower so bright?
WOLLASTON.
L’ oro e le perle, e i fior vermigli e i bianchi.
HE INVEIGHS AGAINST LAURA’S MIRROR, BECAUSE IT MAKES HER FORGET HIM.
Those golden tresses,
teeth of pearly white,
Those cheeks’ fair roses
blooming to decay,
Do in their beauty to my soul
convey
The poison’d arrows
from my aching sight.
Thus sad and briefly must
my days take flight,
For life with woe not long
on earth will stay;
But more I blame that mirror’s
flattering sway,
Which thou hast wearied with
thy self-delight.
Its power my bosom’s
sovereign too hath still’d,
Who pray’d thee in my
suit—now he is mute,
Since thou art captured by
thyself alone:
Death’s seeds it hath
within my heart instill’d,
For Lethe’s stream its
form doth constitute,
And makes thee lose each image
but thine own.
WOLLASTON.
The gold and pearls,
the lily and the rose
Which weak and dry in winter
wont to be,
Are rank and poisonous arrow-shafts
to me,
As my sore-stricken bosom
aptly shows:
Thus all my days now sadly
shortly close,
For seldom with great grief
MACGREGOR.
Io sentia dentr’ al cor gia venir meno.
HE DESIRES AGAIN TO GAZE ON THE EYES Of LAURA.
I now perceived
that from within me fled
Those spirits to which you
their being lend;
And since by nature’s
dictates to defend
Themselves from death all
animals are made,
The reins I loosed, with which
Desire I stay’d,
And sent him on his way without
a friend;
There whither day and night
my course he’d bend,
Though still from thence by
me reluctant led.
And me ashamed and slow along
he drew
To see your eyes their matchless
influence shower,
Which much I shun, afraid
to give you pain.
Yet for myself this once I’ll
live; such power
Has o’er this wayward
life one look from you:—
Then die, unless Desire prevails
again.
ANON., OX., 1795.
Because the powers
that take their life from you
Already had I felt within
decay,
And because Nature, death
to shield or slay,
Arms every animal with instinct
true,
To my long-curb’d desire
the rein I threw,
And turn’d it in the
old forgotten way,
Where fondly it invites me
night and day,
Though ’gainst its will,
another I pursue.
And thus it led me back, ashamed
and slow,
To see those eyes with love’s
own lustre rife
Which I am watchful never
to offend:
Thus may I live perchance
awhile below;
One glance of yours such power
has o’er my life
Which sure, if I oppose desire,
shall end.
MACGREGOR.
Se mai foco per foco non si spense.
HIS HEART IS ALL IN FLAMES, BUT HIS TONGUE IS MUTE, IN HER PRESENCE.
If fire was never
yet by fire subdued,
If never flood fell dry by
frequent rain,
But, like to like, if each
by other gain,
And contraries are often mutual
food;
Love, who our thoughts controllest
in each mood,
Through whom two bodies thus
one soul sustain,
How, why in her, with such
unusual strain
Make the want less by wishes
long renewed?
Perchance, as falleth the
broad Nile from high,
Deafening with his great voice
all nature round,
And as the sun still dazzles
the fix’d eye,
So with itself desire in discord
found
Loses in its impetuous object
force,
As the too frequent spur oft
checks the course.
MACGREGOR.
Perch’ io t’ abbia guardato di menzogna.
IN HER PRESENCE HE CAN NEITHER SPEAK, WEEP, NOR SIGH.
Although from
falsehood I did thee restrain
With all my power, and paid
thee honour due,
Ungrateful tongue; yet never
did accrue
Honour from thee, but shame,
and fierce disdain:
Most art thou cold, when most
I want the strain
Thy aid should lend while
I for pity sue;
And all thy utterance is imperfect
too,
When thou dost speak, and
as the dreamer’s vain.
Ye too, sad tears, throughout
each lingering night
Upon me wait, when I alone
would stay;
But, needed by my peace, you
take your flight:
And, all so prompt anguish
and grief t’ impart,
Ye sighs, then slow, and broken
breathe your way:
My looks alone truly reveal
my heart.
NOTT.
With all my power,
lest falsehood should invade,
I guarded thee and still thy
honour sought,
Ungrateful tongue! who honour
ne’er hast brought,
But still my care with rage
and shame repaid:
For, though to me most requisite,
thine aid,
When mercy I would ask, availeth
nought,
Still cold and mute, and e’en
to words if wrought
They seem as sounds in sleep
by dreamers made.
And ye, sad tears, o’
nights, when I would fain
Be left alone, my sure companions,
flow,
But, summon’d for my
peace, ye soon depart:
Ye too, mine anguish’d
sighs, so prompt to pain,
Then breathe before her brokenly
and slow,
And my face only speaks my
suffering heart.
MACGREGOR.
Nella stagion che ’l ciel rapido inchina.
NIGHT BRINGS REPOSE TO OTHERS, BUT NOT TO HIM.
In that still
season, when the rapid sun
Drives down the west, and
daylight flies to greet
Nations that haply wait his
kindling flame;
In some strange land, alone,
her weary feet
The time-worn pilgrim finds,
with toil fordone,
Yet but the more speeds on
her languid frame;
Her solitude the same,
When night has closed around;
Yet has the wanderer found
A deep though short forgetfulness
at last
Of every woe, and every labour
past.
But ah! my grief, that with
each moment grows,
As fast, and yet more fast,
Day urges on, is heaviest
at its close.
When Phoebus rolls his everlasting
wheels
To give night room; and from
encircling wood,
Broader and broader yet descends
the shade;
The labourer arms him for
his evening trade,
And all the weight his burthen’d
heart conceals
Lightens with glad discourse
or descant rude;
Then spreads his board with
Yon shepherd, when the mighty
star of day
He sees descending to its
western bed,
And the wide Orient all with
shade embrown’d,
Takes his old crook, and from
the fountain head,
Green mead, and beechen bower,
pursues his way,
Calling, with welcome voice,
his flocks around;
Then far from human sound,
Some desert cave he strows
With leaves and verdant boughs,
And lays him down, without
a thought, to sleep.
Ah, cruel Love!—then
dost thou bid me keep
My idle chase, the airy steps
pursuing
Of her I ever weep,
Who flies me still, my endless
toil renewing.
E’en the rude seaman,
in some cave confined,
Pillows his head, as daylight
quits the scene,
On the hard deck, with vilest
mat o’erspread;
And when the Sun in orient
wave serene
Bathes his resplendent front,
and leaves behind
Those antique pillars of his
boundless bed;
Forgetfulness has shed
O’er man, and beast,
and flower,
Her mild restoring power:
But my determined grief finds
no repose;
And every day but aggravates
the woes
Of that remorseless flood,
that, ten long years,
Flowing, yet ever flows,
Nor know I what can check
its ceaseless tears.
MERIVALE.
What time towards
the western skies
The sun with parting radiance
flies,
And other climes gilds with
expected light,
Some aged pilgrim dame who
strays
Alone, fatigued, through pathless
ways,
Hastens her step, and dreads
the approach of night
Then, the day’s journey
o’er, she’ll steep
Her sense awhile in grateful
sleep;
Forgetting all the pain, and
peril past;
But I, alas! find no repose,
Each sun to me brings added
woes,
While light’s eternal
orb rolls from us fast.
When the sun’s wheels
no longer glow,
And hills their lengthen’d
shadows throw,
The hind collects his tools,
and carols gay;
Then spreads his board with
frugal fare,
Such as those homely acorns
were,
Which all revere, yet casting
them away,
Let those, who pleasure can
enjoy,
In cheerfulness their hours
employ;
While I, of all earth’s
wretches most unblest,
Whether the sun fierce darts
his beams,
Whether the moon more mildly
gleams,
Taste no delight, no momentary
rest!
When the swain views the star
of day
Quench in the pillowing waves
its ray,
And scatter darkness o’er
the eastern skies
Rising, his custom’d
crook he takes,
The beech-wood, fountain,
plain forsakes,
As calmly homeward with his
flock he hies
Remote from man, then on his
bed
In cot, or cave, with fresh
leaves spread,
He courts soft slumber, and
suspense from care,
While thou, fell Love, bidst
me pursue
That voice, those footsteps
which subdue
My soul; yet movest not th’
obdurate fair!
Lock’d in some bay,
to taste repose
On the hard deck, the sailor
throws
His coarse garb o’er
him, when the car of light
Granada, with Marocco leaves,
The Pillars famed, Iberia’s
waves,
And the world’s hush’d,
and all its race, in night.
But never will my sorrows
cease,
Successive days their sum
increase,
Though just ten annual suns
have mark’d my pain;
Say, to this bosom’s
poignant grief
Who shall administer relief?
Say, who at length shall free
me from my chain?
And, since there’s comfort
in the strain,
I see at eve along each plain.
And furrow’d hill, the
unyoked team return:
Why at that hour will no one
stay
My sighs, or bear my yoke
away?
Why bathed in tears must I
unceasing mourn?
Wretch that I was, to fix
my sight
First on that face with such
delight,
Till on my thought its charms
were strong imprest,
Which force shall not efface,
nor art,
Ere from this frame my soul
dispart!
Nor know I then if passion’s
votaries rest.
O hasty strain, devoid of
worth,
Sad as the bard who brought
thee forth,
Show not thyself, be with
the world at strife,
From nook to nook indulge
thy grief;
While thy lorn parent seeks
relief,
Nursing that amorous flame
which feeds his life!
NOTT.
Poco era ad appressarsi agli occhi miei.
SUCH ARE HIS SUFFERINGS THAT HE ENVIES THE INSENSIBILITY OF MARBLE.
Had but the light
which dazzled them afar
Drawn but a little nearer
to mine eyes,
Methinks I would have wholly
changed my form,
Even as in Thessaly her form
she changed:
But if I cannot lose myself
in her
More than I have—small
mercy though it won—
I would to-day in aspect thoughtful
be,
Of harder stone than chisel
ever wrought,
Of adamant, or marble cold
and white,
Perchance through terror,
or of jasper rare
And therefore prized by the
blind greedy crowd.
Then were I free from this
hard heavy yoke
Which makes me envy Atlas,
old and worn,
Who with his shoulders brings
Morocco night.
ANON.
Non al suo amante piu Diana piacque.
ANYTHING THAT REMINDS HIM OF LAURA RENEWS HIS TORMENTS.
Not Dian to her
lover was more dear,
When fortune ’mid the
waters cold and clear,
Gave him her naked beauties
all to see,
Than seem’d the rustic
ruddy nymph to me,
Who, in yon flashing stream,
the light veil laved,
Whence Laura’s lovely
tresses lately waved;
I saw, and through me felt
an amorous chill,
Though summer burn, to tremble
and to thrill.
MACGREGOR.
Spirto gentil che quelle membra reggi.
TO RIENZI, BESEECHING HIM TO RESTORE TO ROME HER ANCIENT LIBERTY.
Spirit heroic!
who with fire divine
Kindlest those limbs, awhile
which pilgrim hold
On earth a Chieftain, gracious,
wise, and bold;
Since, rightly, now the rod
of state is thine
Rome and her wandering children
to confine,
And yet reclaim her to the
old good way:
To thee I speak, for elsewhere
not a ray
Of virtue can I find, extinct
below,
Nor one who feels of evil
deeds the shame.
Why Italy still waits, and
what her aim
I know not, callous to her
proper woe,
Indolent, aged, slow,
Still will she sleep?
Is none to rouse her found?
Oh! that my wakening hands
were through her tresses wound.
So grievous is the spell,
the trance so deep,
Loud though we call, my hope
is faint that e’er
She yet will waken from her
heavy sleep:
But not, methinks, without
some better end
Was this our Rome entrusted
to thy care,
Who surest may revive and
best defend.
Fearlessly then upon that
reverend head,
’Mid her dishevell’d
locks, thy fingers spread,
And lift at length the sluggard
from the dust;
I, day and night, who her
prostration mourn,
For this, in thee, have fix’d
my certain trust,
That, if her sons yet turn.
And their eyes ever to true
honour raise.
The glory is reserved for
thy illustrious days!
Her ancient walls, which still
with fear and love
The world admires, whene’er
it calls to mind
The days of Eld, and turns
to look behind;
Her hoar and cavern’d
monuments above
The dust of men, whose fame,
until the world
In dissolution sink, can never
fail;
Her all, that in one ruin
now lies hurl’d,
Hopes to have heal’d
by thee its every ail.
O faithful Brutus! noble Scipios
dead!
To you what triumph, where
ye now are blest,
If of our worthy choice the
fame have spread:
And how his laurell’d
crest,
Will old Fabricius rear, with
joy elate,
That his own Rome again shall
beauteous be and great!
And, if for things of earth
its care Heaven show,
The souls who dwell above
in joy and peace,
And their mere mortal frames
have left below,
Implore thee this long civil
strife may cease,
Which kills all confidence,
nips every good,
Which bars the way to many
a roof, where men
Once holy, hospitable lived,
the den
Of fearless rapine now and
frequent blood,
Whose doors to virtue only
are denied.
While beneath plunder’d
Saints, in outraged fanes
Plots Faction, and Revenge
the altar stains;
And, contrast sad and wide,
The very bells which sweetly
wont to fling
Summons to prayer and praise
now Battle’s tocsin ring!
Pale weeping women, and a
friendless crowd
Of tender years, infirm and
desolate Age,
Which hates itself and its
superfluous days,
With each blest order to religion
vow’d,
Whom works of love through
lives of want engage,
To thee for help their hands
and voices raise;
While our poor panic-stricken
land displays
The thousand wounds which
now so mar her frame,
That e’en from foes
compassion they command;
Or more if Christendom thy
care may claim.
Lo! God’s own house
on fire, while not a hand
Moves to subdue the flame:
—Heal thou these
wounds, this feverish tumult end,
And on the holy work Heaven’s
blessing shall descend!
Often against our marble Column
high
Wolf, Lion, Bear, proud Eagle,
and base Snake
Even to their own injury insult
shower;
Lifts against thee and theirs
her mournful cry,
The noble Dame who calls thee
here to break
Away the evil weeds which
will not flower.
A thousand years and more!
and gallant men
There fix’d her seat
in beauty and in power;
The breed of patriot hearts
has fail’d since then!
And, in their stead, upstart
and haughty now,
A race, which ne’er
to her in reverence bends,
Her husband, father thou!
Like care from thee and counsel
she attends,
As o’er his other works
the Sire of all extends.
’Tis seldom e’en
that with our fairest scheme
Some adverse fortune will
not mix, and mar
With instant ill ambition’s
noblest dreams;
But thou, once ta’en
thy path, so walk that I
May pardon her past faults,
great as they are,
If now at least she give herself
the lie.
For never, in all memory,
as to thee,
To mortal man so sure and
straight the way
Of everlasting honour open
lay,
For thine the power and will,
if right I see,
To lift our empire to its
old proud state.
Let this thy glory be!
They succour’d her when
young, and strong, and great,
He, in her weak old age, warded
the stroke of Fate.
Forth on thy way! my Song,
and, where the bold
Tarpeian lifts his brow, shouldst
MACGREGOR.
Perche al viso d’ Amor portava insegna.
A LOVE JOURNEY—DANGER IN THE PATH—HE TURNS BACK.
Bright in whose
face Love’s conquering ensign stream’d,
A foreign fair so won me,
young and vain,
That of her sex all others
worthless seem’d:
Her as I follow’d o’er
the verdant plain,
I heard a loud voice speaking
from afar,
“How lost in these lone
woods his footsteps are!”
Then paused I, and, beneath
the tall beech shade,
All wrapt in thought, around
me well survey’d,
Till, seeing how much danger
block’d my way,
Homeward I turn’d me
though at noon of day.
MACGREGOR.
Quel foco, ch’ io pensai che fosse spento.
HE THOUGHT HIMSELF FREE, BUT FINDS THAT HE IS MORE THAN EVER ENTHRALLED BY LOVE.
That fire for
ever which I thought at rest,
Quench’d in the chill
blood of my ripen’d years,
Awakes new flames and torment
in my breast.
Its sparks were never all,
from what I see,
Extinct, but merely slumbering,
smoulder’d o’er;
Haply this second error worse
may be,
For, by the tears, which I,
in torrents, pour,
Grief, through these eyes,
distill’d from my heart’s core,
Which holds within itself
the spark and bait,
Remains not as it was, but
grows more great.
What fire, save mine, had
not been quench’d and kill’d
Beneath the flood these sad
eyes ceaseless shed?
Struggling ’mid opposites—so
Love has will’d—
Now here, now there, my vain
life must be led,
For in so many ways his snares
are spread,
When most I hope him from
my heart expell’d
Then most of her fair face
its slave I’m held.
MACGREGOR.
Se col cieco desir che ’l cor distrugge.
BLIGHTED HOPE.
Either that blind
desire, which life destroys
Counting the hours, deceives
my misery,
Or, even while yet I speak,
the moment flies,
Promised at once to pity and
to me.
Alas! what baneful shade o’erhangs
and dries
The seed so near its full
maturity?
’Twixt me and hope what
brazen walls arise?
From murderous wolves not
even my fold is free.
Ah, woe is me! Too clearly
CHARLEMONT.
Counting the hours,
lest I myself mislead
By blind desire wherewith
my heart is torn,
E’en while I speak away
the moments speed,
To me and pity which alike
were sworn.
What shade so cruel as to
blight the seed
Whence the wish’d fruitage
should so soon be born?
What beast within my fold
has leap’d to feed?
What wall is built between
the hand and corn?
Alas! I know not, but,
if right I guess,
Love to such joyful hope has
only led
To plunge my weary life in
worse distress;
And I remember now what once
I read,
Until the moment of his full
release
Man’s bliss begins not,
nor his troubles cease.
MACGREGOR.
Mie venture al venir son tarde e pigre.
FEW ARE THE SWEETS, BUT MANY THE BITTERS OF LOVE.
Ever my hap is
slack and slow in coming,
Desire increasing, ay my hope
uncertain
With doubtful love, that but
increaseth pain;
For, tiger-like, so swift
it is in parting.
Alas! the snow black shall
it be and scalding,
The sea waterless, and fish
upon the mountain,
The Thames shall back return
into his fountain,
And where he rose the sun
shall take [his] lodging,
Ere I in this find peace or
quietness;
Or that Love, or my Lady,
right wisely,
Leave to conspire against
me wrongfully.
And if I have, after such
bitterness,
One drop of sweet, my mouth
is out of taste,
That all my trust and travail
is but waste.
WYATT.
Late to arrive
my fortunes are and slow—
Hopes are unsure, desires
ascend and swell,
Suspense, expectancy in me
rebel—
But swifter to depart than
tigers go.
Tepid and dark shall be the
cold pure snow,
The ocean dry, its fish on
mountains dwell,
The sun set in the East, by
that old well
Alike whence Tigris and Euphrates
flow,
Ere in this strife I peace
or truce shall find,
Ere Love or Laura practise
kinder ways,
Sworn friends, against me
wrongfully combined.
After such bitters, if some
sweet allays,
Balk’d by long fasts
my palate spurns the fare,
Sole grace from them that
falleth to my share.
MACGREGOR.
La guancia che fu gia piangendo stanca.
TO HIS FRIEND AGAPITO, WITH A PRESENT.
Thy weary cheek
that channell’d sorrow shows,
My much loved lord, upon the
one repose;
More careful of thyself against
Love be,
Tyrant who smiles his votaries
wan to see;
And with the other close the
left-hand path
Too easy entrance where his
message hath;
In sun and storm thyself the
same display,
Because time faileth for the
lengthen’d way.
And, with the third, drink
of the precious herb
Which purges every thought
that would disturb,
Sweet in the end though sour
at first in taste:
But me enshrine where your
best joys are placed,
So that I fear not the grim
bark of Styx,
If with such prayer of mine
pride do not mix.
MACGREGOR.
Perche quel che mi trasse ad amar prima.
HE WILL ALWAYS LOVE HER, THOUGH DENIED THE SIGHT OF HER.
Though cruelty
denies my view
Those charms which led me
first to love;
To passion yet will I be true,
Nor shall my will rebellious
prove.
Amid the curls of golden hair
That wave those beauteous
temples round,
Cupid spread craftily the
snare
With which my captive heart
he bound:
And from those eyes he caught
the ray
Which thaw’d the ice
that fenced my breast,
Chasing all other thoughts
away,
With brightness suddenly imprest.
But now that hair of sunny
gleam,
Ah me! is ravish’d from
my sight;
Those beauteous eyes withdraw
their beam,
And change to sadness past
delight.
A glorious death by all is
prized;
Tis death alone shall break
my chain:
Oh! be Love’s timid
wail despised.
Lovers should nobly suffer
pain.
NOTT.
Though barr’d
from all which led me first to love
By coldness or caprice,
Not yet from its firm bent
can passion cease!
The snare was set amid those
threads of gold,
To which Love bound me fast;
And from those bright eyes
melted the long cold
Within my heart that pass’d;
So sweet the spell their sudden
splendour cast,
Its single memory still
Deprives my soul of every
other will.
But now, alas! from me of
that fine hair
Is ravish’d the dear
sight;
The lost light of those twin
stars, chaste as fair,
Saddens me in her flight;
But, since a glorious death
wins honour bright,
By death, and not through
grief,
Love from such chain shall
give at last relief.
MACGREGOR.
L’ arbor gentil che forte amai molt’ anni.
IMPRECATION AGAINST THE LAUREL.
The graceful tree
I loved so long and well,
Ere its fair boughs in scorn
my flame declined,
Beneath its shade encouraged
my poor mind
To bud and bloom, and ’mid
its sorrow swell.
But now, my heart secure from
such a spell,
Alas, from friendly it has
grown unkind!
My thoughts entirely to one
end confined,
Their painful sufferings how
I still may tell.
What should he say, the sighing
slave of love,
To whom my later rhymes gave
hope of bliss,
Who for that laurel has lost
all—but this?
May poet never pluck thee
more, nor Jove
Exempt; but may the sun still
hold in hate
On each green leaf till blight
and blackness wait.
MACGREGOR.
Benedetto sia ’l giorno e ‘l mese e l’ anno.
HE BLESSES ALL THE CIRCUMSTANCES OF HIS PASSION.
Blest be the day,
and blest the month, the year,
The spring, the hour, the
very moment blest,
The lovely scene, the spot,
where first oppress’d
I sunk, of two bright eyes
the prisoner:
And blest the first soft pang,
to me most dear,
Which thrill’d my heart,
when Love became its guest;
And blest the bow, the shafts
which pierced my breast,
And even the wounds, which
bosom’d thence I bear.
Blest too the strains which,
pour’d through glade and grove,
Have made the woodlands echo
with her name;
The sighs, the tears, the
languishment, the love:
And blest those sonnets, sources
of my fame;
And blest that thought—Oh!
never to remove!
Which turns to her alone,
from her alone which came.
WRANGHAM.
Blest be the year,
the month, the hour, the day,
The season and the time, and
point of space,
And blest the beauteous country
and the place
Where first of two bright
eyes I felt the sway:
Blest the sweet pain of which
I was the prey,
When newly doom’d Love’s
sovereign law to embrace,
And blest the bow and shaft
to which I trace,
The wound that to my inmost
heart found way:
Blest be the ceaseless accents
of my tongue,
Unwearied breathing my loved
lady’s name:
Blest my fond wishes, sighs,
and tears, and pains:
Blest be the lays in which
her praise I sung,
That on all sides acquired
to her fair fame,
And blest my thoughts! for
o’er them all she reigns.
DACRE.
Padre del ciel, dopo i perduti giorni.
CONSCIOUS OF HIS FOLLY, HE PRAYS GOD TO TURN HIM TO A BETTER LIFE.
Father of heaven!
after the days misspent,
After the nights of wild tumultuous
thought,
In that fierce passion’s
strong entanglement,
One, for my peace too lovely
fair, had wrought;
Vouchsafe that, by thy grace,
my spirit bent
On nobler aims, to holier
ways be brought;
That so my foe, spreading
with dark intent
His mortal snares, be foil’d,
and held at nought.
E’en now th’ eleventh
year its course fulfils,
That I have bow’d me
to the tyranny
Relentless most to fealty
most tried.
Have mercy, Lord! on my unworthy
ills:
Fix all my thoughts in contemplation
high;
How on the cross this day
a Saviour died.
DACRE.
Father of heaven!
despite my days all lost,
Despite my nights in doting
folly spent
With that fierce passion which
my bosom rent
At sight of her, too lovely
for my cost;
Vouchsafe at length that,
by thy grace, I turn
To wiser life, and enterprise
more fair,
So that my cruel foe, in vain
his snare
Set for my soul, may his defeat
discern.
Already, Lord, the eleventh
year circling wanes
Since first beneath his tyrant
yoke I fell
Who still is fiercest where
we least rebel:
Pity my undeserved and lingering
pains,
To holier thoughts my wandering
sense restore,
How on this day his cross
thy Son our Saviour bore.
MACGREGOR.
Volgendo gli occhi al mio novo colore.
HER KIND SALUTE SAVED HIM FROM DEATH.
Late as those
eyes on my sunk cheek inclined,
Whose paleness to the world
seems of the grave,
Compassion moved you to that
greeting kind,
Whose soft smile to my worn
heart spirit gave.
The poor frail life which
yet to me is left
Was of your beauteous eyes
the liberal gift,
And of that voice angelical
and mild;
My present state derived from
them I see;
As the rod quickens the slow
sullen child,
So waken’d they the
sleeping soul in me.
Thus, Lady, of my true heart
both the keys
You hold in hand, and yet
your captive please:
Ready to sail wherever winds
may blow,
By me most prized whate’er
to you I owe.
MACGREGOR.
Se voi poteste per turbati segni.
HE ENTREATS LAURA NOT TO HATE THE HEART FROM WHICH SHE CAN NEVER BE ABSENT.
If, but by angry
and disdainful sign,
By the averted head and downcast
sight,
By readiness beyond thy sex
for flight,
Deaf to all pure and worthy
prayers of mine,
Thou canst, by these or other
arts of thine,
’Scape from my breast—where
Love on slip so slight
Grafts every day new boughs—of
MACGREGOR.
Lasso, che mal accorto fui da prima.
HE PRAYS LOVE TO KINDLE ALSO IN HER THE FLAME BY WHICH HE IS UNCEASINGLY TORMENTED.
Alas! this heart
by me was little known
In those first days when Love
its depths explored,
Where by degrees he made himself
the lord
Of my whole life, and claim’d
it as his own:
I did not think that, through
his power alone,
A heart time-steel’d,
and so with valour stored,
Such proof of failing firmness
could afford,
And fell by wrong self-confidence
o’erthrown.
Henceforward all defence too
late will come,
Save this, to prove, enough
or little, here
If to these mortal prayers
Love lend his ear.
Not now my prayer—nor
can such e’er have room—
That with more mercy he consume
my heart,
But in the fire that she may
bear her part.
MACGREGOR.
L’ aere gravato, e l’ importuna nebbia.
HE COMPARES LAURA TO WINTER, AND FORESEES THAT SHE WILL ALWAYS BE THE SAME.
The overcharged
air, the impending cloud,
Compress’d together
by impetuous winds,
Must presently discharge themselves
in rain;
Already as of crystal are
the streams,
And, for the fine grass late
that clothed the vales,
Is nothing now but the hoar
frost and ice.
And I, within my heart, more
cold than ice,
Of heavy thoughts have such
a hovering cloud,
As sometimes rears itself
in these our vales,
Lowly, and landlock’d
against amorous winds,
Environ’d everywhere
with stagnant streams,
When falls from soft’ning
heaven the smaller rain.
Lasts but a brief while every
heavy rain;
And summer melts away the
snows and ice,
When proudly roll th’
accumulated streams:
Nor ever hid the heavens so
thick a cloud,
Which, overtaken by the furious
winds,
Fled not from the first hills
and quiet vales.
But ah! what profit me the
flowering vales?
Alike I mourn in sunshine
and in rain,
Suffering the same in warm
and wintry winds;
For only then my lady shall
want ice
At heart, and on her brow
th’ accustom’d cloud,
When dry shall be the seas,
the lakes, and streams.
While to the sea descend the
mountain streams,
As long as wild beasts love
umbrageous vales,
O’er those bright eyes
shall hang th’ unfriendly cloud
My own that moistens with
continual rain;
And in that lovely breast
be harden’d ice
Which forces still from mine
so dolorous winds.
Yet well ought I to pardon
all the winds
But for the love of one, that
’mid two streams
Shut me among bright verdure
and pure ice;
So that I pictured then in
thousand vales
The shade wherein I was, which
heat or rain
Esteemeth not, nor sound of
broken cloud.
But fled not ever cloud before
the winds,
As I that day: nor ever
streams with rain
Nor ice, when April’s
sun opens the vales.
MACGREGOR.
[Illustration: CASTLE OF ST. ANGELO & ST. PETERS.]
Del mar Tirreno alla sinistra riva.
THE FALL.
Upon the left
shore of the Tyrrhene sea,
Where, broken by the winds,
the waves complain,
Sudden I saw that honour’d
green again,
Written for whom so many a
page must be:
Love, ever in my soul his
flame who fed,
Drew me with memories of those
tresses fair;
Whence, in a rivulet, which
silent there
Through long grass stole,
I fell, as one struck dead.
Lone as I was, ’mid
hills of oak and fir,
I felt ashamed; to heart of
gentle mould
Blushes suffice: nor
needs it other spur.
’Tis well at least,
breaking bad customs old,
To change from eyes to feet:
from these so wet
By those if milder April should
be met.
MACGREGOR.
L’ aspetto sacro della terra vostra.
THE VIEW OF ROME PROMPTS HIM TO TEAR HIMSELF FROM LAURA, BUT LOVE WILL NOT ALLOW HIM.
The solemn aspect
of this sacred shore
Wakes for the misspent past
my bitter sighs;
‘Pause, wretched man!
and turn,’ as conscience cries,
Pointing the heavenward way
where I should soar.
But soon another thought gets
mastery o’er
The first, that so to palter
were unwise;
E’en now the time, if
memory err not, flies,
When we should wait our lady-love
before.
I, for his aim then well I
apprehend,
Within me freeze, as one who,
sudden, hears
News unexpected which his
soul offend.
Returns my first thought then,
that disappears;
Nor know I which shall conquer,
but till now
Within me they contend, nor
hope of rest allow!
MACGREGOR.
Ben sapev’ io che natural consiglio.
FLEEING FROM LOVE, HE FALLS INTO THE HANDS OF HIS MINISTERS.
Full well I know
that natural wisdom nought,
Love, ’gainst thy power,
in any age prevail’d,
For snares oft set, fond oaths
that ever fail’d,
Sore proofs of thy sharp talons
long had taught;
But lately, and in me it wonder
wrought—
With care this new experience
be detail’d—
MACGREGOR.
Lasso me, ch i’ non so in qual parte pieghi.
HE WOULD CONSOLE HIMSELF WITH SONG, BUT IS CONSTRAINED TO WEEP.
Me wretched! for
I know not whither tend
The hopes which have so long
my heart betray’d:
If none there be who will
compassion lend,
Wherefore to Heaven these
often prayers for aid?
But if, belike, not yet denied
to me
That, ere my own life end,
These sad notes mute shall
be,
Let not my Lord conceive the
wish too free,
Yet once, amid sweet flowers,
to touch the string,
“Reason and right it
is that love I sing.”
Reason indeed there were at
last that I
Should sing, since I have
sigh’d so long and late,
But that for me ’tis
vain such art to try,
Brief pleasures balancing
with sorrows great;
Could I, by some sweet verse,
but cause to shine
Glad wonder and new joy
Within those eyes divine,
Bliss o’er all other
lovers then were mine!
But more, if frankly fondly
I could say,
“My lady asks, I therefore
wake the lay.”
Delicious, dangerous thoughts!
that, to begin
A theme so high, have gently
led me thus,
You know I ne’er can
hope to pass within
Our lady’s heart, so
strongly steel’d from us;
She will not deign to look
on thing so low,
Nor may our language win
Aught of her care: since
Heaven ordains it so,
And vainly to oppose must
irksome grow,
Even as I my heart to stone
would turn,
“So in my verse would
I be rude and stern.”
What do I say? where am I?—My
own heart
And its misplaced desires
alone deceive!
Though my view travel utmost
heaven athwart
No planet there condemns me
thus to grieve:
Why, if the body’s veil
obscure my sight,
Blame to the stars impart.
Or other things as bright?
Within me reigns my tyrant,
day and night,
Since, for his triumph, me
a captive took
“Her lovely face, and
lustrous eyes’ dear look.”
While all things else in Nature’s
boundless reign
Came good from the Eternal
Master’s mould,
I look for such desert in
me in vain:
Me the light wounds that I
around behold;
To the true splendour if I
turn at last,
My eye would shrink in pain,
Whose own fault o’er
it cast
Such film, and not the fatal
day long past,
When first her angel beauty
met my view,
“In the sweet season
when my life was new.”
MACGREGOR.
Perche la vita e breve.
IN PRAISE OF LAURA’S EYES: THE DIFFICULTY OF HIS THEME.
Since human life
is frail,
And genius trembles at the
lofty theme,
I little confidence in either
place;
But let my tender wail
There, where it ought, deserved
attention claim,
That wail which e’en
in silence we may trace.
O beauteous eyes, where Love
doth nestling stay!
To you I turn my insufficient
lay,
Unapt to flow; but passion’s
goad I feel:
And he of you who sings
Such courteous habit by the
strain is taught,
That, borne on amorous wings,
He soars above the reach of
vulgar thought:
Exalted thus, I venture to
reveal
What long my cautious heart
has labour’d to conceal.
Yes, well do I perceive
To you how wrongful is my
scanty praise;
Yet the strong impulse cannot
be withstood,
That urges, since I view’d
What fancy to the sight before
ne’er gave,
What ne’er before graced
mine, or higher lays.
Bright authors of my sadly-pleasing
state,
That you alone conceive me
well I know,
When to your fierce beams
I become as snow!
Your elegant disdain
Haply then kindles at my worthless
strain.
Did not this dread create
Some mitigation of my bosom’s
heat,
Death would be bliss:
for greater joy ’twould give
With them to suffer death,
without them than to live.
If not consumed quite,
I the weak object of a flame
so strong:
’Tis not that safety
springs from native might,
But that some fear restrains,
Which chills the current circling
through my veins;
Strengthening this heart,
that it may suffer long.
O hills, O vales, O forests,
floods, and fields,
Ye who have witness’d
how my sad life flows,
Oft have ye heard me call
on death for aid.
Ah, state surcharged with
woes!
To stay destroys, and flight
no succour yields.
But had not higher dread
Withheld, some sudden effort
I had made
To end my sorrows and protracted
pains,
Of which the beauteous cause
insensible remains.
Why lead me, grief, astray
From my first theme to chant
a different lay?
Let me proceed where pleasure
may invite.
’Tis not of you I ’plain,
O eyes, beyond compare serenely
bright;
Nor yet of him who binds me
in his chain.
Ye clearly can behold the
hues that Love
Scatters ofttime on my dejected
face;
And fancy may his inward workings
trace
There where, whole nights
and days,
He rules with power derived
from your bright rays:
What rapture would ye prove,
If you, dear lights, upon
yourselves could gaze!
But, frequent as you bend
your beams on me,
What influence you possess
you in another see.
Oh! if to you were known
That beauty which I sing,
immense, divine.
As unto him on whom its glories
shine!
The heart had then o’erflown
With joy unbounded, such as
is denied
Unto that nature which its
acts doth guide.
How happy is the soul for
you that sighs,
Celestial lights! which lend
a charm to life,
And make me bless what else
I should not prize!
Ah! why, so seldom why
Afford what ne’er can
cause satiety?
More often to your sight
Why not bring Love, who holds
me constant strife?
And why so soon of joys despoil
me quite,
Which ever and anon my tranced
soul delight?
Yes, ’debted to your
grace,
Frequent I feel throughout
my inmost soul
Unwonted floods of sweetest
rapture roll;
Relieving so the mind,
That all oppressive thoughts
are left behind,
And of a thousand only one
has place;
For which alone this life
is dear to me.
Oh! might the blessing of
duration prove,
Not equall’d then could
my condition be!
But this would, haply, move
In others envy, in myself
vain pride.
That pain should be allied
To pleasure is, alas! decreed
above;
Then, stifling all the ardour
of desire,
Homeward I turn my thoughts,
and in myself retire.
So sweetly shines reveal’d
The amorous thought within
your soul which dwells,
That other joys it from my
heart expels:
Hence I aspire to frame
Lays whereon Hope may build
a deathless name,
When in the tomb my dust shall
lie conceal’d.
At your approach anguish and
sorrow fly;
These, as your beams retire,
again draw nigh;
Yet outward acts their influence
ne’er betray,
For doting memory
Dwells on the past, and chases
them away.
Whatever, then, of worth
My genius ripens owes to you
its birth.
To you all honour and all
praise is due—
Myself a barren soil, and
cultured but by you.
Thy strains, O song! appease
me not, but fire,
Chanting a theme that wings
my wild desire:
Trust me, thou shalt ere long
a sister-song acquire.
NOTT.
Since mortal life
is frail,
And my mind shrinks from lofty
themes deterr’d,
But small the trust which
I in either feel:
Yet hope I that my wail,
Which vainly I in silence
would conceal,
Shall, where I wish, where
most it ought, be heard.
Beautiful eyes! wherein Love
makes his nest,
To you my song its feeble
descant turns,
Slow of itself, but now by
passion spurr’d;
Who sings of you is blest,
And from his theme such courteous
habit learns
That, borne on wings of love,
Proudly he soars each viler
thought above;
Encouraged thus, what long
my harass’d heart
Has kept conceal’d,
I venture to impart.
Yet do I know full well
How much my praise must wrongful
prove to you,
But how the great desire can
I oppose,
Which ever in me grows,
Since what surpasses thought
’twas mine to view,
Though that nor others’
wit nor mine can tell?
Eyes! guilty authors of my
cherish’d pain,
That you alone can judge me,
well I know,
When from your burning beams
I melt like snow,
Haply your sweet disdain
Offence in my unworthiness
may see;
Ah! were there not such fear,
To calm the heat with which
I kindle near,
’Twere bliss to die:
for better far to me
Were death with them than
life without could be.
If yet not wasted quite—
So frail a thing before so
fierce a flame—
’Tis not from my own
strength that safety came,
But that some fear gives might,
Freezing the warm blood coursing
through its veins,
To my poor heart better to
bear the strife.
O valleys, hills, O forests,
floods, and plains,
Witnesses of my melancholy
life!
For death how often have ye
heard me pray!
Ah, miserable fate!
Where flight avails not, though
’tis death to stay;
But, if a dread more great
Restrain’d me not, despair
would find a way,
Speedy and short, my lingering
pains to close,
—Hers then the
crime who still no mercy shows.
Why thus astray, O grief,
Lead me to speak what I would
leave unsaid?
Leave me, where pleasure me
impels, to tread:
Not now my song complains
Of you, sweet eyes, serene
beyond belief,
Nor yet of him who binds me
in such chains:
Right well may you observe
the varying hues
Which o’er my visage
oft the tyrant strews,
And thence may guess what
war within he makes,
Where night and day he reigns,
Strong in the power which
from your light he takes:
Blessed ye were as bright,
Save that from you is barr’d
your own dear sight:
Yet often as to me those orbs
you turn,
What they to others are you
well may learn.
If, as to us who gaze
Were known to you the charms
incredible
And heavenly, of which I sing
the praise,
No measured joy would swell
Your heart, and haply, therefore,
’tis denied
Unto the power which doth
their motions guide.
Happy the soul for you which
breathes the sigh,
Best lights of heaven! for
whom I grateful bless
This life, which has for me
no other joy.
Alas! so seldom why
Give me what I can ne’er
too much possess?
Why not more often see
The ceaseless havoc which
love makes of me?
And why that bliss so quickly
from me steal,
From time to time which my
rapt senses feel?
Yes, thanks, great thanks
to you!
From time to time I feel through
all my soul
A sweetness so unusual and
new,
That every marring care
And gloomy vision thence begins
to roll,
So that, from all, one only
thought is there.
That—that alone
consoles me life to bear:
And could but this my joy
endure awhile,
Nought earthly could, methinks,
then match my state.
Yet such great honour might
Envy in others, pride in me
excite:
Thus still it seems the fate
Of man, that tears should
chase his transient smile:
And, checking thus my burning
wishes, I
Back to myself return, to
muse and sigh.
The amorous anxious thought,
Which reigns within you, flashes
so on me,
That from my heart it draws
all other joy;
Whence works and words so
wrought
Find scope and issue, that
I hope to be
Immortal made, although all
flesh must die.
At your approach ennui and
anguish fly;
With your departure they return
again:
But memory, on the past which
doting dwells,
Denies them entrance then,
So that no outward act their
influence tells;
Thus, if in me is nurst
Any good fruit, from you the
seed came first:
To you, if such appear, the
praise is due,
Barren myself till fertilized
by you.
Thy strains appease me not,
O song!
But rather fire me still that
theme to sing
Where centre all my thoughts—therefore,
ere long,
A sister ode to join thee
will I bring.
MACGREGOR.
Gentil mia donna, i’ veggio.
IN PRAISE OF LAURA’S EYES: THEY LEAD HIM TO CONTEMPLATE THE PATH OF LIFE.
Lady, in your
bright eyes
Soft glancing round, I mark
a holy light,
Pointing the arduous way that
heavenward lies;
And to my practised sight,
From thence, where Love enthroned,
asserts his might,
Visibly, palpably, the soul
beams forth.
This is the beacon guides
to deeds of worth,
And urges me to seek the glorious
goal;
This bids me leave behind
the vulgar throng,
Nor can the human tongue
Tell how those orbs divine
o’er all my soul
Exert their sweet control,
Both when hoar winter’s
frosts around are flung,
And when the year puts on
his youth again,
Jocund, as when this bosom
first knew pain.
Oh! if in that high sphere,
From whence the Eternal Ruler
of the stars
In this excelling work declared
his might,
All be as fair and bright,
Loose me from forth my darksome
prison here,
That to so glorious life the
passage bars;
Then, in the wonted tumult
of my breast,
I hail boon Nature, and the
genial day
That gave me being, and a
No joy so exquisite
Did Love or fickle Fortune
ere devise,
In partial mood, for favour’d
votaries,
But I would barter it
For one dear glance of those
angelic eyes,
Whence springs my peace as
from its living root.
O vivid lustre! of power absolute
O’er all my being—source
of that delight,
By which consumed I sink,
a willing prey.
As fades each lesser ray
Before your splendour more
intense and bright,
So to my raptured heart,
When your surpassing sweetness
you impart,
No other thought of feeling
may remain
Where you, with Love himself,
despotic reign.
All sweet emotions e’er
By happy lovers felt in every
clime,
Together all, may not with
mine compare,
When, as from time to time,
I catch from that dark radiance
rich and deep
A ray in which, disporting,
Love is seen;
And I believe that from my
cradled sleep,
By Heaven provided this resource
hath been,
’Gainst adverse fortune,
and my nature frail.
Wrong’d am I by that
veil,
And the fair hand which oft
the light eclipse,
That all my bliss hath wrought;
And whence the passion struggling
on my lips,
Both day and night, to vent
the breast o’erfraught,
Still varying as I read her
varying thought.
For that (with pain I find)
Not Nature’s poor endowments
may alone
Render me worthy of a look
so kind,
I strive to raise my mind
To match with the exalted
hopes I own,
And fires, though all engrossing,
pure as mine.
If prone to good, averse to
all things base,
Contemner of what worldlings
covet most,
I may become by long self-discipline.
Haply this humble boast
May win me in her fair esteem
a place;
For sure the end and aim
Of all my tears, my sorrowing
heart’s sole claim,
Were the soft trembling of
relenting eyes,
The generous lover’s
last, best, dearest prize.
My lay, thy sister-song is
gone before.
And now another in my teeming
brain
Prepares itself: whence
I resume the strain.
DACRE.
Poiche per mio destino.
IN PRAISE OF LAURA’S EYES: IN THEM HE FINDS EVERY GOOD, AND HE CAN NEVER CEASE TO PRAISE THEM.
Since then by
destiny
I am compell’d to sing
the strong desire,
Which here condemns me ceaselessly
to sigh,
May Love, whose quenchless
fire
Excites me, be my guide and
At first I fondly thought
Communing with mine ardent
flame to win
Some brief repose, some time
of truce within:
This was the hope which brought
Me courage what I suffer’d
to explain,
Now, now it leaves me martyr
to my pain:
But still, continuing mine
amorous song,
Must I the lofty enterprise
maintain;
So powerful is the wish that
in me glows,
That Reason, which so long
Restrain’d it, now no
longer can oppose.
Then teach me, Love, to sing
In such frank guise, that
ever if the ear
Of my sweet foe should chance
the notes to hear,
Pity, I ask no more, may in
her spring.
If, as in other times,
When kindled to true virtue
was mankind,
The genius, energy of man
could find
Entrance in divers climes,
Mountains and seas o’erpassing,
seeking there
Honour, and culling oft its
garland fair,
Mine were such wish, not mine
such need would be.
From shore to shore my weary
course to trace,
Since God, and Love, and Nature
deign for me
Each virtue and each grace
In those dear eyes where I
rejoice to place.
In life to them must I
Turn as to founts whence peace
and safety swell:
And e’en were death,
which else I fear not, nigh,
Their sight alone would teach
me to be well.
As, vex’d by the fierce
wind,
The weary sailor lifts at
night his gaze
To the twin lights which still
our pole displays,
So, in the storms unkind
Of Love which I sustain, in
those bright eyes
My guiding light and only
solace lies:
But e’en in this far
more is due to theft,
Which, taught by Love, from
time to time, I make
Of secret glances than their
gracious gift:
Yet that, though rare and
slight,
Makes me from them perpetual
model take;
Since first they blest my
sight
Nothing of good without them
have I tried,
Placing them over me to guard
and guide,
Because mine own worth held
itself but light.
Never the full effect
Can I imagine, and describe
it less
Which o’er my heart
those soft eyes still possess!
As worthless I reject
And mean all other joys that
life confers,
E’en as all other beauties
yield to hers.
A tranquil peace, alloy’d
by no distress,
Such as in heaven eternally
Ah! that I should desire
Things that can never in this
world be won,
Living on wishes hopeless
to acquire.
Yet, were the knot undone,
Wherewith my weak tongue Love
is wont to bind,
Checking its speech, when
her sweet face puts on
All its great charms, then
would I courage find,
Words on that point so apt
and new to use,
As should make weep whoe’er
might hear the tale.
But the old wounds I bear,
Stamp’d on my tortured
heart, such power refuse;
Then grow I weak and pale,
And my blood hides itself
I know not where;
Nor as I was remain I:
hence I know
Love dooms my death and this
the fatal blow.
Farewell, my song! already
do I see
Heavily in my hand the tired
pen move
From its long dear discourse
with her I love;
Not so my thoughts from communing
with me.
MACGREGOR.
Io son gia stanco di pensar siccome.
HE WONDERS AT HIS LONG ENDURANCE OF SUCH TOIL AND SUFFERING.
I weary me alway
with questions keen
How, why my thoughts ne’er
turn from you away,
Wherefore in life they still
prefer to stay,
When they might flee this
sad and painful scene,
And how of the fine hair,
the lovely mien,
Of the bright eyes which all
my feelings sway,
Calling on your dear name
by night and day,
My tongue ne’er silent
in their praise has been,
And how my feet not tender
are, nor tired,
Pursuing still with many a
useless pace
Of your fair footsteps the
elastic trace;
And whence the ink, the paper
whence acquired,
Fill’d with your memories:
if in this I err,
Not art’s defect but
Love’s own fault it were.
MACGREGOR.
I begli occhi, ond’ i’ fui percosso in guisa.
HE IS NEVER WEARY OF PRAISING THE EYES OF LAURA.
The bright eyes
which so struck my fenceless side
That they alone which harm’d
can heal the smart
Beyond or power of herbs or
magic art,
Or stone which oceans from
our shores divide,
The chance of other love have
so denied
That one sweet thought alone
contents my heart,
From following which if ne’er
my tongue depart,
Pity the guided though you
blame the guide.
These are the bright eyes
which, in every land
But most in its own shrine,
my heart, adored,
Have spread the triumphs of
my conquering lord;
These are the same bright
eyes which ever stand
Burning within me, e’en
as vestal fires,
In singing which my fancy
never tires.
MACGREGOR.
Not all the spells
of the magician’s art,
Not potent herbs, nor travel
o’er the main,
But those sweet eyes alone
can soothe my pain,
And they which struck the
blow must heal the smart;
Those eyes from meaner love
have kept my heart,
Content one single image to
retain,
And censure but the medium
wild and vain,
If ill my words their honey’d
sense impart;
These are those beauteous
eyes which never fail
To prove Love’s conquest,
wheresoe’er they shine,
Although my breast hath oftenest
felt their fire;
These are those beauteous
eyes which still assail
And penetrate my soul with
sparks divine,
So that of singing them I
cannot tire.
WROTTESLEY.
Amor con sue promesse lusingando.
LOVE CHAINS ARE STILL DEAR TO HIM.
By promise fair
and artful flattery
Me Love contrived in prison
old to snare,
And gave the keys to her my
foe in care,
Who in self-exile dooms me
still to lie.
Alas! his wiles I knew not
until I
Was in their power, so sharp
yet sweet to bear,
(Man scarce will credit it
although I swear)
That I regain my freedom with
a sigh,
And, as true suffering captives
ever do,
Carry of my sore chains the
greater part,
And on my brow and eyes so
writ my heart
That when she witnesseth my
cheek’s wan hue
A sigh shall own: if
right I read his face,
Between him and his tomb but
small the space!
MACGREGOR.
Per mirar Policleto a prova fiso.
ON THE PORTRAIT OF LAURA PAINTED BY SIMON MEMMI.
Had Policletus
seen her, or the rest
Who, in past time, won honour
in this art,
A thousand years had but the
meaner part
Shown of the beauty which
o’ercame my breast.
But Simon sure, in Paradise
the blest,
Whence came this noble lady
of my heart,
Saw her, and took this wond’rous
counterpart
Which should on earth her
lovely face attest.
The work, indeed, was one,
in heaven alone
To be conceived, not wrought
by fellow-men,
Over whose souls the body’s
veil is thrown:
’Twas done of grace:
and fail’d his pencil when
To earth he turn’d our
cold and heat to bear,
And felt that his own eyes
but mortal were.
MACGREGOR.
Had Polycletus
in proud rivalry
On her his model gazed a thousand
years,
Not half the beauty to my
soul appears,
In fatal conquest, e’er
could he descry.
But, Simon, thou wast then
in heaven’s blest sky,
Ere she, my fair one, left
her native spheres,
To trace a loveliness this
world reveres
WOLLASTON.
Quando giunse a Simon l’ alto concetto.
HE DESIRES ONLY THAT MEMMI HAD BEEN ABLE TO IMPART SPEECH TO HIS PORTRAIT OF LAURA.
When, at my word,
the high thought fired his mind,
Within that master-hand which
placed the pen,
Had but the painter, in his
fair work, then
Language and intellect to
beauty join’d,
Less ’neath its care
my spirit since had pined,
Which worthless held what
still pleased other men;
And yet so mild she seems
that my fond ken
Of peace sees promise in that
aspect kind.
When further communing I hold
with her
Benignantly she smiles, as
if she heard
And well could answer to mine
every word:
But far o’er mine thy
pride and pleasure were,
Bright, warm and young, Pygmalion,
to have press’d
Thine image long and oft,
while mine not once has blest.
MACGREGOR.
When Simon at
my wish the proud design
Conceived, which in his hand
the pencil placed,
Had he, while loveliness his
picture graced,
But added speech and mind
to charms divine;
What sighs he then had spared
this breast of mine:
That bliss had given to higher
bliss distaste:
For, when such meekness in
her look was traced,
’Twould seem she soon
to kindness might incline.
But, urging converse with
the portray’d fair,
Methinks she deigns attention
to my prayer,
Though wanting to reply the
power of voice.
What praise thyself, Pygmalion,
hast thou gain’d;
Forming that image, whence
thou hast obtain’d
A thousand times what, once
obtain’d, would me rejoice.
NOTT.
Se al principio risponde il fine e ’l mezzo.
IF HIS PASSION STILL INCREASE, HE MUST SOON DIE.
If, of this fourteenth
year wherein I sigh,
The end and middle with its
opening vie,
Nor air nor shade can give
me now release,
I feel mine ardent passion
so increase:
For Love, with whom my thought
no medium knows,
Beneath whose yoke I never
find repose,
So rules me through these
eyes, on mine own ill
Too often turn’d, but
half remains to kill.
Thus, day by day, I feel me
sink apace,
And yet so secretly none else
may trace,
Save she whose glances my
fond bosom tear.
Scarcely till now this load
of life I bear
Nor know how long with me
will be her stay,
For death draws near, and
hastens life away.
MACGREGOR.
Chi e fermato di menar sua vita.
HE PRAYS GOD TO GUIDE HIS FRAIL BARK TO A SAFE PORT.
Who is resolved
to venture his vain life
On the deceitful wave and
’mid the rocks,
Alone, unfearing death, in
little bark,
Can never be far distant from
his end:
Therefore betimes he should
return to port
While to the helm yet answers
his true sail.
The gentle breezes to which
helm and sail
I trusted, entering on this
amorous life,
And hoping soon to make some
better port,
Have led me since amid a thousand
rocks,
And the sure causes of my
mournful end
Are not alone without, but
in my bark.
Long cabin’d and confined
in this blind bark,
I wander’d, looking
never at the sail,
Which, prematurely, bore me
to my end;
Till He was pleased who brought
me into life
So far to call me back from
those sharp rocks,
That, distantly, at last was
seen my port.
As lights at midnight seen
in any port,
Sometimes from the main sea
by passing bark,
Save when their ray is lost
’mid storms or rocks;
So I too from above the swollen
sail
Saw the sure colours of that
other life,
And could not help but sigh
to reach my end.
Not that I yet am certain
of that end,
For wishing with the dawn
to be in port,
Is a long voyage for so short
a life:
And then I fear to find me
in frail bark,
Beyond my wishes full its
every sail
With the strong wind which
drove me on those rocks.
Escape I living from these
doubtful rocks,
Or if my exile have but a
fair end,
How happy shall I be to furl
my sail,
And my last anchor cast in
some sure port;
But, ah! I burn, and,
as some blazing bark,
So hard to me to leave my
wonted life.
Lord of my end and master
of my life,
Before I lose my bark amid
the rocks,
Direct to a good port its
harass’d sail!
MACGREGOR.
Io son si stanco sotto ’l fascio antico.
HE CONFESSES HIS ERRORS, AND THROWS HIMSELF ON THE MERCY OF GOD.
Evil by custom,
as by nature frail,
I am so wearied with the long
disgrace,
That much I dread my fainting
in the race
Should let th’ original
enemy prevail.
Once an Eternal Friend, that
heard my cries,
Came to my rescue, glorious
in his might,
Arm’d with all-conquering
love, then took his flight,
That I in vain pursued Him
with my eyes.
But his dear words, yet sounding,
sweetly say,
“O ye that faint with
travel, see the way!
Hopeless of other refuge,
come to me.”
What grace, what kindness,
or what destiny
Will give me wings, as the
fair-feather’d dove,
To raise me hence and seek
my rest above?
BASIL KENNET.
So weary am I
’neath the constant thrall
Of mine own vile heart, and
the false world’s taint,
That much I fear while on
the way to faint,
And in the hands of my worst
foe to fall.
Well came, ineffably, supremely
kind,
A friend to free me from the
guilty bond,
But too soon upward flew my
sight beyond,
So that in vain I strive his
track to find;
But still his words stamp’d
on my heart remain,
All ye who labour, lo! the
way in me;
Come unto me, nor let the
world detain!
Oh! that to me, by grace divine,
were given
Wings like a dove, then I
away would flee,
And be at rest, up, up from
earth to heaven!
MACGREGOR.
Io non fu’ d’ amar voi lassato unquanco.
UNLESS LAURA RELENT, HE IS RESOLVED TO ABANDON HER.
Yet was I never
of your love aggrieved,
Nor never shall while that
my life doth last:
But of hating myself, that
date is past;
And tears continual sore have
me wearied:
I will not yet in my grave
be buried;
Nor on my tomb your name have
fixed fast,
As cruel cause, that did the
spirit soon haste
From the unhappy bones, by
great sighs stirr’d.
Then if a heart of amorous
faith and will
Content your mind withouten
doing grief;
Please it you so to this to
do relief:
If otherwise you seek for
to fulfil
Your wrath, you err, and shall
not as you ween;
And you yourself the cause
thereof have been.
WYATT.
Weary I never
was, nor can be e’er,
Lady, while life shall last,
of loving you,
But brought, alas! myself
in hate to view,
Perpetual tears have bred
a blank despair:
I wish a tomb, whose marble
fine and fair,
When this tired spirit and
frail flesh are two,
May show your name, to which
my death is due,
If e’en our names at
last one stone may share;
Wherefore, if full of faith
and love, a heart
Can, of worst torture short,
suffice your hate,
Mercy at length may visit
e’en my smart.
If otherwise your wrath itself
would sate,
It is deceived: and none
will credit show;
To Love and to myself my thanks
for this I owe.
MACGREGOR.
Se bianche non son prima ambe le tempie.
THOUGH NOT SECURE AGAINST THE WILES OF LOVE, HE FEELS STRENGTH ENOUGH TO RESIST THEM.
Till silver’d
o’er by age my temples grow,
Where Time by slow degrees
now plants his grey,
Safe shall I never be, in
danger’s way
While Love still points and
plies his fatal bow
I fear no more his tortures
and his tricks,
That he will keep me further
MACGREGOR.
Occhi, piangete; accompagnate il core.
DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE POET AND HIS EYES.
Playne ye, myne
eyes, accompanye my harte,
For, by your fault, lo, here
is death at hand!
Ye brought hym first into
this bitter band,
And of his harme as yett ye
felt no part;
But now ye shall: Lo!
here beginnes your smart.
Wett shall you be, ye shall
it not withstand
With weepinge teares that
shall make dymm your sight,
And mystic clowdes shall hang
still in your light.
Blame but yourselves that
kyndlyd have this brand,
With suche desyre to strayne
that past your might;
But, since by you the hart
hath caught his harme,
His flamed heat shall sometyme
make you warme.
HARRINGTON.
P. Weep, wretched eyes,
accompany the heart
Which only from your weakness death sustains.
E. Weep? evermore we weep; with keener
pains
For others’ error than our own we smart.
P. Love, entering first through you an
easy part,
Took up his seat, where now supreme he reigns.
E. We oped to him the way, but Hope the
veins
First fired of him now stricken by death’s
dart.
P. The lots, as seems to you, scarce equal
fall
’Tween heart and eyes, for you, at
first sight, were
Enamour’d of your common ill and shame.
E. This is the thought which grieves us
most of all;
For perfect judgments are on earth so rare
That one man’s fault is oft another’s
blame.
MACGREGOR.
Io amai sempre, ed amo forte ancora.
HE LOVES, AND WILL ALWAYS LOVE, THE SPOT AND THE HOUR IN WHICH HE FIRST BECAME ENAMOURED OF LAURA.
I always loved, I love sincerely
yet,
And to love more from day
to day shall learn,
The charming spot where oft
in grief I turn
When Love’s severities
my bosom fret:
My mind to love the time and
hour is set
Which taught it each low care
aside to spurn;
She too, of loveliest face,
for whom I burn
Bids me her fair life love
and sin forget.
Who ever thought to see in
friendship join’d,
On all sides with my suffering
heart to cope,
The gentle enemies I love
so well?
Love now is paramount my heart
to bind,
And, save that with desire
increases hope,
Dead should I lie alive where
I would dwell.
MACGREGOR.
Io avro sempre in odio la fenestra.
BETTER IS IT TO DIE HAPPY THAN TO LIVE IN PAIN.
Always in hate
the window shall I bear,
Whence Love has shot on me
his shafts at will,
Because not one of them sufficed
to kill:
For death is good when life
is bright and fair,
But in this earthly jail its
term to outwear
Is cause to me, alas! of infinite
ill;
And mine is worse because
immortal still,
Since from the heart the spirit
may not tear.
Wretched! ere this who surely
ought’st to know
By long experience, from his
onward course
None can stay Time by flattery
or by force.
Oft and again have I address’d
it so:
Mourner, away! he parteth
not too soon
Who leaves behind him far
his life’s calm June.
MACGREGOR.
Si tosto come avvien che l’ arco scocchi.
HE CALLS THE EYES OF LAURA FOES, BECAUSE THEY KEEP HIM IN LIFE ONLY TO TORMENT HIM.
Instantly a good
archer draws his bow
Small skill it needs, e’en
from afar, to see
Which shaft, less fortunate,
despised may be,
Which to its destined sign
will certain go:
Lady, e’en thus of your
bright eyes the blow,
You surely felt pass straight
and deep in me,
Searching my life, whence—such
is fate’s decree—
Eternal tears my stricken
heart overflow;
And well I know e’en
then your pity said:
Fond wretch! to misery whom
passion leads,
Be this the point at once
to strike him dead.
But seeing now how sorrow
sorrow breeds,
All that my cruel foes against
me plot,
For my worse pain, and for
my death is not.
MACGREGOR.
Poi che mia speme e lunga a venir troppo.
HE COUNSELS LOVERS TO FLEE, RATHER THAN BE CONSUMED BY THE FLAMES OF LOVE.
Since my hope’s
fruit yet faileth to arrive,
And short the space vouchsafed
me to survive,
Betimes of this aware I fain
would be,
Swifter than light or wind
from Love to flee:
And I do flee him, weak albeit
and lame
O’ my left side, where
passion racked my frame.
Though now secure yet bear
I on my face
Of the amorous encounter signal
trace.
Wherefore I counsel each this
way who comes,
Turn hence your footsteps,
and, if Love consumes,
Think not in present pain
his worst is done;
For, though I live, of thousand
scapes not one!
’Gainst Love my enemy
was strong indeed—
Lo! from his wounds e’en
she is doom’d to bleed.
MACGREGOR.
Fuggendo la prigione ov’ Amor m’ ebbe.
HE LONGS TO RETURN TO THE CAPTIVITY OF LOVE.
Fleeing the prison
which had long detain’d,
Where Love dealt with me as
to him seem’d well,
Ladies, the time were long
indeed to tell,
How much my heart its new-found
freedom pain’d.
I felt within I could not,
so bereaved,
Live e’en a day:
and, midway, on my eyes
That traitor rose in so complete
disguise,
A wiser than myself had been
deceived:
Whence oft I’ve said,
deep sighing for the past,
Alas! the yoke and chains
of old to me
Were sweeter far than thus
released to be.
Me wretched! but to learn
mine ill at last;
With what sore trial must
I now forget
Errors that round my path
myself have set.
MACGREGOR.
Erano i capei d’ oro all’ aura sparsi.
HE PAINTS THE BEAUTIES OF LAURA, PROTESTING HIS UNALTERABLE LOVE.
Loose to the breeze
her golden tresses flow’d
Wildly in thousand mazy ringlets
blown,
And from her eyes unconquer’d
glances shone,
Those glances now so sparingly
bestow’d.
And true or false, meseem’d
some signs she show’d
As o’er her cheek soft
pity’s hue was thrown;
I, whose whole breast with
love’s soft food was sown,
What wonder if at once my
bosom glow’d?
Graceful she moved, with more
than mortal mien,
In form an angel: and
her accents won
Upon the ear with more than
human sound.
A spirit heavenly pure, a
living sun,
Was what I saw; and if no
more ’twere seen,
T’ unbend the bow will
never heal the wound.
ANON., OX., 1795.
Her golden tresses
on the wind she threw,
Which twisted them in many
a beauteous braid;
In her fine eyes the burning
glances play’d,
With lovely light, which now
they seldom show:
Ah! then it seem’d her
face wore pity’s hue,
Yet haply fancy my fond sense
betray’d;
Nor strange that I, in whose
warm heart was laid
Love’s fuel, suddenly
enkindled grew!
Not like a mortal’s
did her step appear,
Angelic was her form; her
voice, methought,
Pour’d more than human
accents on the ear.
A living sun was what my vision
caught,
A spirit pure; and though
not such still found,
Unbending of the bow ne’er
heals the wound.
NOTT.
Her golden tresses
to the gale were streaming,
That in a thousand knots did
them entwine,
And the sweet rays which now
so rarely shine
From her enchanting eyes,
were brightly beaming,
And—was it fancy?—o’er
that dear face gleaming
Methought I saw Compassion’s
tint divine;
What marvel that this ardent
heart of mine
Blazed swiftly forth, impatient
WROTTESLEY.
La bella donna che cotanto amavi.
TO HIS BROTHER GERARDO, ON THE DEATH OF A LADY TO WHOM HE WAS ATTACHED.
The beauteous
lady thou didst love so well
Too soon hath from our regions
wing’d her flight,
To find, I ween, a home ’mid
realms of light;
So much in virtue did she
here excel
Thy heart’s twin key
of joy and woe can dwell
No more with her—then
re-assume thy might,
Pursue her by the path most
swift and right,
Nor let aught earthly stay
thee by its spell.
Thus from thy heaviest burthen
being freed,
Each other thou canst easier
dispel,
And an unfreighted pilgrim
seek thy sky;
Too well, thou seest, how
much the soul hath need,
(Ere yet it tempt the shadowy
vale) to quell
Each earthly hope, since all
that lives must die.
WOLLASTON.
The lovely lady
who was long so dear
To thee, now suddenly is from
us gone,
And, for this hope is sure,
to heaven is flown,
So mild and angel-like her
life was here!
Now from her thraldom since
thy heart is clear,
Whose either key she, living,
held alone,
Follow where she the safe
short way has shown,
Nor let aught earthly longer
interfere.
Thus disencumber’d from
the heavier weight,
The lesser may aside be easier
laid,
And the freed pilgrim win
the crystal gate;
So teaching us, since all
things that are made
Hasten to death, how light
must be his soul
Who treads the perilous pass,
unscathed and whole!
MACGREGOR.
Piangete, donne, e con voi pianga Amore.
ON THE DEATH OF CINO DA PISTOIA.
Weep, beauteous
damsels, and let Cupid weep,
Of every region weep, ye lover
train;
He, who so skilfully attuned
his strain
To your fond cause, is sunk
in death’s cold sleep!
Such limits let not my affliction
keep,
As may the solace of soft
tears restrain;
And, to relieve my bosom of
its pain,
Be all my sighs tumultuous,
utter’d deep!
Let song itself, and votaries
of verse,
Breathe mournful accents o’er
our Cino’s bier,
Who late is gone to number
with the blest!
Oh! weep, Pistoia, weep your
sons perverse;
Its choicest habitant has
fled our sphere,
And heaven may glory in its
welcome guest!
NOTT.
Ye damsels, pour
your tears! weep with you. Love!
Weep, all ye lovers, through
the peopled sphere!
Since he is dead who, while
he linger’d here,
With all his might to do you
honour strove.
For me, this tyrant grief
my prayers shall move
Not to contest the comfort
of a tear,
Nor check those sighs, that
to my heart are dear,
Since ease from them alone
it hopes to prove.
Ye verses, weep!—ye
rhymes, your woes renew!
For Cino, master of the love-fraught
lay,
E’en now is from our
fond embraces torn!
Pistoia, weep, and all your
thankless crew!
Your sweetest inmate now is
reft away—
But, heaven, rejoice, and
hail your son new-born!
CHARLEMONT.
Piu volte Amor m’ avea gia detto: scrivi.
HE WRITES WHAT LOVE BIDS HIM.
White—to
my heart Love oftentimes had said—
Write what thou seest in letters
large of gold,
That livid are my votaries
to behold,
And in a moment made alive
and dead.
Once in thy heart my sovran
influence spread
A public precedent to lovers
told;
Though other duties drew thee
from my fold,
I soon reclaim’d thee
as thy footsteps fled.
And if the bright eyes which
I show’d thee first,
If the fair face where most
I loved to stay,
Thy young heart’s icy
hardness when I burst,
Restore to me the bow which
all obey,
Then may thy cheek, which
now so smooth appears,
Be channell’d with my
daily drink of tears.
MACGREGOR.
Quando giugne per gli occhi al cor profondo.
HE DESCRIBES THE STATE OF TWO LOVERS, AND RETURNS IN THOUGHT TO HIS OWN SUFFERINGS.
When reaches through
the eyes the conscious heart
Its imaged fate, all other
thoughts depart;
The powers which from the
soul their functions take
A dead weight on the frame
its limbs then make.
From the first miracle a second
springs,
At times the banish’d
faculty that brings,
So fleeing from itself, to
some new seat,
Which feeds revenge and makes
e’en exile sweet.
Thus in both faces the pale
tints were rife,
Because the strength which
gave the glow of life
On neither side was where
it wont to dwell—
I on that day these things
remember’d well,
Of that fond couple when each
varying mien
Told me in like estate what
long myself had been.
MACGREGOR.
Cosi potess’ io ben chiuder in versi.
HE COMPLAINS THAT TO HIM ALONE IS FAITH HURTFUL.
Could I, in melting
verse, my thoughts but throw,
As in my heart their living
load I bear,
No soul so cruel in the world
was e’er
That would not at the tale
with pity glow.
But ye, blest eyes, which
dealt me the sore blow,
’Gainst which nor helm
nor shield avail’d to spare
Within, without, behold me
poor and bare,
Though never in laments is
breathed my woe.
But since on me your bright
glance ever shines,
E’en as a sunbeam through
transparent glass,
Suffice then the desire without
the lines.
Faith Peter bless’d
and Mary, but, alas!
It proves an enemy to me alone,
Whose spirit save by you to
none is known.
MACGREGOR.
Io son dell’ aspectar omai si vinto.
HAVING ONCE SURRENDERED HIMSELF, HE IS COMPELLED EVER TO ENDURE THE PANGS OF LOVE.
Weary with expectation’s
endless round,
And overcome in this long
war of sighs,
I hold desires in hate and
hopes despise,
And every tie wherewith my
breast is bound;
But the bright face which
in my heart profound
Is stamp’d, and seen
where’er I turn mine eyes,
Compels me where, against
my will, arise
The same sharp pains that
first my ruin crown’d.
Then was my error when the
old way quite
Of liberty was bann’d
and barr’d to me:
He follows ill who pleases
but his sight:
To its own harm my soul ran
wild and free,
Now doom’d at others’
will to wait and wend;
Because that once it ventured
to offend.
MACGREGOR.
Ahi bella liberta, come tu m’ hai.
HE DEPLORES HIS LOST LIBERTY AND THE UNHAPPINESS OF HIS PRESENT STATE.
Alas! fair Liberty,
thus left by thee,
Well hast thou taught my discontented
heart
To mourn the peace it felt,
ere yet Love’s dart
Dealt me the wound which heal’d
can never be;
Mine eyes so charm’d
with their own weakness grow
That my dull mind of reason
spurns the chain;
All worldly occupation they
disdain,
Ah! that I should myself have
train’d them so.
Naught, save of her who is
my death, mine ear
Consents to learn; and from
my tongue there flows
No accent save the name to
me so dear;
Love to no other chase my
spirit spurs,
No other path my feet pursue;
nor knows
My hand to write in other
praise but hers.
MACGREGOR.
Alas, sweet Liberty!
in speeding hence,
Too well didst thou reveal
unto my heart
Its careless joy, ere Love
ensheathed his dart,
Of whose dread wound I ne’er
can lose the sense
My eyes, enamour’d of
their grief intense,
Did in that hour from Reason’s
WOLLASTON.
Orso, al vostro destrier si puo ben porre.
HE SYMPATHISES WITH HIS FRIEND ORSO AT HIS INABILITY TO ATTEND A TOURNAMENT.
Orso, a curb upon
thy gallant horse
Well may we place to turn
him from his course,
But who thy heart may bind
against its will
Which honour courts and shuns
dishonour still?
Sigh not! for nought its praise
away can take,
Though Fate this journey hinder
you to make.
For, as already voiced by
general fame,
Now is it there, and none
before it came.
Amid the camp, upon the day
design’d,
Enough itself beneath those
arms to find
Which youth, love, valour,
and near blood concern,
Crying aloud: With noble
fire I burn,
As my good lord unwillingly
at home,
Who pines and languishes in
vain to come.
MACGREGOR.
Poi che voi ed io piu volte abbiam provato.
TO A FRIEND, COUNSELLING HIM TO ABANDON EARTHLY PLEASURES.
Still has it been
our bitter lot to prove
How hope, or e’er it
reach fruition, flies!
Up then to that high good,
which never dies,
Lift we the heart—to
heaven’s pure bliss above.
On earth, as in a tempting
mead, we rove,
Where coil’d ’mid
flowers the traitor serpent lies;
And, if some casual glimpse
delight our eyes,
’Tis but to grieve the
soul enthrall’d by Love.
Oh! then, as thou wouldst
wish ere life’s last day
To taste the sweets of calm
unbroken rest,
Tread firm the narrow, shun
the beaten way—
Ah! to thy friend too well
may be address’d:
“Thou show’st
a path, thyself most apt to stray,
Which late thy truant feet,
fond youth, have never press’d.”
WRANGHAM.
Friend, as we
both in confidence complain
To see our ill-placed hopes
return in vain,
Let that chief good which
must for ever please
Exalt our thought and fix
our happiness.
This world as some gay flowery
field is spread,
Which hides a serpent in its
painted bed,
And most it wounds when most
it charms our eyes,
At once the tempter and the
paradise.
And would you, then, sweet
peace of mind restore,
And in fair calm expect your
parting hour,
Leave the mad train, and court
the happy few.
Well may it be replied, “O
friend, you show
Others the path, from which
so often you
Have stray’d, and now
stray farther than before.”
BASIL KENNET.
Quella fenestra, ove l’ un sol si vede.
RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE.
That window where
my sun is often seen
Refulgent, and the world’s
at morning’s hours;
And that, where Boreas blows,
when winter lowers,
And the short days reveal
a clouded scene;
That bench of stone where,
with a pensive mien,
My Laura sits, forgetting
beauty’s powers;
Haunts where her shadow strikes
the walls or flowers,
And her feet press the paths
or herbage green:
The place where Love assail’d
me with success;
And spring, the fatal time
that, first observed,
Revives the keen remembrance
every year;
With looks and words, that
o’er me have preserved
A power no length of time
can render less,
Call to my eyes the sadly-soothing
tear.
PENN.
That window where
my sun is ever seen,
Dazzling and bright, and Nature’s
at the none;
And that where still, when
Boreas rude has blown
In the short days, the air
thrills cold and keen:
The stone where, at high noon,
her seat has been,
Pensive and parleying with
herself alone:
Haunts where her bright form
has its shadow thrown,
Or trod her fairy foot the
carpet green:
The cruel spot where first
Love spoil’d my rest,
And the new season which,
from year to year,
Opes, on this day, the old
wound in my breast:
The seraph face, the sweet
words, chaste and dear,
Which in my suffering heart
are deep impress’d,
All melt my fond eyes to the
frequent tear.
MACGREGOR.
Lasso! ben so che dolorose prede.
THOUGH FOR FOURTEEN YEARS HE HAS STRUGGLED UNSUCCESSFULLY, HE STILL HOPES TO CONQUER HIS PASSION.
Alas! well know
I what sad havoc makes
Death of our kind, how Fate
no mortal spares!
How soon the world whom once
it loved forsakes,
How short the faith it to
the friendless bears!
Much languishment, I see,
small mercy wakes;
For the last day though now
my heart prepares,
Love not a whit my cruel prison
breaks,
And still my cheek grief’s
wonted tribute wears.
I mark the days, the moments,
and the hours
Bear the full years along,
nor find deceit,
Bow’d ’neath a
greater force than magic spell.
For fourteen years have fought
with varying powers
Desire and Reason: and
the best shall beat;
If mortal spirits here can
good foretell.
MACGREGOR.
Alas! I know
death makes us all his prey,
Nor aught of mercy shows to
destined man;
How swift the world completes
its circling span,
And faithless Time soon speeds
him on his way.
My heart repeats the blast
of earth’s last day,
Yet for its grief no recompense
can scan,
Love holds me still beneath
its cruel ban,
And still my eyes their usual
tribute pay.
My watchful senses mark how
on their wing
The circling years transport
their fleeter kin,
And still I bow enslaved as
by a spell:
For fourteen years did reason
proudly fling
Defiance at my tameless will,
to win
A triumph blest, if Man can
good foretell.
WOLLASTON.
Cesare, poi che ‘l traditor d’ Egitto.
THE COUNTENANCE DOES NOT ALWAYS TRULY INDICATE THE HEART.
When Egypt’s
traitor Pompey’s honour’d head
To Caesar sent; then, records
so relate,
To shroud a gladness manifestly
great,
Some feigned tears the specious
monarch shed:
And, when misfortune her dark
mantle spread
O’er Hannibal, and his
afflicted state,
He laugh’d ’midst
those who wept their adverse fate,
That rank despite to wreak
defeat had bred.
Thus doth the mind oft variously
conceal
Its several passions by a
different veil;
Now with a countenance that’s
sad, now gay:
So mirth and song if sometimes
I employ,
’Tis but to hide those
sorrows that annoy,
’Tis but to chase my
amorous cares away.
NOTT.
Caesar, when Egypt’s
cringing traitor brought
The gory gift of Pompey’s
honour’d head,
Check’d the full gladness
of his instant thought,
And specious tears of well-feign’d
pity shed:
And Hannibal, when adverse
Fortune wrought
On his afflicted empire evils
dread,
’Mid shamed and sorrowing
friends, by laughter, sought
To ease the anger at his heart
that fed.
Thus, as the mind its every
feeling hides,
Beneath an aspect contrary,
the mien,
Bright’ning with hope
or charged with gloom, is seen.
Thus ever if I sing, or smile
betides,
The outward joy serves only
to conceal
The inner ail and anguish
that I feel.
MACGREGOR.
Vinse Annibal, e non seppe usar poi.
TO STEFANO COLONNA, COUNSELLING HIM TO FOLLOW UP HIS VICTORY OVER THE ORSINI.
Hannibal conquer’d
oft, but never knew
The fruits and gain of victory
to get,
Wherefore, dear lord, be wise,
take care that yet
A like misfortune happen not
to you.
Still in their lair the cubs
and she-bear,[Q] who
Rough pasturage and sour in
May have met,
MACGREGOR.
[Footnote Q: Orsa. A play on the word Orsim.]
L’ aspettata virtu che ’n voi fioriva.
TO PAUDOLFO MALATESTA, LORD OF RIMINI.
Sweet virtue’s
blossom had its promise shed
Within thy breast (when Love
became thy foe);
Fair as the flower, now its
fruit doth glow,
And not by visions hath my
hope been fed.
To hail thee thus, I by my
heart am led,
That by my pen thy name renown
should know;
No marble can the lasting
fame bestow
Like that by poets’
characters is spread.
Dost think Marcellus’
or proud Caesar’s name,
Or Africanus, Paulus—still
resound,
That sculptors proud have
effigied their deed?
No, Pandolph, frail the statuary’s
fame,
For immortality alone is found
Within the records of a poet’s
meed.
WOLLASTON.
The flower, in
youth which virtue’s promise bore,
When Love in your pure heart
first sought to dwell,
Now beareth fruit that flower
which matches well,
And my long hopes are richly
come ashore,
Prompting my spirit some glad
verse to pour
Where to due honour your high
name may swell,
For what can finest marble
truly tell
Of living mortal than the
form he wore?
Think you great Caesar’s
or Marcellus’ name,
That Paulus, Africanus to
our days,
By anvil or by hammer ever
came?
No! frail the sculptor’s
power for lasting praise:
Our study, my Pandolfo, only
can
Give immortality of fame to
man.
MACGREGOR.
Mai non vo’ piu cantar, com’ io soleva.
ENIGMAS.
Never more shall
I sing, as I have sung:
For still she heeded not;
and I was scorn’d:
So e’en in loveliest
spots is trouble found.
Unceasingly to sigh is no
relief.
Already on the Alp snow gathers
round:
Already day is near; and I
awake.
An affable and modest air
is sweet;
And in a lovely lady that
she be
Noble and dignified, not proud
and cold,
Well pleases it to find.
Love o’er his empire
rules without a sword.
He who has miss’d his
way let him turn back:
Who has no home the heath
must be his bed:
Who lost or has not gold,
Will sate his thirst at the
clear crystal spring.
I trusted in Saint Peter,
not so now;
Let him who can my meaning
understand.
A harsh rule is a heavy weight
to bear.
I melt but where I must, and
stand alone.
I think of him who falling
died in Po;
Already thence the thrush
has pass’d the brook
Come, see if I say sooth!
No more for me.
A rock amid the waters is
no joke,
Nor birdlime on the twig.
Enough my grief
When a superfluous pride
In a fair lady many virtues
hides.
There is who answereth without
a call;
There is who, though entreated,
fails and flies:
There is who melts ’neath
ice:
There is who day and night
desires his death.
Love who loves you, is an
old proverb now.
Well know I what I say.
But let it pass;
’Tis meet, at their
own cost, that men should learn.
A modest lady wearies her
best friend.
Good figs are little known.
To me it seems
Wise to eschew things hazardous
and high;
In any country one may be
at ease.
Infinite hope below kills
hope above;
And I at times e’en
thus have been the talk.
My brief life that remains
There is who’ll spurn
not if to Him devote.
I place my trust in Him who
rules the world,
And who his followers shelters
in the wood,
That with his pitying crook
Me will He guide with his
own flock to feed.
Haply not every one who reads
discerns;
Some set the snare at times
who take no spoil;
Who strains too much may break
the bow in twain.
Let not the law be lame when
suitors watch.
To be at ease we many a mile
descend.
To-day’s great marvel
is to-morrow’s scorn.
A veil’d and virgin
loveliness is best.
Blessed the key which pass’d
within my heart,
And, quickening my dull spirit,
set it free
From its old heavy chain,
And from my bosom banish’d
many a sigh.
Where most I suffer’d
once she suffers now;
Her equal sorrows mitigate
my grief;
Thanks, then, to Love that
I
Feel it no more, though he
is still the same!
In silence words that wary
are and wise;
The voice which drives from
me all other care;
And the dark prison which
that fair light hides:
As midnight on our hills the
violets;
And the wild beasts within
the walls who dwell;
The kind demeanour and the
dear reserve;
And from two founts one stream
which flow’d in peace
Where I desire, collected
where I would.
Love and sore jealousy have
seized my heart,
And the fair face whose guides
Conduct me by a plainer, shorter
way
To my one hope, where all
my torments end.
O treasured bliss, and all
from thee which flows
Of peace, of war, or truce,
Never abandon me while life
is left!
At my past loss I weep by
turns and smile,
Because my faith is fix’d
in what I hear.
The present I enjoy and better
wait;
Silent, I count the years,
yet crave their end,
And in a lovely bough I nestle
so
That e’en her stern
repulse I thank and praise,
Which has at length o’ercome
my firm desire,
And inly shown me, I had been
the talk,
And pointed at by hand:
all this it quench’d.
So much am I urged on,
Needs must I own, thou wert
not bold enough.
Who pierced me in my side
she heals the wound,
For whom in heart more than
in ink I write;
Who quickens me or kills,
And in one instant freezes
me or fires.
ANON.
[Footnote R: This, the only known version, is included simply from a wish to represent the original completely, the poem being almost untranslateable into English verse. Italian critics are much divided as to its object. One of the most eminent (Bembo) considers it to be nothing more than an unconnected string of proverbs.]
Nova angeletta sovra l’ ale accorta.
HE ALLEGORICALLY DESCRIBES THE ORIGIN OF HIS PASSION.
From heaven an
angel upon radiant wings,
New lighted on that shore
so fresh and fair,
To which, so doom’d,
my faithful footstep clings:
Alone and friendless, when
she found me there,
Of gold and silk a finely-woven
net,
Where lay my path, ’mid
seeming flowers she set:
Thus was I caught, and, for
such sweet light shone
From out her eyes, I soon
forgot to moan.
MACGREGOR.
Non veggio ove scampar mi possa omai.
AFTER FIFTEEN YEARS HER EYES ARE MORE POWERFUL THAN AT FIRST.
No hope of respite,
of escape no way,
Her bright eyes wage such
constant havoc here;
Alas! excess of tyranny, I
fear,
My doting heart, which ne’er
has truce, will slay:
Fain would I flee, but ah!
their amorous ray,
Which day and night on memory
rises clear,
Shines with such power, in
this the fifteenth year,
They dazzle more than in love’s
early day.
So wide and far their images
are spread
That wheresoe’er I turn
I alway see
Her, or some sister-light
on hers that fed.
Springs such a wood from one
fair laurel tree,
That my old foe, with admirable
skill,
Amid its boughs misleads me
at his will.
MACGREGOR.
Avventuroso piu d’ altro terreno.
HE APOSTROPHIZES THE SPOT WHERE LAURA FIRST SALUTED HIM.
Ah, happiest spot
of earth! in this sweet place
Love first beheld my condescending
fair
Retard her steps, to smile
with courteous grace
On me, and smiling glad the
ambient air.
The deep-cut image, wrought
with skilful care,
Time shall from hardest adamant
efface,
Ere from my mind that smile
it shall erase,
Dear to my soul! which memory
planted there.
Oft as I view thee, heart-enchanting
soil!
With amorous awe I’ll
seek—delightful toil!
Where yet some traces of her
footsteps lie.
And if fond Love still warms
her generous breast,
Whene’er you see her,
gentle friend! request
The tender tribute of a tear—a
sigh.
ANON. 1777.
Most fortunate
and fair of spots terrene!
Where Love I saw her forward
footstep stay,
And turn on me her bright
eyes’ heavenly ray,
Which round them make the
atmosphere serene.
A solid form of adamant, I
ween,
Would sooner shrink in lapse
of time away,
Than from my mind that sweet
salute decay,
Dear to my heart, in memory
ever green.
And oft as I return to view
this spot,
In its fair scenes I’ll
fondly stoop to seek
Where yet the traces of her
light foot lie.
But if in valorous heart Love
sleepeth not,
Whene’er you meet her,
friend, for me bespeak
Some passing tears, perchance
one pitying sigh.
MACGREGOR.
Lasso! quante fiate Amor m’ assale.
WHEN LOVE DISTURBS HIM, HE CALMS HIMSELF BY THINKING OF THE EYES AND WORDS OF LAURA.
Alas! how ceaselessly
is urged Love’s claim,
By day, by night, a thousand
times I turn
Where best I may behold the
dear lights burn
Which have immortalized my
bosom’s flame.
Thus grow I calm, and to such
state am brought,
At noon, at break of day,
at vesper-bell,
I find them in my mind so
tranquil dwell,
I neither think nor care beside
for aught.
The balmy air, which, from
her angel mien,
Moves ever with her winning
words and wise,
Makes wheresoe’er she
breathes a sweet serene
As ’twere a gentle spirit
from the skies,
Still in these scenes some
comfort brings to me,
Nor elsewhere breathes my
harass’d heart so free.
MACGREGOR.
Perseguendomi Amor al luogo usato.
HE IS BEWILDERED AT THE UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL OF LAURA.
As Love his arts
in haunts familiar tried,
Watchful as one expecting
war is found,
Who all foresees and guards
the passes round,
I in the armour of old thoughts
relied:
Turning, I saw a shadow at
my side
Cast by the sun, whose outline
MACGREGOR.
La donna che ’l mio cor nel viso porta.
HER KIND AND GENTLE SALUTATION THRILLS HIS HEART WITH PLEASURE.
She, in her face
who doth my gone heart wear,
As lone I sate ’mid
love-thoughts dear and true,
Appear’d before me:
to show honour due,
I rose, with pallid brow and
reverent air.
Soon as of such my state she
was aware,
She turn’d on me with
look so soft and new
As, in Jove’s greatest
fury, might subdue
His rage, and from his hand
the thunders tear.
I started: on her further
way she pass’d
Graceful, and speaking words
I could not brook,
Nor of her lustrous eyes the
loving look.
When on that dear salute my
thoughts are cast,
So rich and varied do my pleasures
flow,
No pain I feel, nor evil fear
below.
MACGREGOR.
[Illustration: SOLITUDES OF VAUCLUSE.]
Sennuccio, i’ vo’ che sappi in qual maniera.
HE RELATES TO HIS FRIEND SENNUCCIO HIS UNHAPPINESS,
AND THE VARIED MOOD
OF LAURA.
To thee, Sennuccio,
fain would I declare,
To sadden life, what wrongs,
what woes I find:
Still glow my wonted flames;
and, though resign’d
To Laura’s fickle will,
no change I bear.
All humble now, then haughty
is my fair;
Now meek, then proud; now
pitying, then unkind:
Softness and tenderness now
sway her mind;
Then do her looks disdain
and anger wear.
Here would she sweetly sing,
there sit awhile,
Here bend her step, and there
her step retard;
Here her bright eyes my easy
heart ensnared;
There would she speak fond
words, here lovely smile;
There frown contempt;—such
wayward cares I prove
By night, by day; so wills
our tyrant Love!
ANON. 1777.
Alas, Sennuccio!
would thy mind could frame
What now I suffer! what my
life’s drear reign;
Consumed beneath my heart’s
continued pain,
At will she guides me—yet
am I the same.
Now humble—then
doth pride her soul inflame;
Now harsh—then
gentle; cruel—kind again;
Now all reserve—then
borne on frolic’s vein;
Disdain alternates with a
milder claim.
Here once she sat, and there
so sweetly sang;
WOLLASTON.
Qui dove mezzo son, Sennuccio mio.
THE MERE SIGHT OF VAUCLUSE MAKES HIM FORGET ALL THE PERILS OF HIS JOURNEY.
Friend, on this
spot, I life but half endure
(Would I were wholly here
and you content),
Where from the storm and wind
my course I bent,
Which suddenly had left the
skies obscure.
Fain would I tell—for
here I feel me sure—
Why lightnings now no fear
to me present;
And why unmitigated, much
less spent,
E’en as before my fierce
desires allure.
Soon as I reach’d these
realms of love, and saw
Where, sweet and pure, to
life my Laura came,
Who calms the air, at rest
the thunder lays;
Love in my soul, where she
alone gives law,
Quench’d the cold fear
and kindled the fast flame;
What were it then on her bright
eyes to gaze!
MACGREGOR.
Dell’ empia Babilonia, ond’ e fuggita.
LEAVING ROME, HE DESIRES ONLY PEACE WITH LAURA AND PROSPERITY TO COLONNA.
Yes, out of impious
Babylon I’m flown,
Whence flown all shame, whence
banish’d is all good,
That nurse of error, and of
guilt th’ abode,
To lengthen out a life which
else were gone:
There as Love prompts, while
wandering alone,
I now a garland weave, and
now an ode;
With him I commune, and in
pensive mood
Hope better times; this only
checks my moan.
Nor for the throng, nor fortune
do I care,
Nor for myself, nor sublunary
things,
No ardour outwardly, or inly
springs:
I ask two persons only:
let my fair
For me a kind and tender heart
maintain;
And be my friend secure in
his high post again.
NOTT.
From impious Babylon,
where all shame is dead,
And every good is banish’d
to far climes,
Nurse of rank errors, centre
of worst crimes,
Haply to lengthen life, I
too am fled:
Alone, at last alone, and
here, as led
At Love’s sweet will,
I posies weave or rhymes,
Self-parleying, and still
on better times
Wrapt in fond thoughts whence
only hope is fed.
Cares for the world or fortune
I have none,
Nor much for self, nor any
common theme:
Nor feel I in me, nor without,
great heat.
Two friends alone I ask, and
that the one
More merciful and meek to
me may seem,
The other well as erst, and
firm of feet.
MACGREGOR.
In mezzo di duo amanti onesta altera.
LAURA TURNING TO SALUTE HIM, THE SUN, THROUGH JEALOUSY, WITHDREW BEHIND A CLOUD.
’Tween two
fond lovers I a lady spied,
Virtuous but haughty, and
with her that lord,
By gods above and men below
adored—
The sun on this, myself upon
that side—
Soon as she found herself
the sphere denied
Of her bright friend, on my
fond eyes she pour’d
A flood of life and joy, which
hope restored
Less cold to me will be her
future pride.
Suddenly changed itself to
cordial mirth
The jealous fear to which
at his first sight
So high a rival in my heart
gave birth;
As suddenly his sad and rueful
plight
From further scrutiny a small
cloud veil’d,
So much it ruffled him that
then he fail’d.
MACGREGOR.
Pien di quella ineffabile dolcezza.
WHEREVER HE IS, HE SEES ONLY LAURA.
O’erflowing
with the sweets ineffable,
Which from that lovely face
my fond eyes drew,
What time they seal’d,
for very rapture, grew.
On meaner beauty never more
to dwell,
Whom most I love I left:
my mind so well
Its part, to muse on her,
is train’d to do,
None else it sees; what is
not hers to view,
As of old wont, with loathing
I repel.
In a low valley shut from
all around,
Sole consolation of my heart-deep
sighs,
Pensive and slow, with Love
I walk alone:
Not ladies here, but rocks
and founts are found,
And of that day blest images
arise,
Which my thought shapes where’er
I turn mine eyes.
MACGREGOR.
Se ‘l sasso ond’ e piu chiusa questa valle.
COULD HE BUT SEE THE HOUSE OF LAURA, HIS SIGHS MIGHT REACH HER MORE QUICKLY.
If, which our
valley bars, this wall of stone,
From which its present name
we closely trace,
Were by disdainful nature
rased, and thrown
Its back to Babel and to Rome
its face;
Then had my sighs a better
pathway known
To where their hope is yet
in life and grace:
They now go singly, yet my
voice all own;
And, where I send, not one
but finds its place.
There too, as I perceive,
such welcome sweet
They ever find, that none
returns again,
But still delightedly with
her remain.
My grief is from the eyes,
each morn to meet—
Not the fair scenes my soul
so long’d to see—
Toil for my weary limbs and
tears for me.
MACGREGOR.
Rimansi addietro il sestodecim’ anno.
THOUGH HE IS UNHAPPY, HIS LOVE REMAINS EVER UNCHANGED.
My sixteenth year
of sighs its course has run,
I stand alone, already on
the brow
Where Age descends: and
yet it seems as now
My time of trial only were
begun.
’Tis sweet to love,
and good to be undone;
Though life be hard, more
days may Heaven allow
Misfortune to outlive:
else Death may bow
The bright head low my loving
praise that won.
Here am I now who fain would
be elsewhere;
More would I wish and yet
no more I would;
I could no more and yet did
all I could:
And new tears born of old
desires declare
That still I am as I was wont
to be,
And that a thousand changes
change not me.
MACGREGOR.
Una donna piu bella assai che ’l sole.
GLORY AND VIRTUE.
A lady, lovelier,
brighter than the sun,
Like him superior o’er
all time and space,
Of rare resistless grace,
Me to her train in early life
had won:
She, from that hour, in act,
and word and thought,
—For still the
world thus covets what is rare—
In many ways though brought
Before my search, was still
the same coy fair:
For her alone my plans, from
what they were,
Grew changed, since nearer
subject to her eyes;
Her love alone could spur
My young ambition to each
hard emprize:
So, if in long-wish’d
port I e’er arrive,
I hope, for aye through her,
When others deem me dead,
in honour to survive.
Full of first hope, burning
with youthful love,
She, at her will, as plainly
now appears,
Has led me many years,
But for one end, my nature
best to prove:
Oft showing me her shadow,
veil, and dress,
But never her sweet face,
till I, who right
Knew not her power to bless,
All my green youth for these,
contented quite,
So spent, that still the memory
is delight:
Since onward yet some glimpse
of her is seen,
I now may own, of late,
Such as till then she ne’er
for me had been,
She shows herself, shooting
through all my heart
An icy cold so great
That save in her dear arms
it ne’er can thence depart.
Not that in this cold fear
I all did shrink,
For still my heart was to
such boldness strung
That to her feet I clung,
As if more rapture from her
eyes to drink:
And she—for now
the veil was ta’en away
Which barr’d my sight—thus
spoke me, “Friend, you see
How fair I am, and may
Ask, for your years, whatever
fittest be.”
“Lady,” I said,
“so long my love on thee
Has fix’d, that now
I feel myself on fire,
What, in this state, to shun,
and what desire.”
She, thereon, with a voice
so wond’rous sweet
And earnest look replied,
By turns with hope and fear
it made my quick heart beat:—
“Rarely has man, in
this full crowd below,
E’en partial knowledge
of my worth possess’d
Who felt not in his breast
At least awhile some spark
of spirit glow:
But soon my foe, each germ
of good abhorr’d,
Quenches that light, and every
virtue dies,
While reigns some other lord
Who promises a calmer life
shall rise:
Love, of your mind, to him
that naked lies,
So shows the great desire
with which you burn,
That safely I divine
It yet shall win for you an
honour’d urn;
Already one of my few friends
you are,
And now shall see in sign
A lady who shall make your
fond eyes happier far.”
“It may not, cannot
be,” I thus began;
—When she, “Turn
hither, and in yon calm nook
Upon the lady look
So seldom seen, so little
sought of man!”
I turn’d, and o’er
my brow the mantling shame,
Within me as I felt that new
fire swell,
Of conscious treason came.
She softly smiled, “I
understand you well;
E’en as the sun’s
more powerful rays dispel
And drive the meaner stars
of heaven from sight,
So I less fair appear,
Dwindling and darken’d
now in her more light;
But not for this I bar you
from my train,
As one in jealous fear—
One birth, the elder she,
produced us, sisters twain.”
Meanwhile the cold and heavy
chain was burst
Of silence, which a sense
of shame had flung
Around my powerless tongue,
When I was conscious of her
notice first:
And thus I spoke, “If
what I hear be true,
Bless’d be the sire,
and bless’d the natal day
Which graced our world with
you!
Blest the long years pass’d
in your search away!
From the right path if e’er
I went astray,
It grieves me more than, haply,
I can show:
But of your state, if I
Deserve more knowledge, more
I long to know.”
She paused, then, answering
pensively, so bent
On me her eloquent eye,
That to my inmost heart her
looks and language went:—
“As seem’d to
our Eternal Father best,
We two were made immortal
at our birth:
To man so small our worth
Better on us that death, like
yours, should rest.
Though once beloved and lovely,
young and bright,
So slighted are we now, my
sister sweet
Already plumes for flight
Her wings to bear her to her
own old seat;
Myself am but a shadow thin
and fleet;
Thus have I told you, in brief
words, whate’er
You sought of us to find:
And now farewell! before I
mount in air
This favour take, nor fear
that I forget.”
Whereat she took and twined
A wreath of laurel green,
and round my temples set.
My song! should any deem thy
strain obscure,
Say, that I care not, and,
ere long to hear,
In certain words and clear,
Truth’s welcome message,
that my hope is sure;
For this alone, unless I widely
err
Of him who set me on the task,
I came,
That others I might stir
To honourable acts of high
and holy aim.
MACGREGOR.
Or vedi, Amor, che giovinetta donna.
A PRAYER TO LOVE THAT HE WILL TAKE VENGEANCE ON THE SCORNFUL PRIDE OF LAURA.
Now, Love, at
length behold a youthful fair,
Who spurns thy rule, and,
mocking all my care,
’Mid two such foes,
is safe and fancy free.
Thou art well arm’d,
’mid flowers and verdure she,
In simplest robe and natural
tresses found,
Against thee haughty still
and harsh to me;
I am thy thrall: but,
if thy bow be sound,
If yet one shaft be thine,
in pity, take
Vengeance upon her for our
common sake.
MACGREGOR.
Quelle pietose rime, in ch’ io m’ accorsi.
TO ANTONIO OF FERRARA, WHO, IN A POEM, HAD LAMENTED PETRARCH’S SUPPOSED DEATH.
Those pious lines
wherein are finely met
Proofs of high genius and
a spirit kind,
Had so much influence on my
grateful mind
That instantly in hand my
pen I set
To tell you that death’s
final blow—which yet
Shall me and every mortal
surely find—
I have not felt, though I,
too, nearly join’d
The confines of his realm
without regret;
But I turn’d back again
because I read
Writ o’er the threshold
that the time to me
Of life predestinate not all
was fled,
Though its last day and hour
I could not see.
Then once more let your sad
heart comfort know,
And love the living worth
which dead it honour’d so.
MACGREGOR.
Dicesett’ anni ha gia rivolto il cielo.
E’EN IN OUR ASHES LIVE OUR WONTED FIRES.
The seventeenth
summer now, alas! is gone,
And still with ardour unconsumed
I glow;
Yet find, whene’er myself
I seek to know,
Amidst the fire a frosty chill
come on.
Truly ’tis said, ’Ere
Habit quits her throne,
Years bleach the hair.’
The senses feel life’s snow,
But not less hot the tides
of passion flow:
Such is our earthly nature’s
malison!
Oh! come the happy day, when
doom’d to smart
No more, from flames and lingering
sorrows free,
Calm I may note how fast youth’s
minutes flew!
Ah! will it e’er be
mine the hour to see,
When with delight, nor duty
nor my heart
Can blame, these eyes once
more that angel face may view?
WRANGHAM.
For seventeen
summers heaven has o’er me roll’d
Since first I burn’d,
nor e’er found respite thence,
But when to weigh our state
my thoughts commence
I feel amidst the flames a
frosty cold.
We change the form, not nature,
is an old
And truthful proverb:
thus, to dull the sense
Makes not the human feelings
less intense;
The dark shades of our painful
veil still hold.
Alas! alas! will e’er
that day appear
When, my life’s flight
beholding, I may find
Issue from endless fire and
lingering pain,—
The day which, crowning all
my wishes here,
Of that fair face the angel
air and kind
Shall to my longing eyes restore
again?
MACGREGOR.
Quel vago impallidir che ’l dolce riso.
LEAVE-TAKING.
That witching
paleness, which with cloud of love
Veil’d her sweet smile,
majestically bright,
So thrill’d my heart,
that from the bosom’s night
Midway to meet it on her face
it strove.
Then learnt I how, ’mid
realms of joy above,
The blest behold the blest:
in such pure light
I scann’d her tender
thought, to others’ sight
Viewless!—but my
fond glances would not rove.
Each angel grace, each lowly
courtesy,
E’er traced in dame
by Love’s soft power inspired,
Would seem but foils to those
which prompt my lay:
Upon the ground was cast her
gentle eye,
And still methought, though
silent, she inquired,
“What bears my faithful
friend so soon, so far away?”
WRANGHAM.
There was a touching
paleness on her face,
Which chased her smiles, but
such sweet union made
Of pensive majesty and heavenly
grace,
As if a passing cloud had
veil’d her with its shade;
Then knew I how the blessed
ones above
Gaze on each other in their
perfect bliss,
For never yet was look of
mortal love
So pure, so tender, so serene
as this.
The softest glance fond woman
ever sent
To him she loved, would cold
and rayless be
Compared to this, which she
divinely bent
Earthward, with angel sympathy,
on me,
That seem’d with speechless
tenderness to say,
“Who takes from me my
faithful friend away?”
E. (New Monthly Magazine.)
Amor, Fortuna, e la mia mente schiva.
THE CAUSES OF HIS WOE.
Love, Fortune,
and my melancholy mind,
Sick of the present, lingering
on the past,
Afflict me so, that envious
thoughts I cast
On those who life’s
dark shore have left behind.
Love racks my bosom:
Fortune’s wintry wind
Kills every comfort:
MACGREGOR.
Love, Fortune,
and my ever-faithful mind,
Which loathes the present
in its memoried past,
So wound my spirit, that on
all I cast
An envied thought who rest
in darkness find.
My heart Love prostrates,
Fortune more unkind
No comfort grants, until its
sorrow vast
Impotent frets, then melts
to tears at last:
Thus I to painful warfare
am consign’d.
My halcyon days I hope not
to return,
But paint my future by a darker
tint;
My spring is gone—my
summer well-nigh fled:
Ah! wretched me! too well
do I discern
Each hope is now (unlike the
diamond flint)
A fragile mirror, with its
fragments shed.
WOLLASTON.
Se ’l pensier che mi strugge.
HE SEEKS IN VAIN TO MITIGATE HIS WOE.
Oh! that my cheeks
were taught
By the fond, wasting thought
To wear such hues as could
its influence speak;
Then the dear, scornful fair
Might all my ardour share;
And where Love slumbers now
he might awake!
Less oft the hill and mead
My wearied feet should tread;
Less oft, perhaps, these eyes
with tears should stream;
If she, who cold as snow,
With equal fire would glow—
She who dissolves me, and
converts to flame.
Since Love exerts his sway,
And bears my sense away,
I chant uncouth and inharmonious
songs:
Nor leaves, nor blossoms show,
Nor rind, upon the bough,
What is the nature that thereto
belongs.
Love, and those beauteous
eyes,
Beneath whose shade he lies,
Discover all the heart can
comprehend:
When vented are my cares
In loud complaints, and tears;
These harm myself, and others
those offend.
Sweet lays of sportive vein,
Which help’d me to sustain
Love’s first assault,
the only arms I bore;
This flinty breast say who
Shall once again subdue,
That I with song may soothe
me as before?
Some power appears to trace
Within me Laura’s face,
Whispers her name; and straight
in verse I strive
To picture her again,
But the fond effort’s
vain:
Me of my solace thus doth
Fate deprive.
E’en as some babe unties
Its tongue in stammering guise,
Who cannot speak, yet will
not silence keep:
So fond words I essay;
And listen’d be the
lay
By my fair foe, ere in the
tomb I sleep!
But if, of beauty vain,
She treats me with disdain;
Do thou, O verdant shore,
attend my sighs:
Let them so freely flow,
That all the world may know,
My sorrow thou at least didst
not despise!
And well art thou aware,
That never foot so fair
The soil e’er press’d
as that which trod thee late;
My sunk soul and worn heart
Now seek thee, to impart
The secret griefs that on
my passion wait.
If on thy margent green,
Or ’midst thy flowers,
were seen
Some traces of her footsteps
lingering there.
My wearied life ’twould
cheer,
Bitter’d with many a
tear:
Ah! now what means are left
to soothe my care?
Where’er I bend mine
eye,
What sweet serenity
I feel, to think here Laura
shone of yore.
Each plant and scented bloom
I gather, seems to come
From where she wander’d
on the custom’d shore:
Ofttimes in this retreat
A fresh and fragrant seat
She found; at least so fancy’s
vision shows:
And never let truth seek
Th’ illusion dear to
break—
O spirit blest, from whom
such magic flows!
To thee, my simple song,
No polish doth belong;
Thyself art conscious of thy
little worth!
Solicit not renown
Throughout the busy town,
But dwell within the shade
that gave thee birth.
NOTT.
Chiare, fresche e dolci acque.
TO THE FOUNTAIN OF VAUOLUSE—CONTEMPLATIONS OF DEATH.
Ye limpid brooks,
by whose clear streams
My goddess laid her tender
limbs!
Ye gentle boughs, whose friendly
shade
Gave shelter to the lovely
maid!
Ye herbs and flowers, so sweetly
press’d
By her soft rising snowy breast!
Ye Zephyrs mild, that breathed
around
The place where Love my heart
did wound!
Now at my summons all appear,
And to my dying words give
ear.
If then my destiny requires,
And Heaven with my fate conspires,
That Love these eyes should
weeping close,
Here let me find a soft repose.
So Death will less my soul
affright,
And, free from dread, my weary
spright
Naked alone will dare t’
essay
The still unknown, though
beaten way;
Pleased that her mortal part
will have
So safe a port, so sweet a
grave.
The cruel fair, for whom I
burn,
May one day to these shades
return,
And smiling with superior
grace,
Her lover seek around this
place,
And when instead of me she
finds
Some crumbling dust toss’d
by the winds,
She may feel pity in her breast,
And, sighing, wish me happy
rest,
Drying her eyes with her soft
veil,
Such tears must sure with
Heaven prevail.
Well I remember how the flowers
Descended from these boughs
in showers,
Encircled in the fragrant
cloud
She set, nor midst such glory
proud.
These blossoms to her lap
repair,
These fall upon her flowing
hair,
(Like pearls enchased in gold
they seem,)
These on the ground, these
on the stream;
In giddy rounds these dancing
say,
Here Love and Laura only sway.
In rapturous wonder oft I
said,
Sure she in Paradise was made,
Thence sprang that bright
angelic state,
Those looks, those words,
that heavenly gait,
That beauteous smile, that
voice divine,
Those graces that around her
shine:
Transported I beheld the fair,
And sighing cried, How came
I here?
In heaven, amongst th’
immortal blest,
Here let me fix and ever rest.
MOLESWORTH.
Ye waters clear
and fresh, to whose blight wave
She all her beauties gave,—
Sole of her sex in my impassion’d
mind!
Thou sacred branch so graced,
(With sighs e’en now
retraced!)
On whose smooth shaft her
heavenly form reclined!
Herbage and flowers that bent
the robe beneath,
Whose graceful folds compress’d
Her pure angelic breast!
Ye airs serene, that breathe
Where Love first taught me
in her eyes his lore!
Yet once more all attest,
The last sad plaintive lay
my woe-worn heart may pour!
If so I must my destiny fulfil,
And Love to close these weeping
eyes be doom’d
By Heaven’s mysterious
will,
Oh! grant that in this loved
retreat, entomb’d,
My poor remains may lie,
And my freed soul regain its
native sky!
Less rude shall Death appear,
If yet a hope so dear
Smooth the dread passage to
eternity!
No shade so calm—serene,
My weary spirit finds on earth
below;
No grave so still—so
green,
In which my o’ertoil’d
frame may rest from mortal woe!
Yet one day, haply, she—so
heavenly fair!
So kind in cruelty!—
With careless steps may to
these haunts repair,
And where her beaming eye
Met mine in days so blest,
A wistful glance may yet unconscious
rest,
And seeking me around,
May mark among the stones
a lowly mound,
That speaks of pity to the
shuddering sense!
Then may she breathe a sigh,
Of power to win me mercy from
above!
Doing Heaven violence,
All-beautiful in tears of
late relenting love!
Still dear to memory! when,
in odorous showers,
Scattering their balmy flowers,
To summer airs th’ o’ershadowing
branches bow’d,
The while, with humble state,
In all the pomp of tribute
sweets she sate,
Wrapt in the roseate cloud!
Now clustering blossoms deck
her vesture’s hem,
Now her bright tresses gem,—
(In that all-blissful day,
Like burnish’d gold
with orient pearls inwrought,)
Some strew the turf—some
on the waters float!
Some, fluttering, seem to
say
In wanton circlets toss’d,
“Here Love holds sovereign sway!”
Oft I exclaim’d, in
awful tremor rapt,
“Surely of heavenly
birth
This gracious form that visits
the low earth!”
So in oblivion lapp’d
Was reason’s power,
by the celestial mien,
The brow,—the accents
mild—
The angelic smile serene!
That now all sense of sad
reality
O’erborne by transport
wild,—
“Alas! how came I here,
and when?” I cry,—
Deeming my spirit pass’d
into the sky!
E’en though the illusion
cease,
In these dear haunts alone
my tortured heart finds peace.
If thou wert graced with numbers
sweet, my song!
To match thy wish to please;
Leaving these rocks and trees,
Thou boldly might’st
go forth, and dare th’ assembled throng.
DACRE.
Clear, fresh,
and dulcet streams,
Which the fair shape, who
seems
To me sole woman, haunted
at noon-tide;
Fair bough, so gently fit,
(I sigh to think of it,)
Which lent a pillar to her
lovely side;
And turf, and flowers bright-eyed,
O’er which her folded
gown
Flow’d like an angel’s
down;
And you, O holy air and hush’d,
Where first my heart at her
sweet glances gush’d;
Give ear, give ear, with one
consenting,
To my last words, my last
and my lamenting.
If ’tis my fate below,
And Heaven will have it so,
That Love must close these
dying eyes in tears,
May my poor dust be laid
In middle of your shade,
While my soul, naked, mounts
to its own spheres.
The thought would calm my
fears,
When taking, out of breath,
The doubtful step of death;
For never could my spirit
find
A stiller port after the stormy
wind;
Nor in more calm, abstracted
bourne,
Slip from my travail’d
flesh, and from my bones outworn.
Perhaps, some future hour,
To her accustom’d bower
Might come the untamed, and
yet the gentle she;
And where she saw me first,
Might turn with eyes athirst
And kinder joy to look again
for me;
Then, oh! the charity!
Seeing amidst the stones
The earth that held my bones,
A sigh for very love at last
Might ask of Heaven to pardon
me the past:
And Heaven itself could not
say nay,
As with her gentle veil she
wiped the tears away.
How well I call to mind,
When from those boughs the
wind
Shook down upon her bosom
flower on flower;
And there she sat, meek-eyed,
In midst of all that pride,
Sprinkled and blushing through
an amorous shower
Some to her hair paid dower,
And seem’d to dress
the curls,
Queenlike, with gold and pearls;
Some, snowing, on her drapery
stopp’d,
Some on the earth, some on
the water dropp’d;
While others, fluttering from
above,
Seem’d wheeling round
in pomp, and saying, “Here reigns Love.”
How often then I said,
Inward, and fill’d with
dread,
“Doubtless this creature
came from Paradise!”
For at her look the while,
Her voice, and her sweet smile,
And heavenly air, truth parted
from mine eyes;
So that, with long-drawn sighs,
I said, as far from men,
“How came I here, and
when?”
I had forgotten; and alas!
Fancied myself in heaven,
not where I was;
And from that time till this,
I bear
Such love for the green bower,
I cannot rest elsewhere.
LEIGH HUNT.
In quella parte dov’ Amor mi sprona.
HE FINDS HER IMAGE EVERYWHERE.
When Love, fond
Love, commands the strain,
The coyest muse must sure
obey;
Love bids my wounded breast
complain,
And whispers the melodious
lay:
Yet when such griefs restrain
the muse’s wing,
How shall she dare to soar,
or how attempt to sing?
Oh! could my heart express
its woe,
How poor, how wretched should
I seem!
But as the plaintive accents
flow,
Soft comfort spreads her golden
gleam;
And each gay scene, that Nature
holds to view,
Bids Laura’s absent
charms to memory bloom anew.
Though Fate’s severe
decrees remove
Her gladsome beauties from
my sight,
Yet, urged by pity, friendly
Love
Bids fond reflection yield
delight;
If lavish spring with flowerets
strews the mead,
Her lavish beauties all to
fancy are displayed!
When to this globe the solar
beams
Their full meridian blaze
impart,
It pictures Laura, that inflames
With passion’s fires
each human heart:
And when the sun completes
his daily race,
I see her riper age complete
each growing grace.
When milder planets, warmer
skies
O’er winter’s
frozen reign prevail;
When groves are tinged with
vernal dyes,
And violets scent the wanton
gale;
Those flowers, the verdure,
then recall that day,
In which my Laura stole this
heedless heart away.
The blush of health, that
crimson’d o’er
Her youthful cheek; her modest
mien;
The gay-green garment that
she wore,
Have ever dear to memory been;
More dear they grow as time
the more inflames
This tender breast o’ercome
by passion’s wild extremes!
The sun, whose cheering lustre
warms
The bosom of yon snow-clad
hill,
Seems a just emblem of the
charms,
Whose power controls my vanquish’d
will;
When near, they gild with
joy this frozen heart,
Where ceaseless winter reigns,
whene’er those charms depart.
Yon sun, too, paints the locks
of gold,
That play around her face
so fair—
Her face which, oft as I behold,
Prompts the soft sigh of amorous
care!
While Laura smiles, all-conscious
of that love
Which from this faithful breast
no time can e’er remove.
If to the transient storm
of night
Succeeds a star-bespangled
sky,
And the clear rain-drops catch
the light,
Glittering on all the foliage
nigh;
Methinks her eyes I view,
as on that day
When through the envious veil
they shot their magic ray.
With brightness making heaven
more bright,
As then they did, I see them
now;
I see them, when the morning
light
Purples the misty mountain’s
brow:
When day declines, and darkness
spreads the pole;
Methinks ’tis Laura
flies, and sadness wraps my soul.
In stately jars of burnish’d
gold
Should lilies spread their
silvery pride,
With fresh-blown roses that
unfold
Their leaves, in heaven’s
own crimson dyed;
Then Laura’s bloom I
see, and sunny hair
Flowing adown her neck than
ivory whiter far.
The flowerets brush’d
by zephyr’s wing,
Waving their heads in frolic
play,
Oft to my fond remembrance
bring
The happy spot, the happier
day,
In which, disporting with
the gale, I view’d
Those sweet unbraided locks,
that all my heart subdued.
Oh! could I count those orbs
that shine
Nightly o’er yon ethereal
plain,
Or in some scanty vase confine
Each drop that ocean’s
bounds contain,
Then might I hope to fly from
beauty’s rays,
Laura o’er flaming worlds
can spread bright beauty’s blaze.
Should I all heaven, all earth
explore,
I still should lovely Laura
find;
Laura, whose beauties I adore,
Is ever present to my mind:
She’s seen in all that
strikes these partial eyes,
And her dear name still dwells
in all my tender sighs.
But soft, my song,—not
thine the power
To paint that never-dying
flame,
Which gilds through life the
gloomy hour,
Which nurtures this love-wasted
frame;
For since with Laura dwells
my wander’d heart,
Cheer’d by that fostering
flame, I brave Death’s ebon dart.
ANON 1777.
[Illustration: GENOA.]
Italia mia, benche ’l parlar sia indarno.
TO THE PRINCES OF ITALY, EXHORTING THEM TO SET HER FREE.
O my own Italy!
though words are vain
The mortal wounds to close,
Unnumber’d, that thy
beauteous bosom stain,
Yet may it soothe my pain
To sigh forth Tyber’s
woes,
And Arno’s wrongs, as
on Po’s sadden’d shore
Sorrowing I wander, and my
numbers pour.
Ruler of heaven! By the
all-pitying love
That could thy Godhead move
To dwell a lowly sojourner
on earth,
Turn, Lord! on this thy chosen
land thine eye:
See, God of Charity!
From what light cause this
cruel war has birth;
And the hard hearts by savage
discord steel’d,
Thou, Father! from on high,
Touch by my humble voice,
that stubborn wrath may yield!
Ye, to whose sovereign hands
the fates confide
Of this fair land the reins,—
(This land for which no pity
wrings your breast)—
Why does the stranger’s
sword her plains invest?
That her green fields be dyed,
Hope ye, with blood from the
Barbarians’ veins?
Beguiled by error weak,
Ye see not, though to pierce
so deep ye boast,
Who love, or faith, in venal
bosoms seek:
When throng’d your standards
most,
Ye are encompass’d most
by hostile bands.
O hideous deluge gather’d
in strange lands,
That rushing down amain
O’erwhelms our every
native lovely plain!
Alas! if our own hands
Have thus our weal betray’d,
who shall our cause sustain?
Well did kind Nature, guardian
of our state,
Rear her rude Alpine heights,
A lofty rampart against German
hate;
But blind ambition, seeking
his own ill,
With ever restless will,
To the pure gales contagion
foul invites:
Within the same strait fold
The gentle flocks and wolves
relentless throng,
Where still meek innocence
must suffer wrong:
And these,—oh,
shame avow’d!—
Are of the lawless hordes
no tie can hold:
Fame tells how Marius’
sword
Erewhile their bosoms gored,—
Nor has Time’s hand
aught blurr’d the record proud!
When they who, thirsting,
stoop’d to quaff the flood,
With the cool waters mix’d,
drank of a comrade’s blood!
Great Caesar’s name
I pass, who o’er our plains
Pour’d forth the ensanguin’d
tide,
Drawn by our own good swords
from out their veins;
But now—nor know
I what ill stars preside—
Heaven holds this land in
hate!
To you the thanks!—whose
hands control her helm!—
You, whose rash feuds despoil
Of all the beauteous earth
the fairest realm!
Are ye impell’d by judgment,
crime, or fate,
To oppress the desolate?
From broken fortunes, and
from humble toil,
The hard-earn’d dole
to wring,
While from afar ye bring
Dealers in blood, bartering
their souls for hire?
In truth’s great cause
I sing.
Nor hatred nor disdain my
earnest lay inspire.
Nor mark ye yet, confirm’d
by proof on proof,
Bavaria’s perfidy,
Who strikes in mockery, keeping
death aloof?
(Shame, worse than aught of
loss, in honour’s eye!)
While ye, with honest rage,
devoted pour
Your inmost bosom’s
gore!—
Yet give one hour to thought,
And ye shall own, how little
he can hold
Another’s glory dear,
who sets his own at nought
O Latin blood of old!
Arise, and wrest from obloquy
thy fame,
Nor bow before a name
Of hollow sound, whose power
no laws enforce!
For if barbarians rude
Have higher minds subdued,
Ours! ours the crime!—not
such wise Nature’s course.
Ah! is not this the soil my
foot first press’d?
And here, in cradled rest,
Was I not softly hush’d?—here
fondly rear’d?
Ah! is not this my country?—so
endear’d
By every filial tie!
In whose lap shrouded both
my parents lie!
Oh! by this tender thought,
Your torpid bosoms to compassion
wrought,
Look on the people’s
grief!
Who, after God, of you expect
relief;
And if ye but relent,
Virtue shall rouse her in
embattled might,
Against blind fury bent,
Nor long shall doubtful hang
the unequal fight;
For no,—the ancient
flame
Is not extinguish’d
yet, that raised the Italian name!
Mark, sovereign Lords! how
Time, with pinion strong,
Swift hurries life along!
E’en now, behold!
Death presses on the rear.
We sojourn here a day—the
next, are gone!
The soul disrobed—alone,
Must shuddering seek the doubtful
pass we fear.
Oh! at the dreaded bourne,
Abase the lofty brow of wrath
and scorn,
(Storms adverse to the eternal
calm on high!)
And ye, whose cruelty
Has sought another’s
harm, by fairer deed
Of heart, or hand, or intellect,
aspire
To win the honest meed
Of just renown—the
noble mind’s desire!
Thus sweet on earth the stay!
Thus to the spirit pure, unbarr’d
is Heaven’s way!
My song! with courtesy, and
numbers sooth,
Thy daring reasons grace,
For thou the mighty, in their
pride of place,
Must woo to gentle ruth,
Whose haughty will long evil
customs nurse,
Ever to truth averse!
Thee better fortunes wait,
Among the virtuous few—the
truly great!
Tell them—but who
shall bid my terrors cease?
Peace! Peace! on thee
I call! return, O heaven-born Peace!
DACRE.
* * * * *
See Time, that
flies, and spreads his hasty wing!
See Life, how swift it runs
the race of years,
And on its weary shoulders
death appears!
Now all is life and all is
spring:
Think on the winter and the
darker day
When the soul, naked and alone,
BASIL KENNET.
Di pensier in pensier, di monte in monte.
DISTANCE AND SOLITUDE.
From hill to hill
I roam, from thought to thought,
With Love my guide; the beaten
path I fly,
For there in vain the tranquil
life is sought:
If ’mid the waste well
forth a lonely rill,
Or deep embosom’d a
low valley lie,
In its calm shade my trembling
heart’s still;
And there, if Love so will,
I smile, or weep, or fondly
hope, or fear.
While on my varying brow,
that speaks the soul,
The wild emotions roll,
Now dark, now bright, as shifting
skies appear;
That whosoe’er has proved
the lover’s state
Would say, He feels the flame,
nor knows his future fate.
On mountains high, in forests
drear and wide,
I find repose, and from the
throng’d resort
Of man turn fearfully my eyes
aside;
At each lone step thoughts
ever new arise
Of her I love, who oft with
cruel sport
Will mock the pangs I bear,
the tears, the sighs;
Yet e’en these ills
I prize,
Though bitter, sweet, nor
would they were removed
For my heart whispers me,
Love yet has power
To grant a happier hour:
Perchance, though self-despised,
thou yet art loved:
E’en then my breast
a passing sigh will heave,
Ah! when, or how, may I a
hope so wild believe?
Where shadows of high rocking
pines dark wave
I stay my footsteps, and on
some rude stone
With thought intense her beauteous
face engrave;
Roused from the trance, my
bosom bathed I find
With tears, and cry, Ah! whither
thus alone
Hast thou far wander’d,
and whom left behind?
But as with fixed mind
On this fair image I impassion’d
rest,
And, viewing her, forget awhile
my ills,
Love my rapt fancy fills;
In its own error sweet the
soul is blest,
While all around so bright
the visions glide;
Oh! might the cheat endure,
I ask not aught beside.
Her form portray’d within
the lucid stream
Will oft appear, or on the
verdant lawn,
Or glossy beech, or fleecy
cloud, will gleam
So lovely fair, that Leda’s
self might say,
Her Helen sinks eclipsed,
as at the dawn
A star when cover’d
by the solar ray:
And, as o’er wilds I
stray
Where the eye nought but savage
nature meets,
There Fancy most her brightest
tints employs;
But when rude truth destroys
The loved illusion of those
dreamed sweets,
I sit me down on the cold
rugged stone,
Less coid, less dead than
I, and think, and weep alone.
Where the huge mountain rears
his brow sublime,
On which no neighbouring height
its shadow flings,
Led by desire intense the
steep I climb;
And tracing in the boundless
space each woe,
Whose sad remembrance my torn
bosom wrings,
Tears, that bespeak the heart
o’erfraught, will flow:
While, viewing all below,
From me, I cry, what worlds
of air divide
The beauteous form, still
absent and still near!
Then, chiding soft the tear,
I whisper low, haply she too
has sigh’d
That thou art far away:
a thought so sweet
Awhile my labouring soul will
of its burthen cheat.
Go thou, my song, beyond that
Alpine bound,
Where the pure smiling heavens
are most serene,
There by a murmuring stream
may I be found,
Whose gentle airs around
Waft grateful odours from
the laurel green;
Nought but my empty form roams
here unblest,
There dwells my heart with
her who steals it from my breast.
DACRE.
Poi che ‘l cammin m’ e chiuso di mercede.
THOUGH FAR FROM LAURA, SOLITARY AND UNHAPPY, ENVY STILL PURSUES HIM.
Since mercy’s
door is closed, alas! to me,
And hopeless paths my poor
life separate
From her in whom, I know not
by what fate,
The guerdon lay of all my
constancy,
My heart that lacks not other
food, on sighs
I feed: to sorrow born,
I live on tears:
Nor therefore mourn I:
sweeter far appears
My present grief than others
can surmise.
On thy dear portrait rests
alone my view,
Which nor Praxiteles nor Xeuxis
drew,
But a more bold and cunning
pencil framed.
What shore can hide me, or
what distance shield,
If by my cruel exile yet untamed
Insatiate Envy finds me here
concealed?
MACGREGOR.
Io canterei d’ Amor si novamente.
REPLY TO A SONNET OF JACOPO DA LENTINO.
Ways apt and new
to sing of love I’d find,
Forcing from her hard heart
full many a sigh,
And re-enkindle in her frozen
mind
Desires a thousand, passionate
and high;
O’er her fair face would
see each swift change pass,
See her fond eyes at length
where pity reigns,
As one who sorrows when too
late, alas!
For his own error and another’s
pains;
See the fresh roses edging
that fair snow
Move with her breath, that
ivory descried,
Which turns to marble him
who sees it near;
See all, for which in this
brief life below
Myself I weary not but rather
pride
That Heaven for later times
has kept me here.
MACGREGOR.
S’ Amor non e, che dunque e quel ch’ i’ sento?
THE CONTRADICTIONS OF LOVE.
If no love is,
O God, what fele I so?
And if love is, what thing
and which is he?
If love be gode, from whence
cometh my woe?
If it be wicke, a wonder thinketh
me
When every torment and adversite
That cometh of him may to
me savory thinke:
For aye more thurst I the
more that I drinke.
And if that at my owne lust
I brenne,
From whence cometh my wailing
and my pleinte?
If harme agre me whereto pleine
I thenne?
I not nere why unwery that
I feinte.
O quicke deth, O surele harme
so quainte,
How may I see in me such quantite,
But if that I consent that
so it be?
CHAUCER.
If ’tis
not love, what is it feel I then?
If ’tis, how strange
a thing, sweet powers above!
If love be kind, why does
it fatal prove?
If cruel, why so pleasing
is the pain?
If ’tis my will to love,
why weep, why plain?
If not my will, tears cannot
love remove.
O living death! O rapturous
pang!—why, love!
If I consent not, canst thou
o’er me reign?
If I consent, ’tis wrongfully
I mourn:
Thus on a stormy sea my bark
is borne
By adverse winds, and with
rough tempest tost;
Thus unenlightened, lost in
error’s maze,
My blind opinion ever dubious
strays;
I’m froze by summer,
scorched by winter’s frost.
ANON. 1777.
Amor m’ ha posto come segno a strale.
LOVE’S ARMOURY.
Love makes me
as the target for his dart,
As snow in sunshine, or as
wax in flame,
Or gale-driven cloud; and,
Laura, on thy name
I call, but thou no pity wilt
impart.
Thy radiant eyes first caused
my bosom’s smart;
No time, no place can shield
me from their beam;
From thee (but, ah, thou treat’st
it as a dream!)
Proceed the torments of my
suff’ring heart.
Each thought’s an arrow,
NOTT.
Me Love has placed
as mark before the dart,
As to the sun the snow, as
wax to fire,
As clouds to wind: Lady,
e’en now I tire,
Craving the mercy which never
warms thy heart.
From those bright eyes was
aim’d the mortal blow,
’Gainst which nor time
nor place avail’d me aught;
From thee alone—nor
let it strange be thought—
The sun, the fire, the wind
whence I am so.
The darts are thoughts of
thee, thy face the sun,
The fire my passion; such
the weapons be
With which at will Love dazzles
yet destroys.
Thy fragrant breath and angel
voice—which won
My heart that from its thrall
shall ne’er be free—
The wind which vapour-like
my frail life flies.
MACGREGOR.
Pace non trovo, e non ho da far guerra.
LOVE’S INCONSISTENCY.
I fynde no peace
and all my warre is done,
I feare and hope, I bourne
and freese lyke yse;
I flye above the wynde, yet
cannot ryse;
And nought I have, yet all
the worlde I season,
That looseth, nor lacketh,
holdes me in pryson,
And holdes me not, yet can
I escape no wyse.
Nor lets me leeve, nor die
at my devyce,
And yet of death it giveth
none occasion.
Without eye I see, and without
tongue I playne;
I desyre to perishe, yet aske
I health;
I love another, and yet I
hate my self;
I feede in sorrow and laughe
in all my payne,
Lykewyse pleaseth me both
death and lyf,
And my delight is cawser of
my greif.
WYATT.[S]
[Footnote S: Harrington’s Nugae Antiquae.]
Warfare I cannot
wage, yet know not peace;
I fear, I hope, I burn, I
freeze again;
Mount to the skies, then bow
to earth my face;
Grasp the whole world, yet
nothing can obtain.
His prisoner Love nor frees,
nor will detain;
In toils he holds me not,
nor will release;
He slays me not, nor yet will
he unchain;
Nor joy allows, nor lets my
sorrow cease.
Sightless I see my fair; though
mute, I mourn;
I scorn existence, and yet
court its stay;
Detest myself, and for another
burn;
By grief I’m nurtured;
and, though tearful, gay;
Death I despise, and life
alike I hate:
Such, lady, dost thou make
my wayward state!
NOTT.
Qual piu diversa e nova.
HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO ALL THAT IS MOST STRANGE IN CREATION.
Whate’er
most wild and new
Was ever found in any foreign
land,
If viewed and valued true,
Most likens me ’neath
Love’s transforming hand.
Whence the bright day breaks
through,
Alone and consortless, a bird
there flies,
Who voluntary dies,
To live again regenerate and
entire:
So ever my desire,
Alone, itself repairs, and
on the crest
Of its own lofty thoughts
turns to our sun,
There melts and is undone,
And sinking to its first state
of unrest,
So burns and dies, yet still
its strength resumes,
And, Phoenix-like, afresh
in force and beauty blooms.
Where Indian billows sweep,
A wondrous stone there is,
before whose strength
Stout navies, weak to keep
Their binding iron, sink engulf’d
at length:
So prove I, in this deep
Of bitter grief, whom, with
her own hard pride,
That fair rock knew to guide
Where now my life in wreck
and ruin drives:
Thus too the soul deprives,
By theft, my heart, which
once so stonelike was,
It kept my senses whole, now
far dispersed:
For mine, O fate accurst!
A rock that lifeblood and
not iron draws,
Whom still i’ the flesh
a magnet living, sweet,
Drags to the fatal shore a
certain doom to meet.
Neath the far Ethiop skies
A beast is found, most mild
and meek of air,
Which seems, yet in her eyes
Danger and dool and death
she still does bear:
Much needs he to be wise
To look on hers whoever turns
his mien:
Although her eyes unseen,
All else securely may be viewed
at will
But I to mine own ill
Run ever in rash grief, though
well I know
My sufferings past and future,
still my mind
Its eager, deaf and blind
Desire o’ermasters and
unhinges so,
That in her fine eyes and
sweet sainted face,
Fatal, angelic, pure, my cause
of death I trace.
In the rich South there flows
A fountain from the sun its
name that wins,
This marvel still that shows,
Boiling at night, but chill
when day begins;
Cold, yet more cold it grows
As the sun’s mounting
car we nearer see:
So happens it with me
(Who am, alas! of tears the
source and seat),
When the bright light and
sweet,
My only sun retires, and lone
and drear
My eyes are left, in night’s
obscurest reign,
I burn, but if again
The gold rays of the living
sun appear,
My slow blood stiffens, instantaneous,
strange;
Within me and without I feel
the frozen change!
Another fount of fame
Springs in Epirus, which,
as bards have told,
Kindles the lurking flame,
And the live quenches, while
itself is cold.
My soul, that, uncontroll’d,
And scathless from love’s
Beyond our earth’s known
brinks,
In the famed Islands of the
Blest, there be
Two founts: of this who
drinks
Dies smiling: who of
that to live is free.
A kindred fate Heaven links
To my sad life, who, smilingly,
could die
For like o’erflowing
joy,
But soon such bliss new cries
of anguish stay.
Love! still who guidest my
way,
Where, dim and dark, the shade
of fame invites,
Not of that fount we speak,
which, full each hour,
Ever with larger power
O’erflows, when Taurus
with the Sun unites;
So are my eyes with constant
sorrow wet,
But in that season most when
I my Lady met.
Should any ask, my Song!
Or how or where I am, to such
reply:
Where the tall mountain throws
Its shade, in the lone vale,
whence Sorga flows,
He roams, where never eye
Save Love’s, who leaves
him not a step, is by,
And one dear image who his
peace destroys,
Alone with whom to muse all
else in life he flies.
MACGREGOR.
Fiamma dal ciel su le tue treccie piova.
HE INVEIGHS AGAINST THE COURT OF ROME.
Vengeaunce must
fall on thee, thow filthie whore
Of Babilon, thow breaker of
Christ’s fold,
That from achorns, and from
the water colde,
Art riche become with making
many poore.
Thow treason’s neste
that in thie harte dost holde
Of cankard malice, and of
myschief more
Than pen can wryte, or may
with tongue be tolde,
Slave to delights that chastitie
hath solde;
For wyne and ease which settith
all thie store
Uppon whoredome and none other
lore,
In thye pallais of strompetts
yonge and olde
Theare walks Plentie, and
Belzebub thye Lorde:
Guydes thee and them, and
doth thye raigne upholde:
It is but late, as wryting
will recorde,
That poore thow weart withouten
lande or goolde;
Yet now hathe golde and pryde,
by one accorde,
In wickednesse so spreadd
thie lyf abrode,
That it dothe stincke before
the face of God.
(?) WYATT.[T]
[Footnote T: Harrington’s Nugae Antiquae.]
May fire from
heaven rain down upon thy head,
Thou most accurst; who simple
fare casts by,
Made rich and great by others’
poverty;
How dost thou glory in thy
vile misdeed!
Nest of all treachery, in
which is bred
Whate’er of sin now
through the world doth fly;
Of wine the slave, of sloth,
of gluttony;
With sensuality’s excesses
fed!
Old men and harlots through
thy chambers dance;
Then in the midst see Belzebub
advance
With mirrors and provocatives
obscene.
Erewhile thou wert not shelter’d,
nursed on down;
But naked, barefoot on the
straw wert thrown:
Now rank to heaven ascends
thy life unclean.
NOTT.
L’ avara Babilonia ha colmo ’l sacco.
HE PREDICTS TO ROME THE ARRIVAL OF SOME GREAT PERSONAGE WHO WILL BRING HER BACK TO HER OLD VIRTUE.
Covetous Babylon
of wrath divine
By its worst crimes has drain’d
the full cup now,
And for its future Gods to
whom to bow
Not Pow’r nor Wisdom
ta’en, but Love and Wine.
Though hoping reason, I consume
and pine,
Yet shall her crown deck some
new Soldan’s brow,
Who shall again build up,
and we avow
One faith in God, in Rome
one head and shrine.
Her idols shall be shatter’d,
in the dust
Her proud towers, enemies
of Heaven, be hurl’d,
Her wardens into flames and
exile thrust,
Fair souls and friends of
virtue shall the world
Possess in peace; and we shall
see it made
All gold, and fully its old
works display’d.
MACGREGOR.
Fontana di dolore, albergo d’ ira.
HE ATTRIBUTES THE WICKEDNESS OF THE COURT OF ROME TO ITS GREAT WEALTH.
Spring of all
woe, O den of curssed ire,
Scoole of errour, temple of
heresye;
Thow Pope, I meane, head of
hypocrasye,
Thow and thie churche, unsaciat
of desyre,
Have all the world filled
full of myserye;
Well of disceate, thow dungeon
full of fyre,
That hydes all truthe to breed
idolatrie.
Thow wicked wretche, Chryste
cannot be a lyer,
Behold, therefore, thie judgment
hastelye;
Thye first founder was gentill
povertie,
But there against is all thow
dost requyre.
Thow shameless beaste wheare
hast thow thie trust,
In thie whoredome, or in thie
riche attyre?
Loe! Constantyne, that
is turned into dust,
Shall not retourne for to
mayntaine thie lust;
But now his heires, that might
not sett thee higher,
For thie greate pryde shall
teare thye seate asonder,
And scourdge thee so that
all the world shall wonder.
(?) WYATT.[U]
[Footnote U: Harrington’s Nugae Antiquae.]
Fountain of sorrows,
centre of mad ire,
Rank error’s school
and fane of heresy,
Once Rome, now Babylon, the
false and free,
Whom fondly we lament and
long desire.
O furnace of deceits, O prison
dire,
Where good roots die and the
ill-weed grows a tree
Hell upon earth, great marvel
will it be
If Christ reject thee not
in endless fire.
Founded in humble poverty
and chaste,
Against thy founders lift’st
thou now thy horn,
Impudent harlot! Is thy
hope then placed
In thine adult’ries
and thy wealth ill-born?
Since comes no Constantine
his own to claim,
The vext world must endure,
or end its shame.
MACGREGOR.
Quanto piu desiose l’ ali spando.
FAR FROM HIS FRIENDS, HE FLIES TO THEM IN THOUGHT.
The more my own
fond wishes would impel
My steps to you, sweet company
of friends!
Fortune with their free course
the more contends,
And elsewhere bids me roam,
by snare and spell
The heart, sent forth by me
though it rebel,
Is still with you where that
fair vale extends,
In whose green windings most
our sea ascends,
From which but yesterday I
wept farewell.
It took the right-hand way,
the left I tried,
I dragg’d by force in
slavery to remain,
It left at liberty with Love
its guide;
But patience is great comfort
amid pain:
Long habits mutually form’d
declare
That our communion must be
brief and rare.
MACGREGOR.
Amor che nel pensier mio vive e regna.
THE COURAGE AND TIMIDITY OF LOVE.
The long Love
that in my thought I harbour,
And in my heart doth keep
his residence,
Into my face presseth with
bold pretence,
And there campeth displaying
his banner.
She that me learns to love
and to suffer,
And wills that my trust, and
lust’s negligence
Be rein’d by reason,
shame, and reverence,
With his hardiness takes displeasure.
Wherewith Love to the heart’s
forest he fleeth,
Leaving his enterprise with
pain and cry,
And there him hideth, and
not appeareth.
What may I do, when my master
feareth,
But in the field with him
to live and die?
For good is the life, ending
faithfully.
WYATT.
Love, that liveth
and reigneth in my thought,
That built its seat within
my captive breast;
Clad in the arms wherein with
me he fought,
Oft in my face he doth his
banner rest.
She, that me taught to love,
and suffer pain;
My doubtful hope, and eke
my hot desire
With shamefaced cloak to shadow
and restrain,
Her smiling grace converteth
SURREY.
Love in my thought
who ever lives and reigns,
And in my heart still holds
the upper place,
At times come forward boldly
in my face,
There plants his ensign and
his post maintains:
She, who in love instructs
us and its pains,
Would fain that reason, shame,
respect should chase
Presumptuous hope and high
desire abase,
And at our daring scarce herself
restrains,
Love thereon to my heart retires
dismay’d,
Abandons his attempt, and
weeps and fears,
And hiding there, no more
my friend appears.
What can the liege whose lord
is thus afraid,
More than with him, till life’s
last gasp, to dwell?
For who well loving dies at
least dies well.
MACGREGOR.
Come talora al caldo tempo suole.
HE LIKENS HIMSELF TO THE INSECT WHICH, FLYING INTO ONE’S EYES, MEETS ITS DEATH.
As when at times
in summer’s scorching heats.
Lured by the light, the simple
insect flies,
As a charm’d thing,
into the passer’s eyes,
Whence death the one and pain
the other meets,
Thus ever I, my fatal sun
to greet,
Rush to those eyes where so
much sweetness lies
That reason’s guiding
hand fierce Love defies,
And by strong will is better
judgment beat.
I clearly see they value me
but ill,
And, for against their torture
fails my strength.
That I am doom’d my
life to lose at length:
But Love so dazzles and deludes
me still,
My heart their pain and not
my loss laments,
And blind, to its own death
my soul consents.
MACGREGOR.
Alia dolce ombra de le belle frondi.
HE TELLS THE STORY OF HIS LOVE, RESOLVING HENCEFORTH TO DEVOTE HIMSELF TO GOD.
Beneath the pleasant
shade of beauteous leaves
I ran for shelter from a cruel
light,
E’en here below that
burnt me from high heaven,
When the last snow had ceased
upon the hills,
And amorous airs renew’d
the sweet spring time,
And on the upland flourish’d
herbs and boughs.
Ne’er did the world
behold such graceful boughs,
Nor ever wind rustled so verdant
leaves,
As were by me beheld in that
young time:
So that, though fearful of
the ardent light,
I sought not refuge from the
shadowing hills,
But of the plant accepted
most in heaven.
A laurel then protected from
that heaven:
Whence, oft enamour’d
with its lovely boughs,
A roamer I have been through
woods, o’er hills,
But never found I other trunk,
nor leaves
Like these, so honour’d
with supernal light,
Which changed not qualities
with changing time.
Wherefore each hour more firm,
from time to time
Following where I heard my
call from heaven,
And guided ever by a soft
clear light,
I turn’d, devoted still,
to those first boughs,
Or when on earth are scatter’d
the sere leaves,
Or when the sun restored makes
green the hills.
The woods, the rocks, the
fields, the floods, and hills,
All that is made, are conquer’d,
changed by time:
And therefore ask I pardon
of those leaves,
If after many years, revolving
heaven
Sway’d me to flee from
those entangling boughs,
When I begun to see its better
light.
So dear to me at first was
the sweet light,
That willingly I pass’d
o’er difficult hills,
But to be nearer those beloved
boughs;
Now shortening life, the apt
place and full time
Show me another path to mount
to heaven,
And to make fruit not merely
flowers and leaves.
Other love, other leaves,
and other light,
Other ascent to heaven by
other hills
I seek—in sooth
’tis time—and other boughs.
MACGREGOR.
Quand’ io v’ odo parlar si dolcemente.
TO ONE WHO SPOKE TO HIM OF LAURA.
Whene’er
you speak of her in that soft tone
Which Love himself his votaries
surely taught,
My ardent passion to such
fire is wrought,
That e’en the dead reviving
warmth might own:
Where’er to me she,
dear or kind, was known
There the bright lady is to
mind now brought,
In the same bearing which,
to waken thought,
Needed no sound but of my
sighs alone.
Half-turn’d I see her
looking, on the breeze
Her light hair flung; so true
her memories roll
On my fond heart of which
she keeps the keys;
But the surpassing bliss which
floods my soul
So checks my tongue, to tell
how, queen-like, there,
She sits as on her throne,
I never dare.
MACGREGOR.
Ne cosi bello il sol giammai levarsi.
THE CHARMS OF LAURA WHEN SHE FIRST MET HIS SIGHT.
Ne’er can
the sun such radiance soft display,
Piercing some cloud that would
its light impair;
Ne’er tinged some showery
arch the humid air,
With variegated lustre half
so gay,
As when, sweet-smiling my
fond heart away,
All-beauteous shone my captivating
fair;
For charms what mortal can
ANON. 1777.
Sun never rose
so beautiful and bright
When skies above most clear
and cloudless show’d,
Nor, after rain, the bow of
heaven e’er glow’d
With tints so varied, delicate,
and light,
As in rare beauty flash’d
upon my sight,
The day I first took up this
am’rous load,
That face whose fellow ne’er
on earth abode—
Even my praise to paint it
seems a slight!
Then saw I Love, who did her
fine eyes bend
So sweetly, every other face
obscure
Has from that hour till now
appear’d to me.
The boy-god and his bow, I
saw them, friend,
From whom life since has never
been secure,
Whom still I madly yearn again
to see.
MACGREGOR.
Pommi ove ‘l sol occide i fiori e l’ erba.
HIS INVINCIBLE CONSTANCY.
Place me where
herb and flower the sun has dried,
Or where numb winter’s
grasp holds sterner sway:
Place me where Phoebus sheds
a temperate ray,
Where first he glows, where
rests at eventide.
Place me in lowly state, in
power and pride,
Where lour the skies, or where
bland zephyrs play
Place me where blind night
rules, or lengthened day,
In age mature, or in youth’s
boiling tide:
Place me in heaven, or in
the abyss profound,
On lofty height, or in low
vale obscure,
A spirit freed, or to the
body bound;
Bank’d with the great,
or all unknown to fame,
I still the same will be!
the same endure!
And my trilustral sighs still
breathe the same!
DACRE.
Place me where
Phoebus burns each herb, each flower;
Or where cold snows, and frost
o’ercome his rays:
Place me where rolls his car
with temp’rate blaze;
In climes that feel not, or
that feel his power.
Place me where fortune may
look bright, or lour;
Mid murky airs, or where soft
zephyr plays:
Place me in night, in long
or short-lived days,
Where age makes sad, or youth
gilds ev’ry hour:
Place me on mountains high,
in vallies drear,
In heaven, on earth, in depths
unknown to-day;
Whether life fosters still,
or flies this clay:
Place me where fame is distant,
where she’s near:
Still will I love; nor shall
those sighs yet cease,
Which thrice five years have
robb’d this breast of peace.
ANON. 1777.
Place me where
angry Titan burns the Moor,
And thirsty Afric fiery monsters
brings,
Or where the new-born phoenix
spreads her wings,
And troops of wond’ring
birds her flight adore:
Place me by Gange, or Ind’s
empamper’d shore,
Where smiling heavens on earth
cause double springs:
Place me where Neptune’s
quire of Syrens sings,
Or where, made hoarse through
cold, he leaves to roar:
Me place where Fortune doth
her darlings crown,
A wonder or a spark in Envy’s
eye,
Or late outrageous fates upon
me frown,
And pity wailing, see disaster’d
me.
Affection’s print my
mind so deep doth prove,
I may forget myself, but not
my love.
DRUMMOND.
O d’ ardente virtute ornata e calda.
HE CELEBRATES LAURA’S BEAUTY AND VIRTUE.
O mind, by ardent
virtue graced and warm’d.
To whom my pen so oft pours
forth my heart;
Mansion of noble probity,
who art
A tower of strength ’gainst
all assault full arm’d.
O rose effulgent, in whose
foldings, charm’d,
We view with fresh carnation
snow take part!
O pleasure whence my wing’d
ideas start
To that bless’d vision
which no eye, unharm’d,
Created, may approach—thy
name, if rhyme
Could bear to Bactra and to
Thule’s coast,
Nile, Tanais, and Calpe should
resound,
And dread Olympus.—But
a narrower bound
Confines my flight: and
thee, our native clime
Between the Alps and Apennine
must boast.
CAPEL LOFFT.
With glowing virtue
graced, of warm heart known,
Sweet Spirit! for whom so
many a page I trace,
Tower in high worth which
foundest well thy base!
Centre of honour, perfect,
and alone!
O blushes! on fresh snow like
roses thrown,
Wherein I read myself and
mend apace;
O pleasures! lifting me to
that fair face
Brightest of all on which
the sun e’er shone.
Oh! if so far its sound may
reach, your name
On my fond verse shall travel
West and East,
From southern Nile to Thule’s
utmost bound.
But such full audience since
I may not claim,
It shall be heard in that
fair land at least
Which Apennine divides, which
Alps and seas surround.
MACGREGOR.
Quando ’l voler, che con duo sproni ardenti.
HER LOOKS BOTH COMFORT AND CHECK HIM.
When, with two
ardent spurs and a hard rein,
Passion, my daily life who
rules and leads,
From time to time the usual
law exceeds
That calm, at least in part,
my spirits may gain,
It findeth her who, on my
forehead plain,
The dread and daring of my
deep heart reads,
MACGREGOR.
Non Tesin, Po, Varo, Arno, Adige e Tebro.
HE EXTOLS THE LAUREL AND ITS FAVOURITE STREAM.
Not all the streams
that water the bright earth,
Not all the trees to which
its breast gives birth,
Can cooling drop or healing
balm impart
To slack the fire which scorches
my sad heart,
As one fair brook which ever
weeps with me,
Or, which I praise and sing,
as one dear tree.
This only help I find amid
Love’s strife;
Wherefore it me behoves to
live my life
In arms, which else from me
too rapid goes.
Thus on fresh shore the lovely
laurel grows;
Who planted it, his high and
graceful thought
’Neath its sweet shade,
to Sorga’s murmurs, wrote.
MACGREGOR.
[IMITATION.]
Nor Arne, nor
Mincius, nor stately Tiber,
Sebethus, nor the flood into
whose streams
He fell who burnt the world
with borrow’d beams;
Gold-rolling Tagus, Munda,
famous Iber,
Sorgue, Rhone, Loire, Garron,
nor proud-bank’d Seine,
Peneus, Phasis, Xanthus, humble
Ladon,
Nor she whose nymphs excel
her who loved Adon,
Fair Tamesis, nor Ister large,
nor Rhine,
Euphrates, Tigris, Indus,
Hermus, Gange,
Pearly Hydaspes, serpent-like
Meander,—
The gulf bereft sweet Hero
her Leander—
Nile, that far, far his hidden
head doth range,
Have ever had so rare a cause
of praise
As Ora, where this northern
Phoenix stays.
DRUMMOND.
Di tempo in tempo mi si fa men dura.
THOUGH SHE BE LESS SEVERE, HE IS STILL NOT CONTENTED AND TRANQUIL AT HEART.
From time to time
more clemency for me
In that sweet smile and angel
form I trace;
Seem too her lovely face
And lustrous eyes at length
more kind to be.
Yet, if thus honour’d,
wherefore do my sighs
In doubt and sorrow flow,
Signs that too truly show
My anguish’d desperate
life to common eyes?
Haply if, where she is, my
glance I bend,
This harass’d heart
to cheer,
Methinks that Love I hear
Pleading my cause, and see
him succour lend.
Not therefore at an end the
strife I deem,
Nor in sure rest my heart
at last esteem;
For Love most burns within
When Hope most pricks us on
the way to win.
MACGREGOR.
From time to time
less cruelty I trace
In her sweet smile and form
divinely fair;
Less clouded doth appear
The heaven of her fine eyes
and lovely face.
What then at last avail to
me those sighs,
Which from my sorrows flow,
And in my semblance show
The life of anguish and despair
I lead?
If towards her perchance I
bend mine eyes,
Some solace to bestow
Upon my bosom’s woe,
Methinks Love takes my part,
and lends me aid:
Yet still I cannot find the
conflict stay’d,
Nor tranquil is my heart in
every state:
For, ah! my passion’s
heat
More strongly glows within
as my fond hopes increase.
NOTT.
Che fai, alma? che pensi? avrem mai pace?
DIALOGUE OF THE POET WITH HIS HEART.
P. What actions fire thee,
and what musings fill?
Soul! is it peace, or truce, or war eterne?
H. Our lot I know not, but, as I discern,
Her bright eyes favour not our cherish’d
ill.
P. What profit, with those eyes if she
at will
Makes us in summer freeze, in winter burn?
H. From him, not her those orbs their movement
learn.
P. What’s he to us, she sees it and
is still.
H. Sometimes, though mute the tongue, the
heart laments
Fondly, and, though the face be calm and
bright,
Bleeds inly, where no eye beholds its grief.
P. Nathless the mind not thus itself contents,
Breaking the stagnant woes which there unite,
For misery in fine hopes finds no relief.
MACGREGOR.
P. What act, what dream,
absorbs thee, O my soul?
Say, must we peace, a truce, or warfare hail?
H. Our fate I know not; but her eyes unveil
The grief our woe doth in her heart enrol.
P. But that is vain, since by her eyes’
control
With nature I no sympathy inhale.
H. Yet guiltless she, for Love doth there
prevail.
P. No balm to me, since she will not condole.
H. When man is mute, how oft the spirit
grieves,
In clamorous woe! how oft the sparkling eye
Belies the inward tear, where none can gaze!
P. Yet restless still, the grief the mind
conceives
Is not dispell’d, but stagnant seems
to lie.
The wretched hope not, though hope aid might
raise.
WOLLASTON.
Nom d’ atra e tempestosa onda marina.
HE IS LED BY LOVE TO REASON.
No wearied mariner
to port e’er fled
From the dark billow, when
some tempest’s nigh,
As from tumultuous gloomy
thoughts I fly—
Thoughts by the force of goading
passion bred:
Nor wrathful glance of heaven
so surely sped
Destruction to man’s
NOTT.
Ne’er from
the black and tempest-troubled brine
The weary mariner fair haven
sought,
As shelter I from the dark
restless thought
Whereto hot wishes spur me
and incline:
Nor mortal vision ever light
divine
Dazzled, as mine, in their
rare splendour caught
Those matchless orbs, with
pride and passion fraught,
Where Love aye haunts his
darts to gild and fine.
Him, blind no more, but quiver’d,
there I view,
Naked, except so far as shame
conceals,
A winged boy—no
fable—quick and true.
What few perceive he thence
to me reveals;
So read I clearly in her eyes’
dear light
Whate’er of love I speak,
whate’er I write.
MACGREGOR.
Questa umil fera, un cor di tigre o d’ orsa.
HE PRAYS HER EITHER TO WELCOME OR DISMISS HIM AT ONCE.
Fiercer than tiger,
savager than bear,
In human guise an angel form
appears,
Who between fear and hope,
from smiles to tears
So tortures me that doubt
becomes despair.
Ere long if she nor welcomes
me, nor frees,
But, as her wont, between
the two retains,
By the sweet poison circling
through my veins,
My life, O Love! will soon
be on its lees.
No longer can my virtue, worn
and frail
With such severe vicissitudes,
contend,
At once which burn and freeze,
make red and pale:
By flight it hopes at length
its grief to end,
As one who, hourly failing,
feels death nigh:
Powerless he is indeed who
cannot even die!
MACGREGOR.
Ite, caldi sospiri, al freddo core.
HE IMPLORES MERCY OR DEATH.
Go, my warm sighs,
go to that frozen breast,
Burst the firm ice, that charity
denies;
And, if a mortal prayer can
reach the skies,
Let death or pity give my
sorrows rest!
Go, softest thoughts!
Be all you know express’d
Of that unnoticed by her lovely
eyes,
Though fate and cruelty against
me rise,
Error at least and hope shall
be repress’d.
Tell her, though fully you
can never tell,
That, while her days calm
and serenely flow,
In darkness and anxiety I
dwell;
Love guides your flight, my
thoughts securely go,
Fortune may change, and all
may yet be well;
If my sun’s aspect not
deceives my woe.
CHARLEMONT.
Go, burning sighs,
to her cold bosom go,
Its circling ice which hinders
pity rend,
And if to mortal prayer Heaven
e’er attend,
Let death or mercy finish
soon my woe.
Go forth, fond thoughts, and
to our lady show
The love to which her bright
looks never bend,
If still her harshness, or
my star offend,
We shall at least our hopeless
error know.
Go, in some chosen moment,
gently say,
Our state disquieted and dark
has been,
Even as hers pacific and serene.
Go, safe at last, for Love
escorts your way:
From my sun’s face if
right the skies I guess
Well may my cruel fortune
now be less.
MACGREGOR.
Le stelle e ’l cielo e gli elementi a prova.
LAURA’S UNPARALLELED BEAUTY AND VIRTUE.
The stars, the
elements, and Heaven have made
With blended powers a work
beyond compare;
All their consenting influence,
all their care,
To frame one perfect creature
lent their aid.
Whence Nature views her loveliness
display’d
With sun-like radiance sublimely
fair:
Nor mortal eye can the pure
splendour bear:
Love, sweetness, in unmeasured
grace array’d.
The very air illumed by her
sweet beams
Breathes purest excellence;
and such delight
That all expression far beneath
it gleams.
No base desire lives in that
heavenly light,
Honour alone and virtue!—fancy’s
dreams
Never saw passion rise refined
by rays so bright.
CAPEL LOFFT.
The stars, the
heaven, the elements, I ween,
Put forth their every art
and utmost care
In that bright light, as fairest
Nature fair,
Whose like on earth the sun
has nowhere seen;
So noble, elegant, unique
her mien,
Scarce mortal glance to rest
on it may dare,
Love so much softness and
such graces rare
Showers from those dazzling
and resistless een.
The atmosphere, pervaded and
made pure
By their sweet rays, kindles
with goodness so,
Thought cannot equal it nor
language show.
Here no ill wish, no base
desires endure,
But honour, virtue. Here,
if ever yet,
Has lust his death from supreme
beauty met.
MACGREGOR.
Non fur mai Giove e Cesare si mossi.
LAURA IN TEARS.
High Jove to thunder
ne’er was so intent,
So resolute great Caesar ne’er
to strike,
That pity had not quench’d
the ire of both,
And from their hands the accustom’d
weapons shook.
Madonna wept: my Lord
decreed that I
Should see her then, and there
her sorrows hear;
So joy, desire should fill
MACGREGOR.
I’ vidi in terra angelici costumi.
THE EFFECTS OF HER GRIEF.
On earth reveal’d
the beauties of the skies,
Angelic features, it was mine
to hail;
Features, which wake my mingled
joy and wail,
While all besides like dreams
or shadows flies.
And fill’d with tears
I saw those two bright eyes,
Which oft have turn’d
the sun with envy pale;
And from those lips I heard—oh!
such a tale,
As might awake brute Nature’s
sympathies!
Wit, pity, excellence, and
grief, and love
With blended plaint so sweet
a concert made,
As ne’er was given to
mortal ear to prove:
And heaven itself such mute
attention paid,
That not a breath disturb’d
the listening grove—
Even aether’s wildest
gales the tuneful charm obey’d.
WRANGHAM.
Yes, I beheld
on earth angelic grace,
And charms divine which mortals
rarely see,
Such as both glad and pain
the memory;
Vain, light, unreal is all
else I trace:
Tears I saw shower’d
from those fine eyes apace,
Of which the sun ofttimes
might envious be;
Accents I heard sigh’d
forth so movingly,
As to stay floods, or mountains
to displace.
Love and good sense, firmness,
with pity join’d
And wailful grief, a sweeter
concert made
Than ever yet was pour’d
on human ear:
And heaven unto the music
so inclined,
That not a leaf was seen to
stir the shade;
Such melody had fraught the
winds, the atmosphere.
NOTT.
Quel sempre acerbo ed onorato giorno.
HE RECALLS HER AS HE SAW HER WHEN IN TEARS.
That ever-painful,
ever-honour’d day
So left her living image on
my heart
Beyond or lover’s wit
or poet’s art,
That oft to it will doting
memory stray.
A gentle pity softening her
bright mien,
Her sorrow there so sweet
and sad was heard,
Doubt in the gazer’s
bosom almost stirr’d
Goddess or mortal, which made
heaven serene.
Fine gold her hair, her face
as sunlit snow,
Her brows and lashes jet,
twin stars her eyne,
Whence the young archer oft
took fatal aim;
Each loving lip—whence,
utterance sweet and low
Her pent grief found—a
rose which rare pearls line,
Her tears of crystal and her
sighs of flame.
MACGREGOR.
That ever-honour’d,
yet too bitter day,
Her image hath so graven in
my breast,
That only memory can return
it dress’d
In living charms, no genius
could portray:
Her air such graceful sadness
did display,
Her plaintive, soft laments
my ear so bless’d,
I ask’d if mortal, or
a heavenly guest,
Did thus the threatening clouds
in smiles array.
Her locks were gold, her cheeks
were breathing snow,
Her brows with ebon arch’d—bright
stars her eyes,
Wherein Love nestled, thence
his dart to aim:
Her teeth were pearls—the
rose’s softest glow
Dwelt on that mouth, whence
woke to speech grief’s sighs
Her tears were crystal—and
her breath was flame.
WOLLASTON.
Ove ch’ i’ posi gli occhi lassi o giri.
HER IMAGE IS EVER IN HIS HEART.
Where’er
I rest or turn my weary eyes,
To ease the longings which
allure them still,
Love pictures my bright lady
at his will,
That ever my desire may verdant
rise.
Deep pity she with graceful
grief applies—
Warm feelings ever gentle
bosoms fill—
While captived equally my
fond ears thrill
With her sweet accents and
seraphic sighs.
Love and fair Truth were both
allied to tell
The charms I saw were in the
world alone,
That ’neath the stars
their like was never known.
Nor ever words so dear and
tender fell
On listening ear: nor
tears so pure and bright
From such fine eyes e’er
sparkled in the light.
MACGREGOR.
In qual parte del cielo, in quale idea.
HE EXTOLS THE BEAUTY AND VIRTUE OF LAURA.
Say from what
part of heaven ’twas Nature drew,
From what idea, that so perfect
mould
To form such features, bidding
us behold,
In charms below, what she
above could do?
What fountain-nymph, what
dryad-maid e’er threw
Upon the wind such tresses
of pure gold?
What heart such numerous virtues
can unfold?
Although the chiefest all
my fond hopes slew.
He for celestial charms may
look in vain,
Who has not seen my fair one’s
radiant eyes,
And felt their glances pleasingly
beguile.
How Love can heal his wounds,
then wound again,
He only knows, who knows how
sweet her sighs,
How sweet her converse, and
how sweet her smile.
NOTT.
In what celestial
sphere—what realm of thought,
Dwelt the bright model from
which Nature drew
That fair and beauteous face,
in which we view
Her utmost power, on earth,
divinely wrought?
What sylvan queen—what
nymph by fountain sought,
ANON.
Amor ed io si pien di maraviglia.
HER EVERY ACTION IS DIVINE.
As one who sees
a thing incredible,
In mutual marvel Love and
I combine,
Confessing, when she speaks
or smiles divine,
None but herself can be her
parallel.
Where the fine arches of that
fair brow swell
So sparkle forth those twin
true stars of mine,
Than whom no safer brighter
beacons shine
His course to guide who’d
wisely love and well.
What miracle is this, when,
as a flower,
She sits on the rich grass,
or to her breast,
Snow-white and soft, some
fresh green shrub is press’d
And oh! how sweet, in some
fair April hour,
To see her pass, alone, in
pure thought there,
Weaving fresh garlands in
her own bright hair.
MACGREGOR.
O passi sparsi, o pensier vaghi e pronti.
EVERY CIRCUMSTANCE OF HIS PASSION IS A TORMENT TO HIM.
O scatter’d
steps! O vague and busy thoughts!
O firm-set memory! O
fierce desire!
O passion powerful! O
failing heart!
O eyes of mine, not eyes,
but fountains now!
O leaf, which honourest illustrious
brows,
Sole sign of double valour,
and best crown!
O painful life, O error oft
and sweet!
That make me search the lone
plains and hard hills.
O beauteous face! where Love
together placed
The spurs and curb, to strive
with which is vain,
They prick and turn me so
at his sole will.
O gentle amorous souls, if
such there be!
And you, O naked spirits of
mere dust,
Tarry and see how great my
suffering is!
MACGREGOR.
Lieti flori e felici, e ben nate erbe.
HE ENVIES EVERY SPOT THAT SHE FREQUENTS.
Gay, joyous blooms,
and herbage glad with showers,
O’er which my pensive
fair is wont to stray!
Thou plain, that listest her
melodious lay,
As her fair feet imprint thy
waste of flowers!
Ye shrubs so trim; ye green,
unfolding bowers;
Ye violets clad in amorous,
pale array;
Thou shadowy grove, gilded
by beauty’s ray,
Whose top made proud majestically
NOTT.
O bright and happy
flowers and herbage blest,
On which my lady treads!—O
favour’d plain,
That hears her accents sweet,
and can retain
The traces by her fairy steps
impress’d!—
Pure shrubs, with tender verdure
newly dress’d,—
Pale amorous violets,—leafy
woods, whose reign
Thy sun’s bright rays
transpierce, and thus sustain
Your lofty stature, and umbrageous
crest;—
O thou, fair country, and
thou, crystal stream,
Which bathes her countenance
and sparkling eyes,
Stealing fresh lustre from
their living beam;
How do I envy thee these precious
ties!
Thy rocky shores will soon
be taught to gleam
With the same flame that burns
in all my sighs.
WROTTESLEY.
Amor, che vedi ogni pensiero aperto.
HE CARES NOT FOR SUFFERINGS, SO THAT HE DISPLEASE NOT LAURA.
Love, thou who
seest each secret thought display’d,
And the sad steps I take,
with thee sole guide;
This throbbing breast, to
thee thrown open wide,
To others’ prying barr’d,
thine eyes pervade.
Thou know’st what efforts,
following thee, I made,
While still from height to
height thy pinions glide;
Nor deign’st one pitying
look to turn aside
On him who, fainting, treads
a trackless glade.
I mark from far the mildly-beaming
ray
To which thou goad’st
me through the devious maze;
Alas! I want thy wings,
to speed my way—
Henceforth, a distant homager,
I’ll gaze,
Content by silent longings
to decay,
So that my sighs for her in
her no anger raise.
WRANGHAM.
O Love, that seest
my heart without disguise,
And those hard toils from
thee which I sustain,
Look to my inmost thought;
behold the pain
To thee unveil’d, hid
from all other eyes.
Thou know’st for thee
this breast what suffering tries;
Me still from day to day o’er
hill and plain
Thou chasest; heedless still,
while I complain
As to my wearied steps new
thorns arise.
True, I discern far off the
cheering light
To which, through trackless
wilds, thou urgest me:
But wings like thine to bear
me to delight
I want:—Yet from
these pangs I would not flee,
Finding this only favour in
her sight,
That not displeased my love
and death she see.
CAPEL LOFFT.
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.
Come ‘l candido pie 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.
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.
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.
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
MACGREGOR.
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-assured
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 armed 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 armed 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.
Piu volte gia 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
MACGREGOR.
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 armed 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.
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
beloved stream
With smiling welcome reassures
my heart,
Where dwells its sole light
ready to depart.
MACGREGOR.
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.
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.
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 curved 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 concealed
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 horned flood these passive
limbs obey—
But, uncontrolled, to its
sweet sojourn
On Love’s untiring plumes
my spirit speeds its way.
WRANGHAM.
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.
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;
MACGREGOR.
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.
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.
Questa Fenice dell’ aurata piuma.
HE COMPARES HER TO THE PHOENIX.
This wondrous
Phoenix with the golden plumes
Forms without art so rare
a ring to deck
That beautiful and soft and
snowy neck,
That every heart it melts,
and mine consumes:
Forms, too, a natural diadem
which lights
The air around, whence Love
with silent steel
Draws liquid subtle fire,
which still I feel
Fierce burning me though sharpest
winter bites;
Border’d with azure,
a rich purple vest,
Sprinkled with roses, veils
her shoulders fair:
Rare garment hers, as grace
unique, alone!
Fame, in the opulent and odorous
breast
Of Arab mountains, buries
her sole lair,
Who in our heaven so high
a pitch has flown.
MACGREGOR.
Se Virgilio ed Omero avessin visto.
THE MOST FAMOUS POETS OF ANTIQUITY WOULD HAVE SUNG HER ONLY, HAD THEY SEEN HER.
Had tuneful Maro
seen, and Homer old,
The living sun which here
mine eyes behold,
The best powers they had join’d
of either lyre,
Sweetness and strength, that
fame she might acquire;
Unsung had been, with vex’d
AEneas, then
Achilles and Ulysses, godlike
men,
And for nigh sixty years who
ruled so well
The world; and who before
AEgysthus fell;
Nay, that old flower of virtues
and of arms,
As this new flower of chastity
and charms,
A rival star, had scarce such
radiance flung.
In rugged verse him honour’d
Ennius sung,
I her in mine. Grant,
Heaven! on my poor lays
She frown not, nor disdain
my humble praise.
ANON.
Giunto Alessandro alla famosa tomba.
HE FEARS THAT HE IS INCAPABLE OF WORTHILY CELEBRATING HER.
The son of Philip,
when he saw the tomb
Of fierce Achilles, with a
sigh, thus said:
“O happy, whose achievements
erst found room
From that illustrious trumpet
to be spread
O’er earth for ever!”—But,
beyond the gloom
Of deep Oblivion shall that
loveliest maid,
Whose like to view seems not
of earthly doom,
By my imperfect accents be
convey’d?
Her of the Homeric, the Orphean
Lyre,
Most worthy, or that shepherd,
Mantua’s pride,
To be the theme of their immortal
lays;
Her stars and unpropitious
fate denied
This palm:—and
me bade to such height aspire,
Who, haply, dim her glories
by my praise.
CAPEL LOFFT.
When Alexander
at the famous tomb
Of fierce Achilles stood,
the ambitious sigh
Burst from his bosom—“Fortunate!
on whom
Th’ eternal bard shower’d
honours bright and high.”
But, ah! for so to each is
fix’d his doom,
This pure fair dove, whose
like by mortal eye
Was never seen, what poor
and scanty room
For her great praise can my
weak verse supply?
Whom, worthiest Homer’s
line and Orpheus’ song,
Or his whom reverent Mantua
still admires—
Sole and sufficient she to
wake such lyres!
An adverse star, a fate here
only wrong,
Entrusts to one who worships
her dear name,
Yet haply injures by his praise
her fame.
MACGREGOR.
Almo Sol, quella fronde ch’ io sola amo.
TO THE SUN, WHOSE SETTING HID LAURA’S DWELLING FROM HIS VIEW.
O blessed Sun!
that sole sweet leaf I love,
First loved by thee, in its
fair seat, alone,
Bloometh without a peer, since
from above
To Adam first our shining
ill was shown.
Pause we to look on her!
Although to stay
Thy course I pray thee, yet
thy beams retire;
Their shades the mountains
fling, and parting day
Parts me from all I most on
earth desire.
The shadows from yon gentle
heights that fall,
Where sparkles my sweet fire,
where brightly grew
That stately laurel from a
sucker small,
Increasing, as I speak, hide
from my view
The beauteous landscape and
the blessed scene,
Where dwells my true heart
with its only queen.
MACGREGOR.
Passa la nave mia colma d’ oblio.
UNDER THE FIGURE OF A TEMPEST-TOSSED VESSEL, HE DESCRIBES HIS OWN SAD STATE.
My bark, deep
laden with oblivion, rides
O’er boisterous waves,
through winter’s midnight gloom,
’Twixt Scylla and Charybdis,
while, in room
Of pilot, Love, mine enemy,
presides;
At every oar a guilty fancy
bides,
Holding at nought the tempest
CHARLEMONT.
My lethe-freighted
bark with reckless prore
Cleaves the rough sea ’neath
wintry midnight skies,
My old foe at the helm our
compass eyes,
With Scylla and Charybdis
on each shore,
A prompt and daring thought
at every oar,
Which equally the storm and
death defies,
While a perpetual humid wind
of sighs,
Of hopes, and of desires,
its light sail tore.
Bathe and relax its worn and
weary shrouds
(Which ignorance with error
intertwines),
Torrents of tears, of scorn
and anger clouds;
Hidden the twin dear lights
which were my signs;
Reason and Art amid the waves
lie dead,
And hope of gaining port is
almost fled.
MACGREGOR.
Una candida cerva sopra l’ erba.
THE VISION OF THE FAWN.
Beneath a laurel,
two fair streams between,
At early sunrise of the opening
year,
A milk-white fawn upon the
meadow green,
Of gold its either horn, I
saw appear;
So mild, yet so majestic,
was its mien,
I left, to follow, all my
labours here,
As miners after treasure,
in the keen
Desire of new, forget the
old to fear.
“Let none impede”—so,
round its fair neck, run
The words in diamond and topaz
writ—
“My lord to give me
liberty sees fit.”
And now the sun his noontide
height had won
When I, with weary though
unsated view,
Fell in the stream—and
so my vision flew.
MACGREGOR.
A form I saw with
secret awe, nor ken I what it warns;
Pure as the snow, a gentle
doe it seem’d, with silver horns:
Erect she stood, close by
a wood, between two running streams;
And brightly shone the morning
sun upon that land of dreams!
The pictured hind fancy design’d
glowing with love and hope;
Graceful she stepp’d,
but distant kept, like the timid antelope;
Playful, yet coy, with secret
joy her image fill’d my soul;
And o’er the sense soft
influence of sweet oblivion stole.
Gold I beheld and emerald
on the collar that she wore;
Words, too—but
theirs were characters of legendary lore.
“Caesar’s decree
hath made me free; and through his solemn charge,
Untouch’d by men o’er
hill and glen I wander here at large.”
The sun had now, with radiant
brow, climb’d his meridian throne,
Yet still mine eye untiringly
gazed on that lovely one.
A voice was heard—quick
disappear’d my dream—the spell was
broken.
Then came distress: to
the consciousness of life I had awoken.
FATHER PROUT.
Siccome eterna vita e veder Dio.
ALL HIS HAPPINESS IS IN GAZING UPON HER.
As life eternal
is with God to be,
No void left craving, there
of all possess’d,
So, lady mine, to be with
you makes blest,
This brief frail span of mortal
life to me.
So fair as now ne’er
yet was mine to see—
If truth from eyes to heart
be well express’d—
Lovely and blessed spirit
of my breast,
Which levels all high hopes
and wishes free.
Nor would I more demand if
less of haste
She show’d to part;
for if, as legends tell
And credence find, are some
who live by smell,
On water some, or fire who
touch and taste,
All, things which neither
strength nor sweetness give,
Why should not I upon your
dear sight live?
MACGREGOR.
Stiamo, Amor, a veder la gloria nostra.
TO LOVE, ON LAURA WALKING ABROAD.
Here stand we,
Love, our glory to behold—
How, passing Nature, lovely,
high, and rare!
Behold! what showers of sweetness
falling there!
What floods of light by heaven
to earth unroll’d!
How shine her robes, in purple,
pearls, and gold,
So richly wrought, with skill
beyond compare!
How glance her feet!—her
beaming eyes how fair
Through the dark cloister
which these hills enfold!
The verdant turf, and flowers
of thousand hues
Beneath yon oak’s old
canopy of state,
Spring round her feet to pay
their amorous duty.
The heavens, in joyful reverence,
cannot choose
But light up all their fires,
to celebrate
Her praise, whose presence
charms their awful beauty.
MERIVALE.
Here tarry, Love,
our glory to behold;
Nought in creation so sublime
we trace;
Ah! see what sweetness showers
upon that face,
Heaven’s brightness
to this earth those eyes unfold!
See, with what magic art,
pearls, purple, gold,
That form transcendant, unexampled,
grace:
Beneath the shadowing hills
observe her pace,
Her glance replete with elegance
untold!
The verdant turf, and flowers
of every hue,
Clustering beneath yon aged
holm-oak’s gloom,
For the sweet pressure of
her fair feet sue;
The orbs of fire that stud
yon beauteous sky,
Cheer’d by her presence
and her smiles, assume
Superior lustre and serenity.
NOTT.
Pasco la mente d’ un si nobil cibo.
TO SEE AND HEAR HER IS HIS GREATEST BLISS.
I feed my fancy
on such noble food,
That Jove I envy not his godlike
meal;
I see her—joy invades
me like a flood,
And lethe of all other bliss
I feel;
I hear her—instantly
that music rare
Bids from my captive heart
the fond sigh flow;
Borne by the hand of Love
I know not where,
A double pleasure in one draught
I know.
Even in heaven that dear voice
pleaseth well,
So winning are its words,
its sound so sweet,
None can conceive, save who
had heard, their spell;
Thus, in the same small space,
visibly, meet
All charms of eye and ear
wherewith our race
Art, Genius, Nature, Heaven
have join’d to grace.
MACGREGOR.
Such noble aliment
sustains my soul,
That Jove I envy not his godlike
food;
I gaze on her—and
feel each other good
Engulph’d in that blest
draught at Lethe’s bowl:
Her every word I in my heart
enrol,
That on its grief it still
may constant brood;
Prostrate by Love—my
doom not understood
From that one form, I feel
a twin control.
My spirit drinks the music
of her voice,
Whose speaking harmony (to
heaven so dear)
They only feel who in its
tone partake:
Again within her face my eyes
rejoice,
For in its gentle lineaments
appear
What Genius, Nature, Art,
and Heaven can wake.
WOLLASTON.
L’ aura gentil che rasserena i poggi.
JOURNEYING TO VISIT LAURA, HE FEELS RENEWED ARDOUR AS HE APPROACHES.
The gale, that
o’er yon hills flings softer blue,
And wakes to life each bud
that gems the glade,
I know; its breathings such
impression made,
Wafting me fame, but wafting
sorrow too:
My wearied soul to soothe,
I bid adieu
To those dear Tuscan haunts
I first survey’d;
And, to dispel the gloom around
me spread,
I seek this day my cheering
sun to view,
Whose sweet attraction is
so strong, so great,
That Love again compels me
to its light;
Then he so dazzles me, that
vain were flight.
Not arms to brave, ’tis
wings to ’scape, my fate
I ask; but by those beams
I’m doom’d to die,
When distant which consume,
and which enflame when nigh.
NOTT.
The gentle air,
which brightens each green hill,
Wakening the flowers that
paint this bowery glade,
I recognise it by its soft
breath still,
My sorrow and renown which
long has made:
Again where erst my sick heart
shelter sought,
From my dear native Tuscan
air I flee:
That light may cheer my dark
and troubled thought,
I seek my sun, and hope to-day
to see.
That sun so great and genial
sweetness brings,
That Love compels me to his
MACGREGOR.
Di di in di vo cangiando il viso e ’l pelo.
HIS WOUNDS CAN BE HEALED ONLY BY PITY OR DEATH.
I alter day by
day in hair and mien,
Yet shun not the old dangerous
baits and dear,
Nor sever from the laurel,
limed and green,
Which nor the scorching sun,
nor fierce cold sear.
Dry shall the sea, the sky
be starless seen,
Ere I shall cease to covet
and to fear
Her lovely shadow, and—which
ill I screen—
To like, yet loathe, the deep
wound cherish’d here:
For never hope I respite from
my pain,
From bones and nerves and
flesh till I am free,
Unless mine enemy some pity
deign,
Till things impossible accomplish’d
be,
None but herself or death
the blow can heal
Which Love from her bright
eyes has left my heart to feel.
MACGREGOR.
L’ aura serena che fra verdi fronde.
THE GENTLE BREEZE (L’ AURA) RECALLS TO HIM THE TIME WHEN HE FIRST SAW HER.
The gentle gale,
that plays my face around,
Murmuring sweet mischief through
the verdant grove,
To fond remembrance brings
the time, when Love
First gave his deep, although
delightful wound;
Gave me to view that beauteous
face, ne’er found
Veil’d, as disdain or
jealousy might move;
To view her locks that shone
bright gold above,
Then loose, but now with pearls
and jewels bound:
Those locks she sweetly scatter’d
to the wind,
And then coil’d up again
so gracefully,
That but to think on it still
thrills the sense.
These Time has in more sober
braids confined;
And bound my heart with such
a powerful tie,
That death alone can disengage
it thence.
NOTT.
The balmy airs
that from yon leafy spray
My fever’d brow with
playful murmurs greet,
Recall to my fond heart the
fatal day
When Love his first wound
dealt, so deep yet sweet,
And gave me the fair face—in
scorn away
Since turn’d, or hid
by jealousy—to meet;
The locks, which pearls and
gems now oft array,
Whose shining tints with finest
gold compete,
So sweetly on the wind were
then display’d,
Or gather’d in with
such a graceful art,
Their very thought with passion
thrills my mind.
Time since has twined them
in more sober braid,
And with a snare so powerful
bound my heart,
Death from its fetters only
can unbind.
MACGREGOR.
L’ aura celeste che ’n quel verde Lauro.
HER HAIR AND EYES.
The heavenly airs
from yon green laurel roll’d,
Where Love to Phoebus whilom
dealt his stroke,
Where on my neck was placed
so sweet a yoke,
That freedom thence I hope
not to behold,
O’er me prevail, as
o’er that Arab old
Medusa, when she changed him
to an oak;
Nor ever can the fairy knot
be broke
Whose light outshines the
sun, not merely gold;
I mean of those bright locks
the curled snare
Which folds and fastens with
so sweet a grace
My soul, whose humbleness
defends alone.
Her mere shade freezes with
a cold despair
My heart, and tinges with
pale fear my face;
And oh! her eyes have power
to make me stone.
MACGREGOR.
L’ aura soave ch’ al sol spiega e vibra.
HIS HEART LIES TANGLED IN HER HAIR.
The pleasant gale,
that to the sun unplaits
And spreads the gold Love’s
fingers weave, and braid
O’er her fine eyes,
and all around her head,
Fetters my heart, the wishful
sigh creates:
No nerve but thrills, no artery
but beats,
Approaching my fair arbiter
with dread,
Who in her doubtful scale
hath ofttimes weigh’d
Whether or death or life on
me awaits;
Beholding, too, those eyes
their fires display,
And on those shoulders shine
such wreaths of hair,
Whose witching tangles my
poor heart ensnare.
But how this magic’s
wrought I cannot say;
For twofold radiance doth
my reason blind,
And sweetness to excess palls
and o’erpowers my mind.
NOTT.
The soft gale
to the sun which shakes and spreads
The gold which Love’s
own hand has spun and wrought.
There, with her bright eyes
and those fairy threads,
Binds my poor heart and sifts
each idle thought.
My veins of blood, my bones
of marrow fail,
Thrills all my frame when
I, to hear or gaze,
Draw near to her, who oft,
in balance frail,
My life and death together
holds and weighs,
And see those love-fires shine
wherein I burn,
And, as its snow each sweetest
shoulder heaves,
Flash the fair tresses right
and left by turn;
Verse fails to paint what
fancy scarce conceives.
From two such lights is intellect
distress’d,
And by such sweetness weary
and oppress’d.
MACGREGOR.
O bella man, che mi distringi ’l core.
THE STOLEN GLOVE.
O beauteous hand!
that dost my heart subdue,
And in a little space my life
confine;
Hand where their skill and
utmost efforts join
Nature and Heaven, their plastic
powers to show!
Sweet fingers, seeming pearls
of orient hue,
To my wounds only cruel, fingers
fine!
Love, who towards me kindness
doth design,
For once permits ye naked
to our view.
Thou glove most dear, most
elegant and white,
Encasing ivory tinted with
the rose;
More precious covering ne’er
met mortal sight.
Would I such portion of thy
veil had gain’d!
O fleeting gifts which fortune’s
hand bestows!
’Tis justice to restore
what theft alone obtain’d.
NOTT.
O beauteous hand!
which robb’st me of my heart,
And holdest all my life in
little space;
Hand! which their utmost effort
and best art
Nature and Heaven alike have
join’d to grace;
O sister pearls of orient
hue, ye fine
And fairy fingers! to my wounds
alone
Cruel and cold, does Love
awhile incline
In my behalf, that naked ye
are shown?
O glove! most snowy, delicate,
and dear,
Which spotless ivory and fresh
roses set,
Where can on earth a sweeter
spoil be met,
Unless her fair veil thus
reward us here?
Inconstancy of human things!
the theft
Late won and dearly prized
too soon from me is reft!
MACGREGOR.
Non pur quell’ una bella ignuda mano.
HE RETURNS THE GLOVE, BEWAILING THE EFFECT OF HER BEAUTY.
Not of one dear
hand only I complain,
Which hides it, to my loss,
again from view,
But its fair fellow and her
soft arms too
Are prompt my meek and passive
heart to pain.
Love spreads a thousand toils,
nor one in vain,
Amid the many charms, bright,
pure, and new,
That so her high and heavenly
part endue,
No style can equal it, no
mind attain.
That starry forehead and those
tranquil eyes,
The fair angelic mouth, where
pearl and rose
Contrast each other, whence
rich music flows,
These fill the gazer with
a fond surprise,
The fine head, the bright
tresses which defied
The sun to match them in his
noonday pride.
MACGREGOR.
Mia ventura ed Amor m’ avean si adorno.
HE REGRETS HAVING RETURNED HER GLOVE.
Me Love and Fortune
then supremely bless’d!
Her glove which gold and silken
broidery bore!
I seem’d to reach of
utmost bliss the crest,
Musing within myself on her
who wore.
Ne’er on that day I
think, of days the best,
Which made me rich, then beggar’d
as before,
But rage and sorrow fill mine
MACGREGOR.
D’ un bel, chiaro, polito e vivo ghiaccio.
THOUGH RACKED BY AGONY, HE DOES NOT COMPLAIN OF HER.
The flames that
ever on my bosom prey
From living ice or cold fair
marble pour,
And so exhaust my veins and
waste my core,
Almost insensibly I melt away.
Death, his stern arm already
rear’d to slay,
As thunders angry heaven or
lions roar,
Pursues my life that vainly
flies before,
While I with terror shake,
and mute obey.
And yet, were Love and Pity
friends, they might
A double column for my succour
throw
Between my worn soul and the
mortal blow:
It may not be; such feelings
in the sight
Of my loved foe and mistress
never stir;
The fault is in my fortune,
not in her.
MACGREGOR.
Lasso, ch’ i’ ardo, ed altri non mel crede!
POSTERITY WILL ACCORD TO HIM THE PITY WHICH LAURA REFUSES.
Alas, with ardour
past belief I glow!
None doubt this truth, except
one only fair,
Who all excels, for whom alone
I care;
She plainly sees, yet disbelieves
my woe.
O rich in charms, but poor
in faith! canst thou
Look in these eyes, nor read
my whole heart there?
Were I not fated by my baleful
star,
For me from pity’s fount
might favour flow.
My flame, of which thou tak’st
so little heed,
And thy high praises pour’d
through all my song,
O’er many a breast may
future influence spread:
These, my sweet fair, so warns
prophetic thought,
Closed thy bright eye, and
mute thy poet’s tongue,
E’en after death shall
still with sparks be fraught.
NOTT.
Alas! I burn,
yet credence fail to gain
All others credit it save
only she
All others who excels, alone
for me;
She seems to doubt it still,
yet sees it plain
Infinite beauty, little faith
and slow,
Perceive ye not my whole heart
in mine eyes?
Well might I hope, save for
my hostile skies,
From mercy’s fount some
pitying balm to flow.
Yet this my flame which scarcely
moves your care,
And your warm praises sung
in these fond rhymes,
May thousands yet inflame
in after times;
These I foresee in fancy,
my sweet fair,
Though your bright eyes be
closed and cold my breath,
Shall lighten other loves
and live in death.
MACGREGOR.
Anima, che diverse cose tante.
HE REJOICES AT BEING ON EARTH WITH HER, AS HE IS THEREBY ENABLED BETTER TO IMITATE HER VIRTUES.
Soul! with such
various faculties endued
To think, write, speak, to
read, to see, to hear;
My doting eyes! and thou,
my faithful ear!
Where drinks my heart her
counsels wise and good;
Your fortune smiles; if after
or before,
The path were won so badly
follow’d yet,
Ye had not then her bright
eyes’ lustre met,
Nor traced her light feet
earth’s green carpet o’er.
Now with so clear a light,
so sure a sign,
’Twere shame to err
or halt on the brief way
Which makes thee worthy of
a home divine.
That better course, my weary
will, essay!
To pierce the cloud of her
sweet scorn be thine,
Pursuing her pure steps and
heavenly ray.
MACGREGOR.
Dolci ire, dolci sdegni e dolci paci.
HE CONSOLES HIMSELF WITH THE THOUGHT THAT HE WILL BE ENVIED BY POSTERITY.
Sweet scorn, sweet
anger, and sweet misery,
Forgiveness sweet, sweet burden,
and sweet ill;
Sweet accents that mine ear
so sweetly thrill,
That sweetly bland, now sweetly
fierce can be.
Mourn not, my soul, but suffer
silently;
And those embitter’d
sweets thy cup that fill
With the sweet honour blend
of loving still
Her whom I told: “Thou
only pleasest me.”
Hereafter, moved with envy,
some may say:
“For that high-boasted
beauty of his day
Enough the bard has borne!”
then heave a sigh.
Others: “Oh! why,
most hostile Fortune, why
Could not these eyes that
lovely form survey?
Why was she early born, or
wherefore late was I?”
NOTT.
Sweet anger, sweet
disdain, and peace as sweet,
Sweet ill, sweet pain, sweet
burthen that I bear,
Sweet speech as sweetly heard;
sweet speech, my fair!
That now enflames my soul,
now cools its heat.
Patient, my soul! endure the
wrongs you meet;
And all th’ embitter’d
sweets you’re doomed to share
Blend with that sweetest bliss,
the maid to greet
In these soft words, “Thou
only art my care!”
Haply some youth shall sighing
envious say,
“Enough has borne the
bard so fond, so true,
For that bright beauty, brightest
of his day!”
While others cry, “Sad
eyes! how hard your fate,
Why could I ne’er this
matchless beauty view?
Why was she born so soon,
or I so late?”
ANON. 1777.
S’ il dissi mai, ch’ i’ venga in odio a quella.
HE VEHEMENTLY REBUTS THE CHARGE OF LOVING ANOTHER.
Perdie! I
said it not,
Nor never thought to do:
As well as I, ye wot
I have no power thereto.
And if I did, the lot
That first did me enchain
May never slake the knot,
But strait it to my pain.
And if I did, each thing
That may do harm or woe,
Continually may wring
My heart, where so I go!
Report may always ring
Of shame on me for aye,
If in my heart did spring
The words that you do say.
And if I did, each star
That is in heaven above,
May frown on me, to mar
The hope I have in love!
And if I did, such war
As they brought unto Troy,
Bring all my life afar
From all his lust and joy!
And if I did so say,
The beauty that me bound
Increase from day to day,
More cruel to my wound!
With all the moan that may
To plaint may turn my song;
My life may soon decay,
Without redress, by wrong!
If I be clear from thought,
Why do you then complain?
Then is this thing but sought
To turn my heart to pain.
Then this that you have wrought,
You must it now redress;
Of right, therefore, you ought
Such rigour to repress.
And as I have deserved,
So grant me now my hire;
You know I never swerved,
You never found me liar.
For Rachel have I served,
For Leah cared I never;
And her I have reserved
Within my heart for ever.
WYATT.
If I said so,
may I be hated by
Her on whose love I live,
without which I should die—
If I said so, my days be sad
and short,
May my false soul some vile
dominion court.
If I said so, may every star
to me
Be hostile; round me grow
Pale fear and jealousy;
And she, my foe,
As cruel still and cold as
fair she aye must be.
If I said so, may Love upon
my heart
Expend his golden shafts,
on her the leaden dart;
Be heaven and earth, and God
and man my foe,
And she still more severe
if I said so:
If I said so, may he whose
blind lights lead
Me straightway to my grave,
Trample yet worse his slave,
Nor she behave
Gentle and kind to me in look,
or word, or deed.
If I said so, then through
my brief life may
All that is hateful block
my worthless weary way:
If I said so, may the proud
frost in thee
Grow prouder as more fierce
the fire in me:
If I said so, no more then
may the warm
Sun or bright moon be view’d,
Nor maid, nor matron’s
form,
But one dread storm
Such as proud Pharaoh saw
when Israel he pursued.
If I said so, despite each
contrite sigh,
Let courtesy for me and kindly
feeling die:
If I said so, that voice to
anger swell,
Which was so sweet when first
her slave I fell:
If I said so, I should offend
whom I,
E’en from my earliest
breath
Until my day of death,
Would gladly take,
Alone in cloister’d
cell my single saint to make.
But if I said not so, may
she who first,
In life’s green youth,
my heart to hope so sweetly nursed,
Deign yet once more my weary
bark to guide
With native kindness o’er
the troublous tide;
And graceful, grateful, as
her wont before,
When, for I could no more,
My all, myself I gave,
To be her slave,
Forget not the deep faith
with which I still adore.
I did not, could not, never
would say so,
For all that gold can give,
cities or courts bestow:
Let truth, then, take her
old proud seat on high,
And low on earth let baffled
falsehood lie.
Thou know’st me, Love!
if aught my state within
Belief or care may win,
Tell her that I would call
Him blest o’er all
Who, doom’d like me
to pine, dies ere his strife begin.
Rachel I sought, not Leah,
to secure,
Nor could I this vain life
with other fair endure,
And, should from earth Heaven
summon her again,
Myself would gladly die
For her, or with her, when
Elijah’s fiery car her
pure soul wafts on high.
MACGREGOR.
Ben mi credea passar mio tempo omai.
HE CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT SEEING HER, BUT WOULD NOT DIE THAT HE MAY STILL LOVE HER.
As pass’d
the years which I have left behind,
To pass my future years I
fondly thought,
Amid old studies, with desires
the same;
But, from my lady since I
fail to find
The accustom’d aid,
the work himself has wrought
Let Love regard my tempter
who became;
Yet scarce I feel the shame
That, at my age, he makes
me thus a thief
Of that bewitching light
For which my life is steep’d
in cureless grief;
In youth I better might
Have ta’en the part
which now I needs must take,
For less dishonour boyish
errors make.
Those sweet eyes whence alone
my life had health
Were ever of their high and
heavenly charms
So kind to me when first my
thrall begun,
That, as a man whom not his
proper wealth,
But some extern yet secret
succour arms,
I lived, with them at ease,
offending none:
Me now their glances shun
As one injurious and importunate,
Who, poor and hungry, did
Myself the very act, in better
state
Which I, in others, chid.
From mercy thus if envy bar
me, be
My amorous thirst and helplessness
my plea.
In divers ways how often have
I tried
If, reft of these, aught mortal
could retain
E’en for a single day
in life my frame:
But, ah! my soul, which has
no rest beside,
Speeds back to those angelic
lights again;
And I, though but of wax,
turn to their flame,
Planting my mind’s best
aim
Where less the watch o’er
what I love is sure:
As birds i’ th’
wild wood green,
Where less they fear, will
sooner take the lure,
So on her lovely mien,
Now one and now another look
I turn,
Wherewith at once I nourish
me and burn.
Strange sustenance! upon my
death I feed,
And live in flames, a salamander
rare!
And yet no marvel, as from
love it flows.
A blithe lamb ’mid the
harass’d fleecy breed.
Whilom I lay, whom now to
worst despair
Fortune and Love, as is their
wont, expose.
Winter with cold and snows,
With violets and roses spring
is rife,
And thus if I obtain
Some few poor aliments of
else weak life,
Who can of theft complain?
So rich a fair should be content
with this,
Though others live on hers,
if nought she miss.
Who knows not what I am and
still have been,
From the first day I saw those
beauteous eyes,
Which alter’d of my
life the natural mood?
Traverse all lands, explore
each sea between,
Who can acquire all human
qualities?
There some on odours live
by Ind’s vast flood;
Here light and fire are food
My frail and famish’d
spirit to appease!
Love! more or nought bestow;
With lordly state low thrift
but ill agrees;
Thou hast thy darts and bow,
Take with thy hands my not
unwilling breath,
Life were well closed with
honourable death.
Pent flames are strongest,
and, if left to swell,
Not long by any means can
rest unknown,
This own I, Love, and at your
hands was taught.
When I thus silent burn’d,
you knew it well;
Now e’en to me my cries
are weary grown,
Annoy to far and near so long
that wrought.
O false world! O vain
thought!
O my hard fate! where now
to follow thee?
Ah! from what meteor light
Sprung in my heart the constant
hope which she,
Who, armour’d with your
might,
Drags me to death, binds o’er
it as a chain?
Yours is the fault, though
mine the loss and pain.
Thus bear I of true love the
pains along,
Asking forgiveness of another’s
debt,
And for mine own; whose eyes
should rather shun
That too great light, and
to the siren’s song
My ears be closed: though
scarce can I regret
That so sweet poison should
my heart o’errun.
Yet would that all were done,
That who the first wound gave
my last would deal;
For, if I right divine,
It were best mercy soon my
fate to seal;
Since not a chance is mine
That he may treat me better
than before,
’Tis well to die if
death shut sorrow’s door.
My song! with fearless feet
The field I keep, for death
in flight were shame.
Myself I needs must blame
For these laments; tears,
sighs, and death to meet,
Such fate for her is sweet.
Own, slave of Love, whose
eyes these rhymes may catch,
Earth has no good that with
my grief can match.
MACGREGOR.
[Illustration: AVIGNON.]
Rapido fiume che d’ alpestra vena.
JOURNEYING ALONG THE RHONE TO AVIGNON, PETRARCH BIDS
THE RIVER KISS
LAURA’S HAND, AS IT WILL ARRIVE AT HER DWELLING
BEFORE HIM.
Impetuous flood,
that from the Alps’ rude head,
Eating around thee, dost thy
name obtain;[V]
Anxious like me both night
and day to gain
Where thee pure nature, and
me love doth lead;
Pour on: thy course nor
sleep nor toils impede;
Yet, ere thou pay’st
thy tribute to the main,
Oh, tarry where most verdant
looks the plain,
Where most serenity the skies
doth spread!
There beams my radiant sun
of cheering ray,
Which deck thy left banks,
and gems o’er with flowers;
E’en now, vain thought!
perhaps she chides my stay:
Kiss then her feet, her hand
so beauteous fair;
In place of language let thy
kiss declare
Strong is my will, though
feeble are my powers.
NOTT.
O rapid flood!
which from thy mountain bed
Gnawest thy shores, whence
(in my tongue) thy name;[V]
Thou art my partner, night
and day the same,
Where I by love, thou art
by nature led:
Precede me now; no weariness
doth shed
Its spell o’er thee,
no sleep thy course can tame;
Yet ere the ocean waves thy
tribute claim,
Pause, where the herb and
air seem brighter fed.
There beams our sun of life,
whose genial ray
With brighter verdure thy
left shore adorns;
Perchance (vain hope!) e’en
now my stay she mourns.
Kiss then her foot, her lovely
hand, and may
Thy kiss to her in place of
language speak,
The spirit is willing, but
the flesh is weak.
WOLLASTON.
[Footnote V: Deriving it from rodere, to gnaw.]
I’ dolci colli ov’ io lasciai me stesso.
HE LEAVES VAUCLUSE, BUT HIS SPIRIT REMAINS THERE WITH LAURA.
The loved hills
where I left myself behind,
Whence ever ’twas so
hard my steps to tear,
Before me rise; at each remove
I bear
The dear load to my lot by
Love consign’d.
Often I wonder inly in my
mind,
That still the fair yoke holds
me, which despair
Would vainly break, that yet
I breathe this air;
Though long the chain, its
links but closer bind.
And as a stag, sore struck
MACGREGOR.
Those gentle hills
which hold my spirit still
(For though I fly, my heart
there must remain),
Are e’er before me,
whilst my burthen’s pain,
By love bestow’d, I
bear with patient will.
I marvel oft that I can yet
fulfil
That yoke’s sweet duties,
which my soul enchain,
I seek release, but find the
effort vain;
The more I fly, the nearer
seems my ill.
So, like the stag, who, wounded
by the dart,
Its poison’d iron rankling
in his side,
Flies swifter at each quickening
anguish’d throb,—
I feel the fatal arrow at
my heart;
Yet with its poison, joy awakes
its tide;
My flight exhausts me—grief
my life doth rob!
WOLLASTON.
Non dall’ Ispano Ibero all’ Indo Idaspe.
HIS WOES ARE UNEXAMPLED.
From Spanish Ebro
to Hydaspes old,
Exploring ocean in its every
nook,
From the Red Sea to the cold
Caspian shore,
In earth, in heaven one only
Phoenix dwells.
What fortunate, or what disastrous
bird
Omen’d my fate? which
Parca winds my yarn,
That I alone find Pity deaf
as asp,
And wretched live who happy
hoped to be?
Let me not speak of her, but
him her guide,
Who all her heart with love
and sweetness fills—
Gifts which, from him o’erflowing,
follow her,
Who, that my sweets may sour
and cruel be,
Dissembleth, careth not, or
will not see
That silver’d, ere my
time, these temples are.
MACGREGOR.
Voglia mi sprona; Amor mi guida e scorge.
HE DESCRIBES HIS STATE, SPECIFYING THE DATE OF HIS ATTACHMENT.
Passion impels
me, Love escorts and leads,
Pleasure attracts me, habits
old enchain,
Hope with its flatteries comforts
me again,
And, at my harass’d
heart, with fond touch pleads.
Poor wretch! it trusts her
still, and little heeds
The blind and faithless leader
of our train;
Reason is dead, the senses
only reign:
One fond desire another still
succeeds.
Virtue and honour, beauty,
courtesy,
With winning words and many
a graceful way,
My heart entangled in that
laurel sweet.
In thirteen hundred seven
and twenty, I
—’Twas April,
the first hour, on its sixth day—
Enter’d Love’s
labyrinth, whence is no retreat.
MACGREGOR.
By will impell’d,
Love o’er my path presides;
By Pleasure led, o’ercome
by Habit’s reign,
Sweet Hope deludes, and comforts
me again;
At her bright touch, my heart’s
despair subsides.
It takes her proffer’d
hand, and there confides.
To doubt its blind disloyal
guide were vain;
Each sense usurps poor Reason’s
broken rein;
On each desire, another wilder
rides!
Grace, virtue, honour, beauty,
words so dear,
Have twined me with that laurell’d
bough, whose power
My heart hath tangled in its
lab’rinth sweet:
The thirteen hundred twenty-seventh
year,
The sixth of April’s
suns—in that first hour,
My entrance mark’d,
whence I see no retreat.
WOLLASTON.
Beato in sogno, e di languir contento.
THOUGH SO LONG LOVE’S FAITHFUL SERVANT, HIS ONLY REWARD HAS BEEN TEARS.
Happy in visions,
and content to pine,
Shadows to clasp, to chase
the summer gale,
On shoreless and unfathom’d
sea to sail,
To build on sand, and in the
air design,
The sun to gaze on till these
eyes of mine
Abash’d before his noonday
splendour fail,
To chase adown some soft and
sloping vale,
The winged stag with maim’d
and heavy kine;
Weary and blind, save my own
harm to all,
Which day and night I seek
with throbbing heart,
On Love, on Laura, and on
Death I call.
Thus twenty years of long
and cruel smart,
In tears and sighs I’ve
pass’d, because I took
Under ill stars, alas! both
bait and hook.
MACGREGOR.
Grazie ch’ a pochi ’l ciel largo destina.
Graces, that liberal
Heaven on few bestows;
Rare excellence, scarce known
to human kind;
With youth’s bright
locks age’s ripe judgment join’d;
Celestial charms, which a
meek mortal shows;
An elegance unmatch’d;
and lips, whence flows
Music that can the sense in
fetters bind;
A goddess step; a lovely ardent
mind,
That breaks the stubborn,
and the haughty bows;
Eyes, whose refulgence petrifies
the heart,
To glooms, to shades that
can a light impart,
Lift high the lover’s
soul, or plunge it low;
Speech link’d by tenderness
and dignity;
With many a sweetly-interrupted
sigh;
Such are the witcheries that
transform me so.
NOTT.
Graces which liberal
Heaven grants few to share:
Rare virtue seldom witness’d
by mankind;
Experienced judgment with
fair hair combined;
High heavenly beauty in a
humble fair;
A gracefulness most excellent
MACGREGOR.
SESTINA VI.
Anzi tre di creata era alma in parte.
THE HISTORY OF HIS LOVE; AND PRAYER FOR HELP.
Life’s three
first stages train’d my soul in part
To place its care on objects
high and new,
And to disparage what men
often prize,
But, left alone, and of her
fatal course
As yet uncertain, frolicsome,
and free,
She enter’d at spring-time
a lovely wood.
A tender flower there was,
born in that wood
The day before, whose root
was in a part
High and impervious e’en
to spirit free;
For many snares were there
of forms so new,
And such desire impell’d
my sanguine course,
That to lose freedom were
to gain a prize.
Dear, sweet, yet perilous
and painful prize!
Which quickly drew me to that
verdant wood,
Doom’d to mislead me
midway in life’s course;
The world I since have ransack’d
part by part,
For rhymes, or stones, or
sap of simples new,
Which yet might give me back
the spirit, free.
But ah! I feel my body
must be free
From that hard knot which
is its richest prize,
Ere medicine old or incantations
new
Can heal the wounds which
pierced me in that wood,
Thorny and troublous, where
I play’d such part,
Leaving it halt who enter’d
with hot course.
Yes! full of snares and sticks,
a difficult course
Have I to run, where easy
foot and sure
Were rather needed, healthy
in each part;
Thou, Lord, who still of pity
hast the prize,
Stretch to me thy right hand
in this wild wood,
And let thy sun dispel my
darkness new.
Look on my state, amid temptations
new,
Which, interrupting my life’s
tranquil course,
Have made me denizen of darkling
wood;
If good, restore me, fetterless
and free,
My wand’ring consort,
and be thine the prize
If yet with thee I find her
in blest part.
Lo! thus in part I put my
questions new,
If mine be any prize, or run
its course,
Be my soul free, or captived
in close wood.
MACGREGOR.
In nobil sangue vita umile e queta.
SHE UNITES IN HERSELF THE HIGHEST EXCELLENCES OF VIRTUE AND BEAUTY.
High birth in
humble life, reserved yet kind,
On youth’s gay flower
ripe fruits of age and rare,
A virtuous heart, therewith
a lofty mind,
A happy spirit in a pensive
air;
Her planet, nay, heaven’s
king, has fitly shrined
All gifts and graces in this
lady fair,
True honour, purest praises,
worth refined,
Above what rapt dreams of
best poets are.
Virtue and Love so rich in
her unite,
With natural beauty dignified
address,
Gestures that still a silent
grace express,
And in her eyes I know not
what strange light,
That makes the noonday dark,
the dusk night clear,
Bitter the sweet, and e’en
sad absence dear.
MACGREGOR.
Though nobly born,
so humbly calm she dwells,
So bright her intellect—so
pure her mind—
The blossom and its bloom
in her we find;
With pensive look, her heart
with mirth rebels:
Thus by her planets’
union she excels,
(Nay—His, the stars’
proud sov’reign, who enshrined
There honour, worth, and fortitude
combined!)
Which to the bard inspired,
his hope dispels.
Love blooms in her, but ’tis
his home most pure;
Her daily virtues blend with
native grace;
Her noiseless movements speak,
though she is mute:
Such power her eyes, they
can the day obscure,
Illume the night,—the
honey’s sweetness chase,
And wake its stream, where
gall doth oft pollute.
WOLLASTON.
Tutto ’l di piango; e poi la notte, quando.
HER CRUELTY RENDERS LIFE WORSE THAN DEATH TO HIM.
Through the long
lingering day, estranged from rest,
My sorrows flow unceasing;
doubly flow,
Painful prerogative of lover’s
woe!
In that still hour, when slumber
soothes th’ unblest.
With such deep anguish is
my heart opprest,
So stream mine eyes with tears!
Of things below
Most miserable I; for Cupid’s
bow
Has banish’d quiet from
this heaving breast.
Ah me! while thus in suffering,
morn to morn
And eve to eve succeeds, of
death I view
(So should this life be named)
one-half gone by—
Yet this I weep not, but another’s
scorn;
That she, my friend, so tender
and so true,
Should see me hopeless burn,
and yet her aid deny.
WRANGHAM.
Gia desiai con si giusta querela.
HE LIVES DESTITUTE OF ALL HOPE SAVE THAT OF RENDERING HER IMMORTAL.
Erewhile I labour’d
with complaint so true,
And in such fervid rhymes
to make me heard,
Seem’d as at last some
spark of pity stirr’d
In the hard heart which frost
in summer knew.
Th’ unfriendly cloud,
whose cold veil o’er it grew,
MACGREGOR.
Tra quantunque leggiadre donne e belle.
ALL NATURE WOULD BE IN DARKNESS WERE SHE, ITS SUN, TO PERISH.
Where’er
she moves, whatever dames among,
Beauteous or graceful, matchless
she below.
With her fair face she makes
all others show
Dim, as the day’s bright
orb night’s starry throng.
And Love still whispers, with
prophetic tongue,—
“Long as on earth is
seen that glittering brow,
Shall life have charms:
but she shall cease to glow
And with her all my power
shall fleet along,
Should Nature from the skies
their twin-lights wrest;
Hush every breeze, each herb
and flower destroy;
Strip man of reason—speech;
from Ocean’s breast
His tides, his tenants chase—such,
earth’s annoy;
Yea, still more darken’d
were it and unblest,
Had she, thy Laura, closed
her eyes to love and joy.”
WRANGHAM.
Whene’er
amidst the damsels, blooming bright,
She shows herself, whose like
was never made,
At her approach all other
beauties fade,
As at morn’s orient
glow the gems of night.
Love seems to whisper,—“While
to mortal sight
Her graces shall on earth
be yet display’d,
Life shall be blest; ’till
soon with her decay’d,
The virtues, and my reign
shall sink outright.”
Of moon and sun, should nature
rob the sky,
The air of winds, the earth
of herbs and leaves,
Mankind of speech and intellectual
eye,
The ocean’s bed of fish,
and dancing waves;
Even so shall all things dark
and lonely lye,
When of her beauty Death the
world bereaves!
CHARLEMONT.
Il cantar novo e ’l pianger degli augelli.
MORNING.
The birds’
sweet wail, their renovated song,
At break of morn, make all
the vales resound;
With lapse of crystal waters
pouring round,
In clear, swift runnels, the
fresh shores among.
She, whose pure passion knows
nor guile nor wrong,
With front of snow, with golden
tresses crown’d,
Combing her aged husband’s
hoar locks found,
Wakes me when sportful wakes
the warbling throng.
Thus, roused from sleep, I
greet the dawning day,
NOTT.
Soon as gay morn
ascends her purple car,
The plaintive warblings of
the new-waked grove,
The murmuring streams, through
flowery meads that rove,
Fill with sweet melody the
valleys fair.
Aurora, famed for constancy
in love,
Whose face with snow, whose
locks with gold compare.
Smoothing her aged husband’s
silvery hair,
Bids me the joys of rural
music prove.
Then, waking, I salute the
sun of day;
But chief that beauteous sun,
whose cheering ray
Once gilt, nay gilds e’en
now, life’s scene so bright.
Dear suns! which oft I’ve
seen together rise;
This dims each meaner lustre
of the skies,
And that sweet sun I love
dims every light.
ANON. 1777.
Onde tolse Amor l’ oro e di qual vena.
THE CHARMS OF HER COUNTENANCE AND VOICE.
Whence could Love
take the gold, and from what vein,
To form those bright twin
locks? What thorn could grow
Those roses? And what
mead that white bestow
Of the fresh dews, which pulse
and breath obtain?
Whence came those pearls that
modestly restrain
Accents which courteous, sweet,
and rare can flow?
And whence those charms that
so divinely show,
Spread o’er a face serene
as heaven’s blue plain?
Taught by what angel, or what
tuneful sphere,
Was that celestial song, which
doth dispense
Such potent magic to the ravish’d
ear?
What sun illumed those bright
commanding eyes,
Which now look peaceful, now
in hostile guise;
Now torture me with hope,
and now with fear?
NOTT.
Say, from what
vein did Love procure the gold
To make those sunny tresses?
From what thorn
Stole he the rose, and whence
the dew of morn,
Bidding them breathe and live
in Beauty’s mould?
What depth of ocean gave the
pearls that told
Those gentle accents sweet,
though rarely born?
Whence came so many graces
to adorn
That brow more fair than summer
skies unfold?
Oh! say what angels lead,
what spheres control
The song divine which wastes
my life away?
(Who can with trifles now
my senses move?)
What sun gave birth unto the
lofty soul
Of those enchanting eyes,
whose glances stray
To burn and freeze my heart—the
sport of Love?
WROTTESLEY.
Qual mio destin, qual forza o qual inganno.
THOUGH HER EYES DESTROY HIM, HE CANNOT TEAR HIMSELF AWAY.
What destiny of
mine, what fraud or force,
Unarm’d again conducts
me to the field,
Where never came I but with
shame to yield
’Scape I or fall, which
better is or worse?
—Not worse, but
better; from so sweet a source
Shine in my heart those lights,
so bright reveal’d
The fatal fire, e’en
now as then, which seal’d
My doom, though twenty years
have roll’d their course
I feel death’s messengers
when those dear eyes,
Dazzling me from afar, I see
appear,
And if on me they turn as
she draw near,
Love with such sweetness tempts
me then and tries,
Tell it I cannot, nor recall
in sooth,
For wit and language fail
to reach the truth!
MACGREGOR.
Liete e pensose, accompagnate e sole.
NOT FINDING HER WITH HER FRIENDS, HE ASKS THEM WHY SHE IS ABSENT.
P. Pensive and glad, accompanied,
alone,
Ladies who cheat the time with converse gay,
Where does my life, where does my death delay?
Why not with you her form, as usual, shown?
L. Glad are we her rare lustre to have
known,
And sad from her dear company to stay,
Which jealousy and envy keep away
O’er other’s bliss, as their
own ill who moan.
P. Who lovers can restrain, or give them
law?
L. No one the soul, harshness and rage
the frame;
As erst in us, this now in her appears.
As oft the face, betrays the heart, we saw
Clouds that, obscuring her high beauty, came,
And in her eyes the dewy trace of tears.
MACGREGOR.
Quando ‘l sol bagna in mur l’ aurato carro.
HIS NIGHTS ARE, LIKE HIS DAYS, PASSED IN TORMENT.
When in the sea
sinks the sun’s golden light,
And on my mind and nature
darkness lies,
With the pale moon, faint
stars and clouded skies
I pass a weary and a painful
night:
To her who hears me not I
then rehearse
My sad life’s fruitless
toils, early and late;
And with the world and with
my gloomy fate,
With Love, with Laura and
myself, converse.
Sleep is forbid me: I
have no repose,
But sighs and groans instead,
till morn returns,
And tears, with which mine
eyes a sad heart feeds;
Then comes the dawn, the thick
air clearer grows,
But not my soul; the sun which
in it burns
Alone can cure the grief his
fierce warmth breeds.
NOTT.
When Phoebus lashes
to the western main
His fiery steeds, and shades
the lurid air;
Grief shades my soul, my night
is spent in care;
Yon moon, yon stars, yon heaven
begin my pain.
Wretch that I am! full oft
ANON. 1777.
S’ una fede amorosa, un cor non finto.
THE MISERY OF HIS LOVE.
If faith most
true, a heart that cannot feign,
If Love’s sweet languishment
and chasten’d thought,
And wishes pure by nobler
feelings taught,
If in a labyrinth wanderings
long and vain,
If on the brow each pang pourtray’d
to bear,
Or from the heart low broken
sounds to draw,
Withheld by shame, or check’d
by pious awe,
If on the faded cheek Love’s
hue to wear,
If than myself to hold one
far more dear,
If sighs that cease not, tears
that ever flow,
Wrung from the heart by all
Love’s various woe,
In absence if consumed, and
chill’d when near,—
If these be ills in which
I waste my prime,
Though I the sufferer be,
yours, lady, is the crime.
DACRE.
If fondest faith,
a heart to guile unknown,
By melting languors the soft
wish betray’d;
If chaste desires, with temper’d
warmth display’d;
If weary wanderings, comfortless
and lone;
If every thought in every
feature shown,
Or in faint tones and broken
sounds convey’d,
As fear or shame my pallid
cheek array’d
In violet hues, with Love’s
thick blushes strown;
If more than self another
to hold dear;
If still to weep and heave
incessant sighs,
To feed on passion, or in
grief to pine,
To glow when distant, and
to freeze when near,—
If hence my bosom’s
anguish takes its rise,
Thine, lady, is the crime,
the punishment is mine.
WRANGHAM.
Dodici donne onestamente lasse.
HAPPY WHO STEERED THE BOAT, OR DROVE THE CAR, WHEREIN SHE SAT AND SANG.
Twelve ladies,
their rare toil who lightly bore,
Rather twelve stars encircling
a bright sun,
I saw, gay-seated a small
bark upon,
Whose like the waters never
cleaved before:
Not such took Jason to the
fleece of yore,
Whose fatal gold has ev’ry
heart now won,
Nor such the shepherd boy’s,
by whom undone
Troy mourns, whose fame has
pass’d the wide world o’er.
I saw them next on a triumphal
car,
Where, known by her chaste
cherub ways, aside
My Laura sate and to them
sweetly sung.
Things not of earth to man
such visions are!
Blest Tiphys! blest Automedon!
to guide
The bark, or car of band so
bright and young.
MACGREGOR.
Passer mai solitario in alcun tetto.
FAR FROM HIS BELOVED, LIFE IS MISERABLE BY NIGHT AS BY DAY.
Never was bird,
spoil’d of its young, more sad,
Or wild beast in his lair
more lone than me,
Now that no more that lovely
face I see,
The only sun my fond eyes
ever had.
In ceaseless sorrow is my
chief delight:
My food to poison turns, to
grief my joy;
The night is torture, dark
the clearest sky,
And my lone pillow a hard
field of fight.
Sleep is indeed, as has been
well express’d.
Akin to death, for it the
heart removes
From the dear thought in which
alone I live.
Land above all with plenty,
beauty bless’d!
Ye flowery plains, green banks
and shady groves!
Ye hold the treasure for whose
loss I grieve!
MACGREGOR.
Aura, che quelle chiome bionde e crespe.
HE ENVIES THE BREEZE WHICH SPORTS WITH HER, THE STREAM THAT FLOWS TOWARDS HER.
Ye laughing gales,
that sporting with my fair,
The silky tangles of her locks
unbraid;
And down her breast their
golden treasures spread;
Then in fresh mazes weave
her curling hair,
You kiss those bright destructive
eyes, that bear
The flaming darts by which
my heart has bled;
My trembling heart! that oft
has fondly stray’d
To seek the nymph, whose eyes
such terrors wear.
Methinks she’s found—but
oh! ’tis fancy’s cheat!
Methinks she’s seen—but
oh! ’tis love’s deceit!
Methinks she’s near—but
truth cries “’tis not so!”
Go happy gale, and with my
Laura dwell!
Go happy stream, and to my
Laura tell
What envied joys in thy clear
crystal flow!
ANON. 1777.
Thou gale, that
movest, and disportest round
Those bright crisp’d
locks, by them moved sweetly too,
That all their fine gold scatter’st
to the view,
Then coil’st them up
in beauteous braids fresh wound;
About those eyes thou playest,
where abound
The am’rous swarms,
whose stings my tears renew!
And I my treasure tremblingly
pursue,
Like some scared thing that
stumbles o’er the ground.
Methinks I find her now, and
now perceive
She’s distant; now I
soar, and now descend;
Now what I wish, now what
is true believe.
Stay and enjoy, blest air,
the living beam;
And thou, O rapid, and translucent
stream,
Why can’t I change my
course, and thine attend?
NOTT.
Amor con la man destra il lato manco.
UNDER THE FIGURE OF A LAUREL, HE RELATES THE GROWTH OF HIS LOVE.
My poor heart
op’ning with his puissant hand,
Love planted there, as in
its home, to dwell
A Laurel, green and bright,
whose hues might well
In rivalry with proudest emeralds
stand:
Plough’d by my pen and
by my heart-sighs fann’d,
Cool’d by the soft rain
from mine eyes that fell,
It grew in grace, upbreathing
a sweet smell,
Unparallel’d in any
age or land.
Fair fame, bright honour,
virtue firm, rare grace,
The chastest beauty in celestial
frame,—
These be the roots whence
birth so noble came.
Such ever in my mind her form
I trace,
A happy burden and a holy
thing,
To which on rev’rent
knee with loving prayer I cling.
MACGREGOR.
Cantai, or piango; e non men di dolcezza.
THOUGH IN THE MIDST OF PAIN, HE DEEMS HIMSELF THE HAPPIEST OF MEN.
I sang, who now
lament; nor less delight
Than in my song I found, in
tears I find;
For on the cause and not effect
inclined,
My senses still desire to
scale that height:
Whence, mildly if she smile
or hardly smite,
Cruel and cold her acts, or
meek and kind,
All I endure, nor care what
weights they bind,
E’en though her rage
would break my armour quite.
Let Love and Laura, world
and fortune join,
And still pursue their usual
course for me,
I care not, if unblest, in
life to be.
Let me or burn to death or
living pine,
No gentler state than mine
beneath the sun,
Since from a source so sweet
my bitters run.
MACGREGOR.
I’ piansi, or canto; che ’l celeste lume.
AT HER RETURN, HIS SORROWS VANISH.
I wept, but now
I sing; its heavenly light
That living sun conceals not
from my view,
But virtuous love therein
revealeth true
His holy purposes and precious
might;
Whence, as his wont, such
flood of sorrow springs
To shorten of my life the
friendless course,
Nor bridge, nor ford, nor
oar, nor sails have force
To forward mine escape, nor
even wings.
But so profound and of so
full a vein
My suff’ring is, so
far its shore appears,
Scarcely to reach it can e’en
thought contrive:
Nor palm, nor laurel pity
prompts to gain,
But tranquil olive, and the
dark sky clears,
And checks my grief and wills
me to survive.
MACGREGOR.
I’ mi vivea di mia sorte contento.
HE FEARS THAT AN ILLNESS WHICH HAS ATTACKED THE EYES OF LAURA MAY DEPRIVE HIM OF THEIR SIGHT.
I lived so tranquil,
with my lot content,
No sorrow visited, nor envy
pined,
To other loves if fortune
were more kind
One pang of mine their thousand
joys outwent;
But those bright eyes, whence
never I repent
The pains I feel, nor wish
them less to find,
So dark a cloud and heavy
now does blind,
Seems as my sun of life in
them were spent.
O Nature! mother pitiful yet
stern,
Whence is the power which
prompts thy wayward deeds,
Such lovely things to make
and mar in turn?
True, from one living fount
all power proceeds:
But how couldst Thou consent,
great God of Heaven,
That aught should rob the
world of what thy love had given?
MACGREGOR.
Vincitore Alessandro l’ ira vinse.
THE EVIL RESULTS OF UNRESTRAINED ANGER.
What though the
ablest artists of old time
Left us the sculptured bust,
the imaged form
Of conq’ring Alexander,
wrath o’ercame
And made him for the while
than Philip less?
Wrath to such fury valiant
Tydeus drove
That dying he devour’d
his slaughter’d foe;
Wrath made not Sylla merely
blear of eye,
But blind to all, and kill’d
him in the end.
Well Valentinian knew that
to such pain
Wrath leads, and Ajax, he
whose death it wrought.
Strong against many, ’gainst
himself at last.
Wrath is brief madness, and,
when unrestrain’d,
Long madness, which its master
often leads
To shame and crime, and haply
e’en to death.
ANON.
Qual ventura mi fu, quando dall’ uno.
HE REJOICES AT PARTICIPATING IN HER SUFFERINGS.
Strange, passing
strange adventure! when from one
Of the two brightest eyes
which ever were,
Beholding it with pain dis
urb’d and dim,
Moved influence which my own
made dull and weak.
I had return’d, to break
the weary fast
Of seeing her, my sole care
in this world,
Kinder to me were Heaven and
Love than e’en
If all their other gifts together
join’d,
When from the right eye—rather
the right sun—
Of my dear Lady to my right
eye came
The ill which less my pain
than pleasure makes;
As if it intellect possess’d
and wings
It pass’d, as stars
that shoot along the sky:
Nature and pity then pursued
their course.
ANON.
O cameretta che gia fosti un porto.
HE NO LONGER FINDS RELIEF IN SOLITUDE.
Thou little chamber’d
haven to the woes
Whose daily tempest overwhelms
my soul!
From shame, I in Heaven’s
light my grief control;
Thou art its fountain, which
each night o’erflows.
My couch! that oft hath woo’d
me to repose,
’Mid sorrows vast—Love’s
iv’ried hand hath stole
Griefs turgid stream, which
o’er thee it doth roll,
That hand which good on all
but me bestows.
Not only quiet and sweet rest
I fly,
But from myself and thought,
whose vain pursuit
On pinion’d fancy doth
my soul transport:
The multitude I did so long
defy,
Now as my hope and refuge
I salute,
So much I tremble solitude
to court.
WOLLASTON.
Room! which to
me hast been a port and shield
From life’s rude daily
tempests for long years,
Now the full fountain of my
nightly tears
Which in the day I bear for
shame conceal’d:
Bed! which, in woes so great,
wert wont to yield
Comfort and rest, an urn of
doubts and fears
Love o’er thee now from
those fair hands uprears,
Cruel and cold to me alone
reveal’d.
But e’en than solitude
and rest, I flee
More from myself and melancholy
thought,
In whose vain quest my soul
has heavenward flown.
The crowd long hateful, hostile
e’en to me,
Strange though it sound, for
refuge have I sought,
Such fear have I to find myself
alone!
MACGREGOR.
Lasso! Amor mi trasporta ov’ io non voglio.
HE EXCUSES HIMSELF FOR VISITING LAURA TOO OFTEN, AND LOVING HER TOO MUCH.
Alas! Love
bears me where I would not go,
And well I see how duty is
transgress’d,
And how to her who, queen-like,
rules my breast,
More than my wont importunate
I grow.
Never from rocks wise sailor
guarded so
His ship of richest merchandise
possess’d,
As evermore I shield my bark
distress’d
From shocks of her hard pride
that would o’erthrow
Torrents of tears, fierce
winds of infinite sighs
—For, in my sea,
nights horrible and dark
And pitiless winter reign—have
driven my bark,
Sail-less and helm-less where
it shatter’d lies,
Or, drifting at the mercy
of the main,
Trouble to others bears, distress
to me and pain.
MACGREGOR.
Amor, io fallo e veggio il mio fallire.
HE PRAYS LOVE, WHO IS THE CAUSE OF HIS OFFENCES, TO OBTAIN PARDON FOR HIM.
O Love, I err,
and I mine error own,
As one who burns, whose fire
within him lies
And aggravates his grief,
while reason dies,
With its own martyrdom almost
o’erthrown.
I strove mine ardent longing
to restrain,
MACGREGOR.
Non ha tanti animali il mar fra l’ onde.
HE DESPAIRS OF ESCAPE FROM THE TORMENTS BY WHICH HE IS SURROUNDED.
Nor Ocean holds
such swarms amid his waves,
Not overhead, where circles
the pale moon,
Were stars so numerous ever
seen by night,
Nor dwell so many birds among
the woods,
Nor plants so many clothe
the field or hill,
As holds my tost heart busy
thoughts each eve.
Each day I hope that this
my latest eve
Shall part from my quick clay
the sad salt waves,
And leave me in last sleep
on some cold hill;
So many torments man beneath
the moon
Ne’er bore as I have
borne; this know the woods
Through which I wander lonely
day and night.
For never have I had a tranquil
night,
But ceaseless sighs instead
from morn till eve,
Since love first made me tenant
of the woods:
The sea, ere I can rest, shall
lose his waves,
The sun his light shall borrow
from the moon,
And April flowers be blasted
o’er each hill.
Thus, to myself a prey, from
hill to hill,
Pensive by day I roam, and
weep at night,
No one state mine, but changeful
as the moon;
And when I see approaching
the brown eve,
Sighs from my bosom, from
my eyes fall waves,
The herbs to moisten and to
move the woods.
Hostile the cities, friendly
are the woods
To thoughts like mine, which,
on this lofty hill,
Mingle their murmur with the
moaning waves,
Through the sweet silence
of the spangled night,
So that the livelong day I
wait the eve,
When the sun sets and rises
the fair moon.
Would, like Endymion, ’neath
the enamour’d moon,
That slumbering I were laid
in leafy woods,
And that ere vesper she who
makes my eve,
With Love and Luna on that
favour’d hill,
Alone, would come, and stay
but one sweet night,
While stood the sun nor sought
his western waves.
Upon the hard waves, ’neath
the beaming moon,
Song, that art born of night
amid the woods,
Thou shalt a rich hill see
to-morrow eve!
MACGREGOR.
Count the ocean’s
finny droves;
Count the twinkling host of
stars.
Round the night’s pale
orb that moves;
Count the groves’ wing’d
choristers;
Count each verdant blade that
grows;
Counted then will be my woes.
When shall these eyes cease
to weep;
When shall this world-wearied
frame,
Cover’d by the cold
sod, sleep?—
Sure, beneath yon planet’s
beam,
None like me have made such
moan;
This to every bower is known.
Sad my nights; from morn till
eve,
Tenanting the woods, I sigh:
But, ere I shall cease to
grieve,
Ocean’s vast bed shall
be dry,
Suns their light from moons
shall gain.
And spring wither on each
plain.
Pensive, weeping, night and
day,
From this shore to that I
fly,
Changeful as the lunar ray;
And, when evening veils the
sky,
Then my tears might swell
the floods,
Then my sighs might bow the
woods!
Towns I hate, the shades I
love;
For relief to yon green height,
Where the rill resounds, I
rove
At the grateful calm of night;
There I wait the day’s
decline,
For the welcome moon to shine.
Oh, that in some lone retreat,
Like Endymion I were lain;
And that she, who rules my
fate,
There one night to stay would
deign;
Never from his billowy bed
More might Phoebus lift his
head!
Song, that on the wood-hung
stream
In the silent hour wert born,
Witness’d but by Cynthia’s
beam.
Soon as breaks to-morrow’s
morn,
Thou shalt seek a glorious
plain,
There with Laura to remain!
DACRE.
La ver l’ aurora, che si dolce l’ aura.
SHE IS MOVED NEITHER BY HIS VERSES NOR HIS TEARS.
When music warbles
from each thorn,
And Zephyr’s dewy wings
Sweep the young flowers; what
time the morn
Her crimson radiance flings:
Then, as the smiling year
renews,
I feel renew’d Love’s
tender pain;
Renew’d is Laura’s
cold disdain;
And I for comfort court the
weeping muse.
Oh! could my sighs in accents
flow
So musically lorn,
That thou might’st catch
my am’rous woe,
And cease, proud Maid! thy
scorn:
Yet, ere within thy icy breast
The smallest spark of passion’s
found,
Winter’s cold temples
shall be bound
With all the blooms that paint
spring’s glowing vest.
The drops that bathe the grief-dew’d
eye,
The love-impassion’d
strain
To move thy flinty bosom try
Full oft;—but,
ah! in vain
Would tears, and melting song
avail;
As vainly might the silken
breeze,
That bends the flowers, that
fans the trees,
Some rugged rock’s tremendous
brow assail.
Both gods and men alike are
sway’d
By Love, as poets tell;—
And I, when flowers in every
shade
Their bursting gems reveal,
First felt his all-subduing
power:
While Laura knows not yet
the smart;
Nor heeds the tortures of
my heart,
My prayers, my plaints, and
sorrow’s pearly shower!
Thy wrongs, my soul! with
patience bear,
While life shall warm this
clay;
And soothing sounds to Laura’s
ear
My numbers shall convey;
Numbers with forceful magic
charm
All nature o’er the
frost-bound earth,
Wake summer’s fragrant
buds to birth,
And the fierce serpent of
its rage disarm.
The blossom’d shrubs
in smiles are drest,
Now laughs his purple plain;
And shall the nymph a foe
profest
To tenderness remain?
But oh! what solace shall
I find,
If fortune dooms me yet to
bear
The frowns of my relentless
Fair,
Save with soft moan to vex
the pitying wind?
In baffling nets the light-wing’d
gale
I’d fetter as it blows,
The vernal rose that scents
the vale
I’d cull on wintery
snows;
Still I’d ne’er
hope that mind to move
Which dares defy the wiles
of verse, and Love.
ANON. 1777.
Real natura, angelico intelletto.
ON THE KISS OF HONOUR GIVEN BY CHARLES OF LUXEMBURG TO LAURA AT A BANQUET.
A kingly nature,
an angelic mind,
A spotless soul, prompt aspect
and keen eye,
Quick penetration, contemplation
high
And truly worthy of the breast
which shrined:
In bright assembly lovely
ladies join’d
To grace that festival with
gratulant joy,
Amid so many and fair faces
nigh
Soon his good judgment did
the fairest find.
Of riper age and higher rank
the rest
Gently he beckon’d with
his hand aside,
And lovingly drew near the
perfect ONE:
So courteously her eyes and
brow he press’d,
All at his choice in fond
approval vied—
Envy through my sole veins
at that sweet freedom run.
MACGREGOR.
A sovereign nature,—an
exalted mind,—
A soul proud—sleepless—with
a lynx’s eye,—
An instant foresight,—thought
as towering high,
E’en as the heart in
which they are enshrined:
A bright assembly on that
day combined
Each other in his honour to
outvie,
When ’mid the fair his
judgment did descry
That sweet perfection all
to her resign’d.
Unmindful of her rival sisterhood,
He motion’d silently
his preference,
And fondly welcomed her, that
humblest one:
So pure a kiss he gave, that
all who stood,
Though fair, rejoiced in beauty’s
recompense:
By that strange act nay heart
was quite undone!
WOLLASTON.
I’ ho pregato Amor, e nel riprego.
HE PLEADS THE EXCESS OF HIS PASSION IN PALLIATION OF HIS FAULT.
Oft have I pray’d
to Love, and still I pray,
My charming agony, my bitter
joy!
That he would crave your grace,
if consciously
From the right path my guilty
footsteps stray.
That Reason, which o’er
happier minds holds sway,
Is quell’d of Appetite,
I not deny;
And hence, through tracks
my better thoughts would fly,
The victor hurries me perforce
away,
You, in whose bosom Genius,
Virtue reign
With mingled blaze lit by
auspicious skies—
Ne’er shower’d
kind star its beams on aught so rare!
You, you should say with pity,
not disdain;
“How could he ’scape,
lost wretch! these lightning eyes—
So passionate he, and I so
direly fair?”
WRANGHAM.
L’ alto signor, dinanzi a cui non vale.
HIS SORROW FOR THE ILLNESS OF LAURA INCREASES, NOT LESSENS, HIS FLAME.
The sovereign
Lord, ’gainst whom of no avail
Concealment, or resistance
is, or flight,
My mind had kindled to a new
delight
By his own amorous and ardent
ail:
Though his first blow, transfixing
my best mail
Were mortal sure, to push
his triumph quite
He took a shaft of sorrow
in his right,
So my soft heart on both sides
to assail.
A burning wound the one shed
fire and flame,
The other tears, which ever
grief distils,
Through eyes for your weak
health that are as rills.
But no relief from either
fountain came
My bosom’s conflagration
to abate,
Nay, passion grew by very
pity great.
MACGREGOR.
Mira quel colle, o stanco mio cor vago.
HE BIDS HIS HEART RETURN TO LAURA, NOT PERCEIVING THAT IT HAD NEVER LEFT HER.
P. Look on that hill,
my fond but harass’d heart!
Yestreen we left her there, who ’gan
to take
Some care of us and friendlier looks to dart;
Now from our eyes she draws a very lake:
Return alone—I love to be apart—
Try, if perchance the day will ever break
To mitigate our still increasing smart,
Partner and prophet of my lifelong ache.
H. O wretch! in whom vain thoughts and
idle swell,
Thou, who thyself hast tutor’d to forget,
Speak’st to thy heart as if ’twere
with thee yet?
When to thy greatest bliss thou saidst farewell,
Thou didst depart alone: it stay’d
with her,
Nor cares from those bright eyes, its home,
to stir.
MACGREGOR.
Fresco ambroso fiorito e verde colle.
HE CONGRATULATES HIS HEART ON ITS REMAINING WITH HER.
O hill with green
o’erspread, with groves o’erhung!
Where musing now, now trilling
her sweet lay,
Most like what bards of heavenly
spirits say,
Sits she by fame through every
region sung:
My heart, which wisely unto
her has clung—
More wise, if there, in absence
blest, it stay!
Notes now the turf o’er
which her soft steps stray,
Now where her angel-eyes’
mild beam is flung;
Then throbs and murmurs, as
they onward rove,
“Ah! were he here, that
man of wretched lot,
Doom’d but to taste
the bitterness of love!”
She, conscious, smiles:
our feelings tally not:
Heartless am I, mere stone;
heaven is thy grove—
O dear delightful shade, O
consecrated spot!
WRANGHAM.
Fresh, shaded
hill! with flowers and verdure crown’d,
Where, in fond musings, or
with music sweet,
To earth a heaven-sent spirit
takes her seat!
She who from all the world
has honour found.
Forsaking me, to her my fond
heart bound
—Divorce for aye
were welcome as discreet—
Notes where the turf is mark’d
by her fair feet,
Or from these eyes for her
in sorrow drown’d,
Then inly whispers as her
steps advance,
“Would for awhile that
wreteh were here alone
Who pines already o’er
his bitter lot.”
She conscious smiles.
Not equal is the chance;
An Eden thou, while I a heartless
stone.
O holy, happy, and beloved
spot!
MACGREGOR.
Il mal mi preme, e mi spaventa il peggio.
TO A FRIEND, IN LOVE LIKE HIMSELF, HE CAN GIVE NO ADVICE BUT TO RAISE HIS SOUL TO GOD.
Evil oppresses
me and worse dismay,
To which a plain and ample
way I find;
Driven like thee by frantic
passion, blind,
Urged by harsh thoughts I
bend like thee my way.
Nor know I if for war or peace
to pray:
To war is ruin, shame to peace,
assign’d.
But wherefore languish thus?—Rather,
resign’d,
Whate’er the Will Supreme
ordains, obey.
However ill that honour me
beseem
By thee conferr’d, whom
that affection cheats
Which many a perfect eye to
error sways,
To raise thy spirit to that
realm supreme
My counsel is, and win those
blissful seats:
For short the time, and few
the allotted days.
CAPEL LOFFT.
The bad oppresses
me, the worse dismays,
To which so broad and plain
a path I see;
My spirit, to like frenzy
led with thee,
Tried by the same hard thoughts,
in dotage strays,
Nor knows if peace or war
of God it prays,
Though great the loss and
deep the shame to me.
But why pine longer?
Best our lot will be,
What Heaven’s high will
ordains when man obeys.
Though I of that great honour
MACGREGOR.
Due rose fresche, e colte in paradiso.
THE TWO ROSES.
Two brilliant
roses, fresh from Paradise,
Which there, on May-day morn,
in beauty sprung
Fair gift, and by a lover
old and wise
Equally offer’d to two
lovers young:
At speech so tender and such
winning guise,
As transports from a savage
might have wrung,
A living lustre lit their
mutual eyes,
And instant on their cheeks
a soft blush hung.
The sun ne’er look’d
upon a lovelier pair,
With a sweet smile and gentle
sigh he said,
Pressing the hands of both
and turn’d away.
Of words and roses each alike
had share.
E’en now my worn heart
thrill with joy and dread,
O happy eloquence! O
blessed day!
MACGREGOR.
L’ aura che ‘l verde Lauro e l’ aureo crine.
HE PRAYS THAT HE MAY DIE BEFORE LAURA.
The balmy gale,
that, with its tender sigh,
Moves the green laurel and
the golden hair,
Makes with its graceful visitings
and rare
The gazer’s spirit from
his body fly.
A sweet and snow-white rose
in hard thorns set!
Where in the world her fellow
shall we find?
The glory of our age!
Creator kind!
Grant that ere hers my death
shall first be met.
So the great public loss I
may not see,
The world without its sun,
in darkness left,
And from my desolate eyes
their sole light reft,
My mind with which no other
thoughts agree,
Mine ears which by no other
sound are stirr’d
Except her ever pure and gentle
word.
MACGREGOR.
Parra forse ad alcun, che ’n lodar quella.
HE INVITES THOSE TO WHOM HIS PRAISES SEEM EXCESSIVE TO BEHOLD THE OBJECT OF THEM.
Haply my style
to some may seem too free
In praise of her who holds
my being’s chain,
Queen of her sex describing
her to reign,
Wise, winning, good, fair,
noble, chaste to be:
To me it seems not so; I fear
that she
My lays as low and trifling
may disdain,
Worthy a higher and a better
strain;
—Who thinks not
with me let him come and see.
Then will he say, She whom
his wishes seek
Is one indeed whose grace
and worth might tire
The muses of all lands and
either lyre.
But mortal tongue for state
divine is weak,
And may not soar; by flattery
and force,
As Fate not choice ordains,
Love rules its course.
MACGREGOR.
Chi vuol veder quantunque puo Natura.
WHOEVER BEHOLDS HER MUST ADMIT THAT HIS PRAISES CANNOT REACH HER PERFECTION.
Who wishes to
behold the utmost might
Of Heaven and Nature, on her
let him gaze,
Sole sun, not only in my partial
lays,
But to the dark world, blind
to virtue’s light!
And let him haste to view;
for death in spite
The guilty leaves, and on
the virtuous preys;
For this loved angel heaven
impatient stays;
And mortal charms are transient
as they’re bright!
Here shall he see, if timely
he arrive,
Virtue and beauty, royalty
of mind,
In one bless’d union
join’d. Then shall he say
That vainly my weak rhymes
to praise her strive,
Whose dazzling beams have
struck my genius blind:—
He must for ever weep if he
delay!
CHARLEMONT.
Stranger, whose
curious glance delights to trace
What Heaven and Nature join’d
to frame most rare;
Here view mine eyes’
bright sun—a sight so fair,
That purblind worlds, like
me, enamour’d gaze.
But speed thy step; for Death
with rapid pace
Pursues the best, nor makes
the bad his care:
Call’d to the skies
through yon blue fields of air,
On buoyant plume the mortal
grace obeys.
Then haste, and mark in one
rich form combined
(And, for that dazzling lustre
dimm’d mine eye,
Chide the weak efforts of
my trembling lay)
Each charm of person, and
each power of mind—
But, slowly if thy lingering
foot comply,
Grief and repentant shame
shall mourn the brief delay.
WRANGHAM.
Qual paura ho, quando mi torna a mente.
MELANCHOLY RECOLLECTIONS AND PRESAGES.
O Laura! when
my tortured mind
The sad remembrance bears
Of that ill-omen’d day,
When, victim to a thousand
doubts and fears,
I left my soul behind,
That soul that could not from
its partner stray;
In nightly visions to my longing
eyes
Thy form oft seems to rise,
As ever thou wert seen,
Fair like the rose, ’midst
paling flowers the queen,
But loosely in the wind,
Unbraided wave the ringlets
of thy hair,
That late with studious care,
I saw with pearls and flowery
garlands twined:
On thy wan lip, no cheerful
smile appears;
Thy beauteous face a tender
sadness wears;
Placid in pain thou seem’st,
serene in grief,
As conscious of thy fate,
and hopeless of relief!
Cease, cease, presaging heart!
O angels, deign
To hear my fervent prayer,
that all my fears be vain!
WOODHOUSELEE.
What dread I feel
when I revolve the day
I left my mistress, sad, without
repose,
My heart too with her:
and my fond thought knows
Nought on which gladlier,
oft’ner it can stay.
Again my fancy doth her form
portray
Meek among beauty’s
train, like to some rose
Midst meaner flowers; nor
joy nor grief she shows;
Not with misfortune prest
but with dismay.
Then were thrown by her custom’d
cheerfulness,
Her pearls, her chaplets,
and her gay attire,
Her song, her laughter, and
her mild address;
Thus doubtingly I quitted
her I love:
Now dark ideas, dreams, and
bodings dire
Raise terrors, which Heaven
grant may groundless prove!
NOTT.
Solea lontana in sonno consolarme.
SHE ANNOUNCES TO HIM, IN A VISION, THAT HE WILL NEVER SEE HER MORE.
To soothe me distant
far, in days gone by,
With dreams of one whose glance
all heaven combined,
Was mine; now fears and sorrow
haunt my mind,
Nor can I from that grief,
those terrors fly:
For oft in sleep I mark within
her eye
Deep pity with o’erwhelming
sadness join’d;
And oft I seem to hear on
every wind
Accents, which from my breast
chase peace and joy.
“That last dark eve,”
she cries, “remember’st thou,
When to those doting eyes
I bade farewell,
Forced by the time’s
relentless tyranny?
I had not then the power,
nor heart to tell,
What thou shalt find, alas!
too surely true—
Hope not again on earth thy
Laura’s face to see.”
WRANGHAM.
O misera ed orribil visione.
HE CANNOT BELIEVE IN HER DEATH, BUT IF TRUE, HE PRAYS GOD TO TAKE HIM ALSO FROM LIFE.
O misery! horror!
can it, then, be true,
That the sweet light before
its time is spent,
’Mid all its pains which
could my life content,
And ever with fresh hopes
of good renew?
If so, why sounds not other
channels through,
Nor only from herself, the
great event?
No! God and Nature could
not thus consent,
And my dark fears are groundless
and undue.
Still it delights my heart
to hope once more
The welcome sight of that
enchanting face,
The glory of our age, and
life to me.
But if, to her eternal home
to soar,
That heavenly spirit have
left her earthly place,
Oh! then not distant may my
last day be!
MACGREGOR.
In dubbio di mio stato, or piango, or canto.
TO HIS LONGING TO SEE HER AGAIN IS NOW ADDED THE FEAR OF SEEING HER NO MORE.
Uncertain of my
state, I weep and sing,
I hope and tremble, and with
rhymes and sighs
I ease my load, while Love
his utmost tries
How worse my sore afflicted
heart to sting.
Will her sweet seraph face
again e’er bring
Their former light to these
despairing eyes.
(What to expect, alas! or
how advise)
Or must eternal grief my bosom
wring?
For heaven, which justly it
deserves to win,
It cares not what on earth
may be their fate,
Whose sun it was, where centred
their sole gaze.
Such terror, so perpetual
warfare in,
Changed from my former self,
I live of late
As one who midway doubts,
and fears and strays.
MACGREGOR.
O dolci sguardi, o parolette accorte.
HE SIGHS FOR THOSE GLANCES FROM WHICH, TO HIS GRIEF, FORTUNE EVER DELIGHTS TO WITHDRAW HIM.
O angel looks!
O accents of the skies!
Shall I or see or hear you
once again?
O golden tresses, which my
heart enchain,
And lead it forth, Love’s
willing sacrifice!
O face of beauty given in
anger’s guise,
Which still I not enjoy, and
still complain!
O dear delusion! O bewitching
pain!
Transports, at once my punishment
and prize!
If haply those soft eyes some
kindly beam
(Eyes, where my soul and all
my thoughts reside)
Vouchsafe, in tender pity
to bestow;
Sudden, of all my joys the
murtheress tried,
Fortune with steed or ship
dispels the gleam;
Fortune, with stern behest
still prompt to work my woe.
WRANGHAM.
O gentle looks!
O words of heavenly sound!
Shall I behold you, hear you
once again?
O waving locks, that Love
has made the chain,
In which this wretched ruin’d
heart is bound!
O face divine! whose magic
spells surround
My soul, distemper’d
with unceasing pain:
O dear deceit! O loving
errors vain!
To hug the dart and doat upon
the wound!
Did those soft eyes, in whose
angelic light
My life, my thoughts, a constant
mansion find,
Ever impart a pure unmixed
delight?
Or if they have one moment,
then unkind
Fortune steps in, and sends
me from their sight,
And gives my opening pleasures
to the wind.
MOREHEAD.
I’ pur ascolto, e non odo novella.
HEARING NO TIDINGS OF HER, HE BEGINS TO DESPAIR.
Still do I wait
to hear, in vain still wait,
Of that sweet enemy I love
so well:
What now to think or say I
cannot tell,
’Twixt hope and fear
my feelings fluctuate:
The beautiful are still the
marks of fate;
And sure her worth and beauty
most excel:
MOREHEAD.
No tidings yet—I
listen, but in vain;
Of her, my beautiful beloved
foe,
What or to think or say I
nothing know,
So thrills my heart, my fond
hopes so sustain,
Danger to some has in their
beauty lain;
Fairer and chaster she than
others show;
God haply seeks to snatch
from earth below
Virtue’s best friend,
that heaven a star may gain,
Or rather sun. If what
I dread be nigh,
My life, its trials long,
its brief repose
Are ended all. O cruel
absence! why
Didst thou remove me from
the menaced woes?
My short sad story is already
done,
And midway in its course my
vain race run.
MACGREGOR.
La sera desiar, odiar l’ aurora.
CONTRARY TO THE WONT OF LOVERS, HE PREFERS MORN TO EVE.
Tranquil and happy
loves in this agree,
The evening to desire and
morning hate:
On me at eve redoubled sorrows
wait—
Morning is still the happier
hour for me.
For then my sun and Nature’s
oft I see
Opening at once the orient’s
rosy gate,
So match’d in beauty
and in lustre great,
Heaven seems enamour’d
of our earth to be!
As when in verdant leaf the
dear boughs burst
Whose roots have since so
centred in my core,
Another than myself is cherish’d
more.
Thus the two hours contrast,
day’s last and first:
Reason it is who calms me
to desire,
And fear and hate who fiercer
feed my fire.
MACGREGOR.
Far potess’ io vendetta di colei.
HIS SOUL VISITS HER IN SLEEP.
Oh! that from
her some vengeance I could wrest
With words and glances who
my peace destroys,
And then abash’d, for
my worse sorrow, flies,
Veiling her eyes so cruel,
yet so blest;
Thus mine afflicted spirits
and oppress’d
By sure degrees she sorely
drains and dries,
And in my heart, as savage
lion, cries
Even at night, when most I
should have rest.
My soul, which sleep expels
from his abode,
The body leaves, and, from
its trammels free,
Seeks her whose mien so often
menace show’d.
I marvel much, if heard its
advent be,
That while to her it spake,
and o’er her wept,
And round her clung, asleep
she alway kept.
MACGREGOR.
In quel bel viso, ch’ i’ sospiro e bramo.
ON LAURA PUTTING HER HAND BEFORE HER EYES WHILE HE WAS GAZING ON HER.
On the fair face
for which I long and sigh
Mine eyes were fasten’d
with desire intense.
When, to my fond thoughts,
Love, in best reply,
Her honour’d hand uplifting,
shut me thence.
My heart there caught—as
fish a fair hook by,
Or as a young bird on a limed
fence—
For good deeds follow from
example high,
To truth directed not its
busied sense.
But of its one desire my vision
reft,
As dreamingly, soon oped itself
a way,
Which closed, its bliss imperfect
had been left:
My soul between those rival
glories lay,
Fill’d with a heavenly
and new delight,
Whose strange surpassing sweets
engross’d it quite.
MACGREGOR.
Vive faville uscian de’ duo bei lumi.
A SMILING WELCOME, WHICH LAURA GAVE HIM UNEXPECTEDLY, ALMOST KILLS HIM WITH JOY.
Live sparks were
glistening from her twin bright eyes,
So sweet on me whose lightning
flashes beam’d,
And softly from a feeling
heart and wise,
Of lofty eloquence a rich
flood stream’d:
Even the memory serves to
wake my sighs
When I recall that day so
glad esteem’d,
And in my heart its sinking
spirit dies
As some late grace her colder
wont redeem’d.
My soul in pain and grief
that most has been
(How great the power of constant
habit is!)
Seems weakly ’neath
its double joy to lean:
For at the sole taste of unusual
bliss,
Trembling with fear, or thrill’d
by idle hope,
Oft on the point I’ve
been life’s door to ope.
MACGREGOR.
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 passion,
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.
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
shore;
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.
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 God 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.
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,
Unsex’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.
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 passage 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.
I’ vo pensando, e nel pensier m’ assale.
SELF-CONFLICT.
Ceaseless I think,
and in each wasting thought
So strong a pity for myself
appears,
That often it has brought
My harass’d heart to
new yet natural tears;
Seeing each day my end of
life draw nigh,
Instant in prayer, I ask of
God the wings
With which the spirit springs,
One thought thus parleys with
my troubled mind—
“What still do you desire,
whence succour wait?
Ah! wherefore to this great,
This guilty loss of time so
madly blind?
Take up at length, wisely
take up your part:
Tear every root of pleasure
from your heart,
Which ne’er can make
it blest,
Nor lets it freely play, nor
calmly rest.
If long ago with tedium and
disgust
You view’d the false
and fugitive delights
With which its tools a treacherous
world requites,
Why longer then repose in
it your trust,
Whence peace and firmness
are in exile thrust?
While life and vigour stay,
The bridle of your thoughts
is in your power:
Grasp, guide it while you
may:
So clogg’d with doubt,
so dangerous is delay,
The best for wise reform is
still the present hour.
“Well known to you what
rapture still has been
Shed on your eyes by the dear
sight of her
Whom, for your peace it were
Better if she the light had
never seen;
And you remember well (as
well you ought)
Her image, when, as with one
conquering bound,
Your heart in prey she caught,
Where flame from other light
no entrance found.
She fired it, and if that
fallacious heat
Lasted long years, expecting
still one day,
Which for our safety came
not, to repay,
It lifts you now to hope more
blest and sweet,
Uplooking to that heaven around
your head
Immortal, glorious spread;
If but a glance, a brief word,
an old song,
Had here such power to charm
Your eager passion, glad of
its own harm,
How far ’twill then
exceed if now the joy so strong.”
Another thought the while,
severe and sweet,
Laborious, yet delectable
in scope,
Takes in my heart its seat,
Filling with glory, feeding
it with hope;
Till, bent alone on bright
and deathless fame,
It feels not when I freeze,
or burn in flame,
When I am pale or ill,
And if I crush it rises stronger
still.
This, from my helpless cradle,
day by day,
Has strengthen’d with
my strength, grown with my growth,
Till haply now one tomb must
cover both:
When from the flesh the soul
has pass’d away,
No more this passion comrades
it as here;
For fame—if, after
death,
Learning speak aught of me—is
but a breath:
Wherefore, because I fear
Hopes to indulge which the
next hour may chase,
I would old error leave, and
the one truth embrace.
But the third wish which fills
and fires my heart
O’ershadows all the
rest which near it spring:
Time, too, dispels a part,
While, but for her, self-reckless
grown, I sing.
And then the rare light of
those beauteous eyes,
Sweetly before whose gentle
heat I melt,
As a fine curb is felt,
To combat which avails not
wit or force;
What boots it, trammell’d
by such adverse ties,
If still between the rocks
must lie her course,
To trim my little bark to
new emprize?
Ah! wilt Thou never, Lord,
who yet dost keep
Me safe and free from common
chains, which bind,
In different modes, mankind,
Deign also from my brow this
shame to sweep?
For, as one sunk in sleep,
Methinks death ever present
to my sight,
Yet when I would resist I
have no arms to fight.
Full well I see my state,
in nought deceived
By truth ill known, but rather
forced by Love,
Who leaves not him to move
In honour, who too much his
grace believed:
For o’er my heart from
time to time I feel
A subtle scorn, a lively anguish,
steal,
Whence every hidden thought,
Where all may see, upon my
brow is writ.
For with such faith on mortal
things to dote,
As unto God alone is just
and fit,
Disgraces worst the prize
who covets most:
Should reason, amid things
of sense, be lost.
This loudly calls her to the
proper track:
But, when she would obey
And home return, ill habits
keep her back,
And to my view portray
Her who was only born my death
to be,
Too lovely in herself, too
loved, alas! by me.
I neither know, to me what
term of life
Heaven destined when on earth
I came at first
To suffer this sharp strife,
’Gainst my own peace
which I myself have nursed,
Nor can I, for the veil my
body throws,
Yet see the time when my sad
life may close.
I feel my frame begin
To fail, and vary each desire
within:
And now that I believe my
parting day
Is near at hand, or else not
distant lies,
Like one whom losses wary
make and wise,
I travel back in thought,
where first the way,
The right-hand way, I left,
to peace which led.
While through me shame and
grief,
Recalling the vain past on
this side spread,
On that brings no relief,
Passion, whose strength I
now from habit, feel,
So great that it would dare
with death itself to deal.
Song! I am here, my heart
the while more cold
With fear than frozen snow,
Feels in its certain core
death’s coming blow;
For thus, in weak self-communing,
has roll’d
Of my vain life the better
portion by:
Worse burden surely ne’er
Tried mortal man than that
which now I bear;
Though death be seated nigh,
For future life still seeking
councils new,
I know and love the good,
yet, ah! the worse pursue.
MACGREGOR.
Aspro core e selvaggio, e cruda voglia.
HOPE ALONE SUPPORTS HIM IN HIS MISERY.
Hard heart and
cold, a stern will past belief,
In angel form of gentle sweet
allure;
If thus her practised rigour
long endure,
O’er me her triumph
will be poor and brief.
For when or spring, or die,
flower, herb, and leaf.
When day is brightest, night
when most obscure,
Alway I weep. Great cause
from Fortune sure,
From Love and Laura have I
for my grief.
I live in hope alone, remembering
still
How by long fall of small
drops I have seen
Marble and solid stone that
worn have been.
No heart there is so hard,
so cold no will,
By true tears, fervent prayers,
and faithful love
That will not deign at length
to melt and move.
MACGREGOR.
Signor mio caro, ogni pensier mi tira.
HE LAMENTS HIS ABSENCE FROM LAURA AND COLONNA, THE ONLY OBJECTS OF HIS AFFECTION.
My lord and friend!
thoughts, wishes, all inclined
My heart to visit one so dear
to me,
But Fortune—can
she ever worse decree?—
Held me in hand, misled, or
kept behind.
Since then the dear desire
Love taught my mind
But leads me to a death I
did not see,
And while my twin lights,
wheresoe’er I be,
Are still denied, by day and
night I’ve pined.
Affection for my lord, my
lady’s love,
The bonds have been wherewith
in torments long
I have been bound, which round
myself I wove.
A Laurel green, a Column fair
and strong,
This for three lustres, that
for three years more
In my fond breast, nor wish’d
it free, I bore.
MACGREGOR.
[Illustration: SELVA PIANA, NEAR PARMA.]
SONNET I.
Oime il bel viso! oime il soave sguardo!
ON THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE DEATH OF LAURA.
Woe for the ’witching
look of that fair face!
The port where ease with dignity
combined!
Woe for those accents, that
each savage mind
To softness tuned, to noblest
thoughts the base!
And the sweet smile, from
whence the dart I trace,
Which now leaves death my
only hope behind!
Exalted soul, most fit on
thrones to ’ve shined,
But that too late she came
this earth to grace!
For you I still must burn,
and breathe in you;
For I was ever yours; of you
bereft,
Full little now I reck all
other care.
With hope and with desire
you thrill’d me through,
When last my only joy on earth
I left:—
But caught by winds each word
was lost in air.
ANON., OX., 1795.
Alas! that touching
glance, that beauteous face!
Alas! that dignity with sweetness
fraught!
Alas! that speech which tamed
the wildest thought!
That roused the coward, glory
to embrace!
Alas! that smile which in
me did encase
That fatal dart, whence here
I hope for nought—
Oh! hadst thou earlier our
regions sought,
The world had then confess’d
thy sovereign grace!
In thee I breathed, life’s
flame was nursed by thee,
For I was thine; and since
of thee bereaved,
Each other woe hath lost its
venom’d sting:
My soul’s blest joy!
when last thy voice on me
In music fell, my heart sweet
hope conceived;
Alas! thy words have sped
on zephyrs’ wings!
WOLLASTON.
Che debb’ io far? che mi consigli, Amore?
HE ASKS COUNSEL OF LOVE, WHETHER HE SHOULD FOLLOW LAURA, OR STILL ENDURE EXISTENCE.
What should I
do? what, Love, dost thou advise?
Full time it is to die:
And longer than I wish have
I delay’d.
My mistress is no more, and
with her gone my heart;
To follow her, I must need
Break short the course of
my afflictive years:
To view her here below
I ne’er can hope; and
irksome ’tis to wait.
Since that my every joy
By her departure unto tears
is turn’d,
Of all its sweets my life
has been deprived.
Thou, Love, dost feel, therefore
to thee I plain,
How grievous is my loss;
I know my sorrows grieve and
weigh thee down,
E’en as our common cause:
for on one rock
We both have wreck’d
our bark;
And in one instant was its
sun obscured.
What genius can with words
Rightly describe my lamentable
state?
Ah, blind, ungrateful world!
Thou hast indeed just cause
with me to mourn;
That beauty thou didst hold
with her is fled!
Fall’n is thy glory,
and thou seest it not;
Unworthy thou with her,
While here she dwelt, acquaintance
to maintain.
Or to be trodden by her saintly
feet;
For that, which is so fair,
Should with its presence decorate
the skies
But I, a wretch who, reft
Of her, prize nor myself nor
mortal life,
Recall her with my tears:
This only of my hope’s
vast sum remains;
And this alone doth still
support me here.
Ah, me! her charming face
is earth become,
Which wont unto our thought
To picture heaven and happiness
above!
Her viewless form inhabits
paradise,
Divested of that veil,
Which shadow’d while
below her bloom of life,
Once more to put it on,
And never then to cast it
off again;
When so much more divine,
And glorious render’d,
’twill by us be view’d,
As mortal beauty to eternal
yields.
More bright than ever, and
a lovelier fair,
Before me she appears,
Where most she’s conscious
that her sight will please
This is one pillar that sustains
my life;
The other her dear name,
That to my heart sounds so
delightfully.
But tracing in my mind,
That she who form’d
my choicest hope is dead
E’en in her blossom’d
prime;
Thou knowest, Love, full well
what I become:
She I trust sees it too, who
dwells with truth.
Ye sweet associates, who admired
her charms,
Her life angelical,
And her demeanour heavenly
upon earth
For me lament, and be by pity
wrought
No wise for her, who, risen
To so much peace, me has in
warfare left;
Such, that should any shut
The road to follow her, for
some length of time,
What Love declares to me
Alone would check my cutting
through the tie;
But in this guise he reasons
from within:
“The mighty grief transporting
thee restrain;
For passions uncontroll’d
Forfeit that heaven, to which
thy soul aspires,
Where she is living whom some
fancy dead;
While at her fair remains
She smiles herself, sighing
for thee alone;
And that her fame, which lives
In many a clime hymn’d
by thy tongue, may ne’er
Become extinct, she prays;
But that her name should harmonize
thy voice;
If e’er her eyes were
lovely held, and dear.”
Fly the calm, green retreat;
And ne’er approach where
song and laughter dwell,
O strain; but wail be thine!
It suits thee ill with the
glad throng to stay,
Thou sorrowing widow wrapp’d
in garb of woe.
NOTT.
Rotta e l’ alta Colonna, e ’l verde Lauro.
HE BEWAILS HIS DOUBLE LOSS IN THE DEATHS OF LAURA, AND OF COLONNA.
Fall’n that
proud Column, fall’n that Laurel tree,
Whose shelter once relieved
my wearied mind;
I’m reft of what I ne’er
again shall find,
Though ransack’d every
shore and every sea:
Double the treasure death
has torn from me,
In which life’s pride
was with its pleasure join’d;
Not eastern gems, nor the
world’s wealth combined,
Can give it back, nor land,
nor royalty.
But, if so fate decrees, what
can I more,
Than with unceasing tears
these eyes bedew,
Abase my visage, and my lot
deplore?
Ah, what is life, so lovely
to the view!
How quickly in one little
morn is lost
What years have won with labour
and with cost!
NOTT.
My laurell’d
hope! and thou, Colonna proud!
Your broken strength can shelter
me no more!
Nor Boreas, Auster, Indus,
Afric’s shore,
Can give me that, whose loss
my soul hath bow’d:
WOLLASTON.
Amor, se vuoi ch’ i’ torni al giogo antico.
UNLESS LOVE CAN RESTORE HER TO LIFE, HE WILL NEVER AGAIN BE HIS SLAVE.
If thou wouldst
have me, Love, thy slave again,
One other proof, miraculous
and new,
Must yet be wrought by you,
Ere, conquer’d, I resume
my ancient chain—
Lift my dear love from earth
which hides her now,
For whose sad loss thus beggar’d
I remain;
Once more with warmth endow
That wise chaste heart where
wont my life to dwell;
And if as some divine, thy
influence so,
From highest heaven unto the
depths of hell,
Prevail in sooth—for
what its scope below,
’Mid us of common race,
Methinks each gentle breast
may answer well—
Rob Death of his late triumph,
and replace
Thy conquering ensign in her
lovely face!
Relume on that fair brow the
living light,
Which was my honour’d
guide, and the sweet flame.
Though spent, which still
the same
Kindles me now as when it
burn’d most bright;
For thirsty hind with such
desire did ne’er
Long for green pastures or
the crystal brook,
As I for the dear look,
Whence I have borne so much,
and—if aright
I read myself and passion—more
must bear:
This makes me to one theme
my thoughts thus bind,
An aimless wanderer where
is pathway none,
With weak and wearied mind
Pursuing hopes which never
can be won.
Hence to thy summons answer
I disdain,
Thine is no power beyond thy
proper reign.
Give me again that gentle
voice to hear,
As in my heart are heard its
echoes still,
Which had in song the skill
Hate to disarm, rage soften,
sorrow cheer,
To tranquillize each tempest
of the mind,
And from dark lowering clouds
to keep it clear;
Which sweetly then refined
And raised my verse where
now it may not soar.
And, with desire that hope
may equal vie,
Since now my mind is waked
in strength, restore
Their proper business to my
ear and eye,
Awanting which life must
All tasteless be and harder
than to die.
Vainly with me to your old
power you trust,
While my first love is shrouded
still in dust.
Give her dear glance again
to bless my sight,
Which, as the sun on snow,
beam’d still for me;
Open each window bright
Where pass’d my heart
whence no return can be;
Resume thy golden shafts,
prepare thy bow,
And let me once more drink
with old delight
Of that dear voice the sound,
Whence what love is I first
was taught to know.
And, for the lures, which
still I covet so,
Were rifest, richest there
my soul that bound,
Waken to life her tongue,
and on the breeze
Let her light silken hair,
Loosen’d by Love’s
own fingers, float at ease;
Do this, and I thy willing
yoke will bear,
Else thy hope faileth my free
will to snare.
Oh! never my gone heart those
links of gold,
Artlessly negligent, or curl’d
with grace,
Nor her enchanting face,
Sweetly severe, can captive
cease to hold;
These, night and day, the
amorous wish in me
Kept, more than laurel or
than myrtle, green,
When, doff’d or donn’d,
we see
Of fields the grass, of woods
their leafy screen.
And since that Death so haughty
stands and stern
The bond now broken whence
I fear’d to flee,
Nor thine the art, howe’er
the world may turn,
To bind anew the chain,
What boots it, Love, old arts
to try again?
Their day is pass’d:
thy power, since lost the arms
Which were my terror once,
no longer harms.
Thy arms were then her eyes,
unrivall’d, whence
Live darts were freely shot
of viewless flame;
No help from reason came,
For against Heaven avails
not man’s defence;
Thought, Silence, Feeling,
Gaiety, Wit, Sense,
Modest demeanour, affable
discourse,
In words of sweetest force
Whence every grosser nature
gentle grew,
That angel air, humble to
all and kind,
Whose praise, it needs not
mine, from all we find;
Stood she, or sat, a grace
which often threw
Doubt on the gazer’s
mind
To which the meed of highest
praise was due—
O’er hardest hearts
thy victory was sure,
With arms like these, which
lost I am secure.
The minds which Heaven abandons
to thy reign,
Haply are bound in many times
and ways,
But mine one only chain,
Its wisdom shielding me from
more, obeys;
Yet freedom brings no joy,
though that he burst.
Rather I mournful ask, “Sweet
pilgrim mine,
Alas! what doom divine
Me earliest bound to life
yet frees thee first:
God, who has snatch’d
thee from the world so soon,
Only to kindle our desires,
the boon
Of virtue, so complete and
lofty, gave
Now, Love, I may deride
Thy future wounds, nor fear
to be thy slave;
In vain thy bow is bent, its
bolts fall wide,
When closed her brilliant
eyes their virtue died.
“Death from thy every
law my heart has freed;
She who my lady was is pass’d
on high,
Leaving me free to count dull
hours drag by,
To solitude and sorrow still
decreed.”
MACGREGOR.
L’ ardente nodo ov’ io fui, d’ ora in ora.
ON THE DEATH OF ANOTHER LADY.
That burning toil,
in which I once was caught,
While twice ten years and
one I counted o’er,
Death has unloosed: like
burden I ne’er bore;
That grief ne’er fatal
proves I now am taught.
But Love, who to entangle
me still sought,
Spread in the treacherous
grass his net once more,
So fed the fire with fuel
as before,
That my escape I hardly could
have wrought.
And, but that my first woes
experience gave,
Snared long since and kindled
I had been,
And all the more, as I’m
become less green:
My freedom death again has
come to save,
And break my bond; that flame
now fades, and fails,
’Gainst which nor force
nor intellect prevails.
NOTT.
La vita fugge, e non s’ arresta un’ ora.
PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE ARE NOW ALIKE PAINFUL TO HIM.
Life passes quick,
nor will a moment stay,
And death with hasty journeys
still draws near;
And all the present joins
my soul to tear,
With every past and every
future day:
And to look back or forward,
so does prey
On this distracted breast,
that sure I swear,
Did I not to myself some pity
bear,
I were e’en now from
all these thoughts away.
Much do I muse on what of
pleasures past
This woe-worn heart has known;
meanwhile, t’ oppose
My passage, loud the winds
around me roar.
I see my bliss in port, and
torn my mast
And sails, my pilot faint
with toil, and those
Fair lights, that wont to
guide me, now no more.
ANON., OX., 1795.
Life ever flies
with course that nought may stay,
Death follows after with gigantic
stride;
Ills past and present on my
spirit prey,
And future evils threat on
every side:
Whether I backward look or
forward fare,
A thousand ills my bosom’s
peace molest;
And were it not that pity
bids me spare
My nobler part, I from these
thoughts would rest.
If ever aught of sweet my
heart has known,
Remembrance wakes its charms,
while, tempest tost,
I mark the clouds that o’er
my course still frown;
E’en in the port I see
the storm afar;
Weary my pilot, mast and cable
lost,
And set for ever my fair polar
star.
DACRE.
Che fai? che pensi? che pur dietro guardi.
HE ENCOURAGES HIS SOUL TO LIFT ITSELF TO GOD, AND TO ABANDON THE VANITIES OF EARTH.
What dost thou?
think’st thou? wherefore bend thine eye
Back on the time that never
shall return?
The raging fire, where once
’twas thine to burn,
Why with fresh fuel, wretched
soul, supply?
Those thrilling tones, those
glances of the sky,
Which one by one thy fond
verse strove to adorn,
Are fled; and—well
thou knowest, poor forlorn!—
To seek them here were bootless
industry.
Then toil not bliss so fleeting
to renew;
To chase a thought so fair,
so faithless, cease:
Thou rather that unwavering
good pursue,
Which guides to heaven; since
nought below can please.
Fatal for us that beauty’s
torturing view,
Living or dead alike which
desolates our peace.
WRANGHAM.
Datemi pace, o duri miei pensieri.
HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A BESIEGED CITY, AND ACCUSES HIS OWN HEART OF TREASON.
O tyrant thoughts,
vouchsafe me some repose!
Sufficeth not that Love, and
Death, and Fate,
Make war all round me to my
very gate,
But I must in me armed hosts
enclose?
And thou, my heart, to me
alone that shows
Disloyal still, what cruel
guides of late
In thee find shelter, now
the chosen mate
Of my most mischievous and
bitter foes?
Love his most secret embassies
in thee,
In thee her worst results
hard Fate explains,
And Death the memory of that
blow, to me
Which shatters all that yet
of hope remains;
In thee vague thoughts themselves
with error arm,
And thee alone I blame for
all my harm.
MACGREGOR.
Occhi miei, oscurato e ’l nostro sole.
HE ENDEAVOURS TO FIND PEACE IN THE THOUGHT THAT SHE IS IN HEAVEN.
Mine eyes! our
glorious sun is veil’d in night,
Or set to us, to rise ’mid
realms of love;
There we may hail it still,
and haply prove
It mourn’d that we delay’d
our heavenward flight.
Mine ears! the music of her
tones delight
Those, who its harmony can
best approve;
My feet! who in her track
so joy’d to move.
Ye cannot penetrate her regions
bright!
But wherefore should your
wrath on me descend?
No spell of mine hath hush’d
for ye the joy
Of seeing, hearing, feeling,
she was near:
Go, war with Death—yet,
rather let us bend
To Him who can create—who
can destroy—
And bids the ready smile succeed
the tear.
WOLLASTON.
O my sad eyes!
our sun is overcast,—
Nay, rather borne to heaven,
and there is shining,
Waiting our coming, and perchance
repining
At our delay; there shall
we meet at last:
And there, mine ears, her
angel words float past,
Those who best understand
their sweet divining;
Howe’er, my feet, unto
the search inclining,
Ye cannot reach her in those
regions vast.
Why, then, do ye torment me
thus, for, oh!
It is no fault of mine, that
ye no more
Behold, and hear, and welcome
her below;
Blame Death,—or
rather praise Him and adore,
Who binds and frees, restrains
and letteth go,
And to the weeping one can
joy restore.
WROTTESLEY.
Poiche la vista angelica serena.
WITH HER, HIS ONLY SOLACE, IS TAKEN AWAY ALL HIS DESIRE OF LIFE.
Since her calm
angel face, long beauty’s fane,
My beggar’d soul by
this brief parting throws
In darkest horrors and in
deepest woes,
I seek by uttering to allay
my pain.
Certes, just sorrow leads
me to complain:
This she, who is its cause,
and Love too shows;
No other remedy my poor heart
knows
Against the troubles that
in life obtain.
Death! thou hast snatch’d
her hence with hand unkind,
And thou, glad Earth! that
fair and kindly face
Now hidest from me in thy
close embrace;
Why leave me here, disconsolate
and blind,
Since she who of mine eyes
the light has been,
Sweet, loving, bright, no
more with me is seen?
MACGREGOR.
S’ Amor novo consiglio non n’ apporta.
HE DESCRIBES HIS SAD STATE.
If Love to give
new counsel still delay,
My life must change to other
scenes than these;
My troubled spirit grief and
terror freeze,
Desire augments while all
my hopes decay.
Thus ever grows my life, by
night and day,
Despondent, and dismay’d,
and ill at ease,
Harass’d and helmless
on tempestuous seas,
With no sure escort on a doubtful
way.
Her path a sick imagination
guides,
Its true light underneath—ah,
no! on high,
Whence on my heart she beams
more bright than eye,
Not on mine eyes; from them
a dark veil hides
Those lovely orbs, and makes
me, ere life’s span
Is measured half, an old and
broken man.
MACGREGOR.
Nell’ eta sua piu bella e piu fiorita.
HE DESIRES TO DIE, THAT HIS SOUL MAY BE WITH HER, AS HIS THOUGHTS ALREADY ARE.
E’en in
youth’s fairest flower, when Love’s dear
sway
Is wont with strongest power
our hearts to bind,
Leaving on earth her fleshly
veil behind,
My life, my Laura, pass’d
from me away;
Living, and fair, and free
from our vile clay,
From heaven she rules supreme
my willing mind:
Alas! why left me in this
mortal rind
That first of peace, of sin
that latest day?
As my fond thoughts her heavenward
path pursue,
So may my soul glad, light,
and ready be
To follow her, and thus from
troubles flee.
Whate’er delays me as
worst loss I rue:
Time makes me to myself but
heavier grow:
Death had been sweet to-day
three years ago!
MACGREGOR.
Se lamentar augelli, o Verdi fronde.
SHE IS EVER PRESENT TO HIM.
If the lorn bird
complain, or rustling sweep
Soft summer airs o’er
foliage waving slow,
Or the hoarse brook come murmuring
down the steep,
Where on the enamell’d
bank I sit below
With thoughts of love that
bid my numbers flow;
’Tis then I see her,
though in earth she sleep!
Her, form’d in heaven!
I see, and hear, and know!
Responsive sighing, weeping
as I weep:
“Alas,” she pitying
says, “ere yet the hour,
Why hurry life away with swifter
flight?
Why from thy eyes this flood
of sorrow pour?
No longer mourn my fate! through
death my days
Become eternal! to eternal
light
These eyes, which seem’d
in darkness closed, I raise!”
DACRE.
Where the green
leaves exclude the summer beam,
And softly bend as balmy breezes
blow,
And where with liquid lapse
the lucid stream
Across the fretted rock is
heard to flow,
Pensive I lay: when she
whom earth conceals
As if still living to my eye
appears;
And pitying Heaven her angel
form reveals
To say, “Unhappy Petrarch,
dry your tears.
Ah! why, sad lover, thus before
your time
In grief and sadness should
your life decay,
And, like a blighted flower,
your manly prime
In vain and hopeless sorrow
fade away?
Ah! yield not thus to culpable
despair;
But raise thine eyes to heaven
and think I wait thee there!”
CHARLOTTE SMITH.
Moved by the summer
wind when all is still,
The light leaves quiver on
the yielding spray;
Sighs from its flowery bank
the lucid rill,
While the birds answer in
their sweetest lay.
Vain to this sickening heart
these scenes appear:
No form but hers can meet
my tearful eyes;
In every passing gale her
voice I hear;
It seems to tell me, “I
have heard thy sighs.
But why,” she cries,
“in manhood’s towering prime,
In grief’s dark mist
ANNE BANNERMAN.
Mai non fu’ in parte ove si chiar’ vedessi.
VAUCLUSE.
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.
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 goddess
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.
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 lustres
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
lustre 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.
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,
WROTTESLEY.
Si breve e ’l tempo e ’l pensier si 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 passage here!”
MACGREGOR.
Ne mai pietosa madre al caro figlio.
HER COUNSEL ALONE AFFORDS HIM RELIEF.
Ne’er did
fond mother to her darling son,
Or zealous spouse to her beloved
mate,
Sage counsel give, in perilous
estate,
With such kind caution, in
such tender tone,
As gives that fair one, who,
oft looking down
On my hard exile from her
heavenly seat,
With wonted kindness bends
upon my fate
Her brow, as friend or parent
would have done:
Now chaste affection prompts
her speech, now fear,
Instructive speech, that points
what several ways
To seek or shun, while journeying
here below;
Then all the ills of life
she counts, and prays
My soul ere long may quit
this terrene sphere:
And by her words alone I’m
soothed and freed from woe.
NOTT.
Ne’er to
the son, in whom her age is blest,
The anxious mother—nor
to her loved lord
The wedded dame, impending
ill to ward,
With careful sighs so faithful
counsel press’d,
As she, who, from her high
eternal rest,
Bending—as though
my exile she deplored—
With all her wonted tenderness
restored,
And softer pity on her brow
impress’d!
Now with a mother’s
fears, and now as one
Who loves with chaste affection,
in her speech
She points what to pursue
and what to shun!
Our years retracing of long,
various grief,
Wooing my soul at higher good
to reach,
And while she speaks, my bosom
finds relief!
DACRE.
Se quell’ aura soave de’ sospiri.
SHE RETURNS IN PITY TO COMFORT HIM WITH HER ADVICE.
If that soft breath
of sighs, which, from above,
I hear of her so long my lady
here,
Who, now in heaven, yet seems,
as of our sphere,
To breathe, and move, to feel,
and live, and love,
I could but paint, my passionate
verse should move
Warmest desires; so jealous,
yet so dear
O’er me she bends and
breathes, without a fear,
That on the way I tire, or
turn, or rove.
She points the path on high:
and I who know
Her chaste anxiety and earnest
prayer,
In whispers sweet, affectionate,
and low,
Train, at her will, my acts
and wishes there:
And find such sweetness in
her words alone
As with their power should
melt the hardest stone.
MACGREGOR.
Sennuccio mio, benche doglioso e solo.
ON THE DEATH OF HIS FRIEND SENNUCCIO.
O friend! though
left a wretched pilgrim here,
By thee though left in solitude
to roam,
Yet can I mourn that thou
hast found thy home,
On angel pinions borne, in
bright career?
Now thou behold’st the
ever-turning sphere,
And stars that journey round
the concave dome;
Now thou behold’st how
short of truth we come,
How blind our judgment, and
thine own how clear!
That thou art happy soothes
my soul oppress’d.
O friend! salute from me the
laurell’d band,
Guitton and Cino, Dante, and
the rest:
And tell my Laura, friend,
that here I stand,
Wasting in tears, scarce of
myself possess’d,
While her blest beauties all
my thoughts command.
MOREHEAD.
Sennuccio mine!
I yet myself console,
Though thou hast left me,
mournful and alone,
For eagerly to heaven thy
spirit has flown,
Free from the flesh which
did so late enrol;
Thence, at one view, commands
it either pole,
The planets and their wondrous
courses known,
And human sight how brief
and doubtful shown;
Thus with thy bliss my sorrow
I control.
One favour—in the
third of those bright spheres.
Guido and Dante, Cino, too,
salute,
With Franceschin and all that
tuneful train,
And tell my lady how I live,
in tears,
(Savage and lonely as some
forest brute)
Her sweet face and fair works
when memory brings again.
MACGREGOR.
I’ ho pien di sospir quest’ aer tutto.
VAUCLUSE HAS BECOME TO HIM A SCENE OF PAIN.
To every sound,
save sighs, this air is mute,
When from rude rocks, I view
the smiling land
Where she was born, who held
my life in hand
From its first bud till blossoms
turn’d to fruit:
To heaven she’s gone,
and I’m left destitute
To mourn her loss, and cast
around in pain
These wearied eyes, which,
seeking her in vain
Where’er they turn,
o’erflow with grief acute;
There’s not a root or
stone amongst these hills,
Nor branch nor verdant leaf
’midst these soft glades,
Nor in the valley flowery
herbage grows,
Nor liquid drop the sparkling
fount distils,
Nor savage beast that shelters
in these shades,
But knows how sharp my grief—how
deep my woes.
WROTTESLEY.
L’ alma mia fiamma oltra le belle bella.
HE ACKNOWLEDGES THE WISDOM OF HER PAST COLDNESS TO HIM.
My noble flame—more
fair than fairest are
Whom kind Heaven here has
e’er in favour shown—
Before her time, alas for
me! has flown
To her celestial home and
parent star.
I seem but now to wake; wherein
a bar
She placed on passion ’twas
for good alone,
As, with a gentle coldness
all her own,
She waged with my hot wishes
virtuous war.
My thanks on her for such
wise care I press,
That with her lovely face
and sweet disdain
She check’d my love
and taught me peace to gain.
O graceful artifice! deserved
success!
I with my fond verse, with
her bright eyes she,
Glory in her, she virtue got
in me.
MACGREGOR.
Come va ’l mondo! or mi diletta e piace.
HE BLESSES LAURA FOR HER VIRTUE.
How goes the world!
now please me and delight
What most displeased me:
now I see and feel
My trials were vouchsafed
me for my weal,
That peace eternal should
brief war requite.
O hopes and wishes, ever fond
and slight,
In lovers most, which oftener
harm than heal!
Worse had she yielded to my
warm appeal
Whom Heaven has welcomed from
the grave’s dark night.
But blind love and my dull
mind so misled,
I sought to trespass even
by main force
Where to have won my precious
soul were dead.
Blessed be she who shaped
mine erring course
To better port, by turns who
curb’d and lured
My bold and passionate will
where safety was secured.
MACGREGOR.
Alas! this changing
world! my present joy
Was once my grief’s
dark source, and now I feel
My sufferings pass’d
were but my soul to heal
Its fearful warfare—peace’s
soft decoy.
Poor human wishes! Hope,
thou fragile toy
To lovers oft! my woe had
WOLLASTON.
Quand’ io veggio dal ciel scender l’ Aurora.
MORN RENDERS HIS GRIEF MORE POIGNANT.
When from the
heavens I see Aurora beam,
With rosy-tinctured cheek
and golden hair,
Love bids my face the hue
of sadness wear:
“There Laura dwells!”
I with a sigh exclaim.
Thou knowest well the hour
that shall redeem,
Happy Tithonus, thy much-valued
fair;
But not to her I love can
I repair,
Till death extinguishes this
vital flame.
Yet need’st thou not
thy separation mourn;
Certain at evening’s
close is the return
Of her, who doth not thy hoar
locks despise;
But my nights sad, my days
are render’d drear,
By her, who bore my thoughts
to yonder skies,
And only a remember’d
name left here.
NOTT.
When from the
east appears the purple ray
Of morn arising, and salutes
the eyes
That wear the night in watching
for the day,
Thus speaks my heart:
“In yonder opening skies,
In yonder fields of bliss,
my Laura lies!”
Thou sun, that know’st
to wheel thy burning car,
Each eve, to the still surface
of the deep,
And there within thy Thetis’
bosom sleep;
Oh! could I thus my Laura’s
presence share,
How would my patient heart
its sorrows bear!
Adored in life, and honour’d
in the dust,
She that in this fond breast
for ever reigns
Has pass’d the gulph
of death!—To deck that bust,
No trace of her but the sad
name remains.
WOODHOUSELEE.
Gli occhi di ch’ io parlai si caldamente.
HIS LYRE IS NOW ATTUNED ONLY TO WOE.
The eyes, the
face, the limbs of heavenly mould,
So long the theme of my impassion’d
lay,
Charms which so stole me from
myself away,
That strange to other men
the course I hold;
The crisped locks of pure
and lucid gold,
The lightning of the angelic
smile, whose ray
To earth could all of paradise
convey,
A little dust are now!—to
feeling cold!
And yet I live!—but
that I live bewail,
Sunk the loved light that
through the tempest led
My shatter’d bark, bereft
of mast and sail:
Hush’d be for aye the
song that breathed love’s fire!
Lost is the theme on which
my fancy fed,
And turn’d to mourning
my once tuneful lyre.
DACRE.
The eyes, the
arms, the hands, the feet, the face,
Which made my thoughts and
words so warm and wild,
That I was almost from myself
exiled,
And render’d strange
to all the human race;
The lucid locks that curl’d
in golden grace,
The lightening beam that,
when my angel smiled,
Diffused o’er earth
an Eden heavenly mild;
What are they now? Dust,
lifeless dust, alas!
And I live on, a melancholy
slave,
Toss’d by the tempest
in a shatter’d bark,
Reft of the lovely light that
cheer’d the wave.
The flame of genius, too,
extinct and dark,
Here let my lays of love conclusion
have;
Mute be the lyre: tears
best my sorrows mark.
MOREHEAD.
Those eyes whose
living lustre shed the heat
Of bright meridian day; the
heavenly mould
Of that angelic form; the
hands, the feet,
The taper arms, the crisped
locks of gold;
Charms that the sweets of
paradise enfold;
The radiant lightning of her
angel-smile,
And every grace that could
the sense beguile
Are now a pile of ashes, deadly
cold!
And yet I bear to drag this
cumbrous chain,
That weighs my soul to earth—to
bliss or pain
Alike insensible:—her
anchor lost,
The frail dismantled bark,
all tempest-toss’d,
Surveys no port of comfort—closed
the scene
Of life’s delusive joys;—and
dry the Muse’s vein.
WOODHOUSELEE.
Those eyes, sweet
subject of my rapturous strain!
The arms, the hands, the feet,
that lovely face,
By which I from myself divided
was,
And parted from the vulgar
and the vain;
Those crisped locks, pure
gold unknown to stain!
Of that angelic smile the
lightening grace,
Which wont to make this earth
a heavenly place!
Dissolved to senseless ashes
now remain!
And yet I live, to endless
grief a prey,
’Reft of that star,
my loved, my certain guide,
Disarm’d my bark, while
tempests round me blow!
Stop, then, my verse—dry
is the fountain’s tide.
That fed my genius! Cease,
my amorous lay!
Changed is my lyre, attuned
to endless woe!
CHARLEMONT.
S’ io avessi pensato che si care.
HIS POEMS WERE WRITTEN ONLY TO SOOTHE HIS OWN GRIEF: OTHERWISE HE WOULD HAVE LABOURED TO MAKE THEM MORE DESERVING OF THE FAME THEY HAVE ACQUIRED.
Had I e’er
thought that to the world so dear
The echo of my sighs would
be in rhyme,
I would have made them in
my sorrow’s prime
Rarer in style, in number
more appear.
Since she is dead my muse
who prompted here,
First in my thoughts and feelings
at all time,
All power is lost of tender
or sublime
My rough dark verse to render
MACGREGOR.
Oh! had I deem’d
my sighs, in numbers rung,
Could e’er have gain’d
the world’s approving smile,
I had awoke my rhymes in choicer
style,
My sorrow’s birth more
tunefully had sung:
But she is gone whose inspiration
hung
On all my words, and did my
thoughts beguile;
My numbers harsh seem’d
melody awhile,
Now she is mute who o’er
them music flung.
Nor fame, nor other incense,
then I sought,
But how to quell my heart’s
o’erwhelming grief;
I wept, but sought no honour
in my tear:
But could the world’s
fair suffrage now be bought,
’Twere joy to gain,
but that my hour is brief,
Her lofty spirit waves me
to her bier.
WOLLASTON.
Soleasi nel mio cor star bella e viva.
SINCE HER DEATH, NOTHING IS LEFT TO HIM BUT GRIEF.
She stood within
my heart, warm, young, alone,
As in a humble home a lady
bright;
By her last flight not merely
am I grown
Mortal, but dead, and she
an angel quite.
A soul whence every bliss
and hope is flown,
Love shorn and naked of its
own glad light,
Might melt with pity e’en
a heart of stone:
But none there is to tell
their grief or write;
These plead within, where
deaf is every ear
Except mine own, whose power
its griefs so mar
That nought is left me save
to suffer here.
Verily we but dust and shadows
are!
Verily blind and evil is our
will!
Verily human hopes deceive
us still!
MACGREGOR.
’Mid life’s
bright glow she dwelt within my soul,
The sovereign tenant of a
humble cell,
But when for heaven she bade
the world farewell,
Death seem’d to grasp
me in his fierce control:
My wither’d love torn
from its brightening goal—
My soul without its treasure
doom’d to dwell—
Could I but trace their grief,
their sorrow tell,
A stone might wake, and fain
with them condole.
They inly mourn, where none
can hear their woe
Save I alone, who too with
grief oppress’d,
Can only soothe my anguish
by my sighs:
Life is indeed a shadowy dream
below;
Our blind desires by Reason’s
chain unbless’d,
Whilst Hope in treacherous
wither’d fragments lies.
WOLLASTON.
Soleano i miei pensier soavemente.
HE COMFORTS HIMSELF WITH THE HOPE THAT SHE HEARS HIM.
My thoughts in
fair alliance and array
Hold converse on the theme
which most endears:
Pity approaches and repents
delay:
E’en now she speaks
of us, or hopes, or fears.
Since the last day, the terrible
hour when Fate
This present life of her fair
being reft,
From heaven she sees, and
hears, and feels our state:
No other hope than this to
me is left.
O fairest miracle! most fortunate
mind!
O unexampled beauty, stately,
rare!
Whence lent too late, too
soon, alas! rejoin’d.
Hers is the crown and palm
of good deeds there,
Who to the world so eminent
and clear
Made her great virtue and
my passion here.
MACGREGOR.
My thoughts were
wont with sentiment so sweet
To meditate their object in
my breast—
Perhaps her sympathies my
wishes meet
With gentlest pity, seeing
me distress’d:
Nor when removed to that her
sacred rest
The present life changed for
that blest retreat,
Vanish’d in air my former
visions fleet,
My hopes, my tears, in vain
to her address’d.
O lovely miracle! O favour’d
mind!
Beauty beyond example high
and rare,
So soon return’d from
us to whence it came!
There the immortal wreaths
her temples bind;
The sacred palm is hers:
on earth so fair
Who shone by her own virtues
and my flame.
CAPEL LOFFT.
I’ mi soglio accusare, ed or mi scuso.
HE GLORIES IN HIS LOVE.
I now excuse myself
who wont to blame,
Nay, more, I prize and even
hold me dear,
For this fair prison, this
sweet-bitter shame,
Which I have borne conceal’d
so many a year.
O envious Fates! that rare
and golden frame
Rudely ye broke, where lightly
twined and clear,
Yarn of my bonds, the threads
of world-wide fame
Which lovely ’gainst
his wont made Death appear.
For not a soul was ever in
its days
Of joy, of liberty, of life
so fond,
That would not change for
her its natural ways,
Preferring thus to suffer
and despond,
Than, fed by hope, to sing
in others’ praise,
Content to die, or live in
such a bond.
MACGREGOR.
Due gran nemiche insieme erano aggiunte.
THE UNION OF BEAUTY AND VIRTUE IS DISSOLVED BY HER DEATH.
Two mortal foes
in one fair breast combined,
Beauty and Virtue, in such
peace allied
That ne’er rebellion
ruffled that pure mind,
But in rare union dwelt they
side by side;
By Death they now are shatter’d
and disjoin’d;
One is in heaven, its glory
and its pride,
One under earth, her brilliant
eyes now blind,
MACGREGOR.
Within one mortal
shrine two foes had met—
Beauty and Virtue—yet
they dwelt so bright,
That ne’er within the
soul did they excite
Rebellious thought, their
union might beget:
But, parted to fulfil great
nature’s debt,
One blooms in heaven, exulting
in its height;
Its twin on earth doth rest,
from whose veil’d night
No more those eyes of love
man’s soul can fret.
That speech by Heaven inspired,
so humbly wise—
That graceful air—her
look so winning, meek,
That woke and kindles still
my bosom’s pain—
They all have fled; but if
to gain her skies
I tardy seem, my weary pen
would seek
For her blest name a consecrated
reign!
WOLLASTON.
Quand’ io mi volgo indietro a mirar gli anni.
THE REMEMBRANCE OF THE PAST ENHANCES HIS MISERY.
When I look back
upon the many years
Which in their flight my best
thoughts have entomb’d,
And spent the fire, that,
spite her ice, consumed,
And finish’d the repose
so full of tears,
Broken the faith which Love’s
young dream endears,
And the two parts of all my
blessing doom’d,
This low in earth, while heaven
has that resumed,
And lost the guerdon of my
pains and fears,
I wake, and feel me to the
bitter wind
So bare, I envy the worst
lot I see;
Self-terror and heart-grief
on me so wait.
O Death, O Fate, O Fortune,
stars unkind!
O day for ever dark and drear
to me!
How have ye sunk me in this
abject state!
MACGREGOR.
When memory turns
to gaze on time gone by
(Which in its flight hath
arm’d e’en thought with wings),
And to my troubled rest a
period brings,
Quells, too, the flame which
long could ice defy;
And when I mark Love’s
promise wither’d lie,
That treasure parted which
my bosom wrings
(For she in heaven, her shrine
to nature clings),
Whilst thus my toils’
reward she doth deny;—
I then awake and feel bereaved
indeed!
The darkest fate on earth
seems bliss to mine—
So much I fear myself, and
dread its woe!
O Fortune!—Death!
O star! O fate decreed!
O bitter day! that yet must
sweetly shine,
Alas! too surely thou hast
laid me low!
WOLLASTON.
Ov’ e la fronte che con picciol cenno.
HE ENUMERATES AND EULOGISES THE GRACES OF LAURA.
Where is the brow
whose gentlest beckonings led
My raptured heart at will,
now here, now there?
Where the twin stars, lights
of this lower sphere,
Which o’er my darkling
path their radiance shed?
Where is true worth, and wit,
and wisdom fled?
The courteous phrase, the
melting accent, where?
Where, group’d in one
rich form, the beauties rare,
Which long their magic influence
o’er me shed?
Where is the shade, within
whose sweet recess
My wearied spirit still forgot
its sighs,
And all my thoughts their
constant record found?
Where, where is she, my life’s
sole arbitress?—
Ah, wretched world! and wretched
ye, mine eyes
(Of her pure light bereft)
which aye with tears are drown’d.
WRANGHAM.
Where is that
face, whose slightest air could move
My trembling heart, and strike
the springs of love?
That heaven, where two fair
stars, with genial ray,
Shed their kind influence
on life’s dim way?
Where are that science, sense,
and worth confess’d?
That speech by virtue, by
the graces dress’d?
Where are those beauties,
where those charms combined,
That caused this long captivity
of mind?
Where the dear shade of all
that once was fair,
The source, the solace, of
each amorous care—
My heart’s sole sovereign,
Nature’s only boast?
—Lost to the world,
to me for ever lost!
LANGHORNE.
Quanta invidia ti porto, avara terra.
HE ENVIES EARTH, HEAVEN, AND DEATH THEIR POSSESSION OF HIS TREASURE.
O earth, whose
clay-cold mantle shrouds that face,
And veils those eyes that
late so brightly shone,
Whence all that gave delight
on earth was known,
How much I envy thee that
harsh embrace!
O heaven, that in thy airy
courts confined
That purest spirit, when from
earth she fled,
And sought the mansions of
the righteous dead;
How envious, thus to leave
my panting soul behind!
O angels, that in your seraphic
choir
Received her sister-soul,
and now enjoy
Still present, those delights
without alloy,
Which my fond heart must still
in vain desire!
In her I lived—in
her my life decays;
Yet envious Fate denies to
end my hapless days.
WOODHOUSELEE.
What envy of the
greedy earth I bear,
That holds from me within
its cold embrace
The light, the meaning, of
that angel face,
On which to gaze could soften
e’en despair.
What envy of the saints, in
realms so fair,
Who eager seem’d, from
that bright form of grace
The spirit pure to summon
WROTTESLEY.
Valle che d’ lamenti miei se’ piena.
ON HIS RETURN TO VAUCLUSE AFTER LAURA’S DEATH.
Valley, which
long hast echoed with my cries;
Stream, which my flowing tears
have often fed;
Beasts, fluttering birds,
and ye who in the bed
Of Cabrieres’ wave display
your speckled dyes;
Air, hush’d to rest
and soften’d by my sighs;
Dear path, whose mazes lone
and sad I tread;
Hill of delight—though
now delight is fled—
To rove whose haunts Love
still my foot decoys;
Well I retain your old unchanging
face!
Myself how changed! in whom,
for joy’s light throng,
Infinite woes their constant
mansion find!
Here bloom’d my bliss:
and I your tracks retrace,
To mark whence upward to her
heaven she sprung,
Leaving her beauteous spoil,
her robe of flesh behind!
WRANGHAM.
Ye vales, made
vocal by my plaintive lay;
Ye streams, embitter’d
with the tears of love;
Ye tenants of the sweet melodious
grove;
Ye tribes that in the grass
fringed streamlet play;
Ye tepid gales, to which my
sighs convey
A softer warmth; ye flowery
plains, that move
Reflection sad; ye hills,
where yet I rove,
Since Laura there first taught
my steps to stray;—
You, you are still the same!
How changed, alas,
Am I! who, from a state of
life so blest,
Am now the gloomy dwelling-place
of woe!
’Twas here I saw my
love: here still I trace
Her parting steps, when she
her mortal vest
Cast to the earth, and left
these scenes below.
ANON.
Levommi il mio pensier in parte ov’ era.
SOARING IN IMAGINATION TO HEAVEN, HE MEETS LAURA, AND IS HAPPY.
Fond fancy raised
me to the spot, where strays
She, whom I seek but find
on earth no more:
There, fairer still and humbler
than before,
I saw her, in the third heaven’s
blessed maze.
She took me by the hand, and
“Thou shalt trace,
If hope not errs,” she
said, “this happy shore:
I, I am she, thy breast with
slights who tore,
And ere its evening closed
my day’s brief space.
What human heart conceives,
my joys exceed;
Thee only I expect, and (what
remain
Below) the charms, once objects
of thy love.”
Why ceased she? Ah! my
captive hand why freed?
Such of her soft and hallow’d
tones the chain,
From that delightful heaven
my soul could scarcely move.
WRANGHAM.
Thither my ecstatic
thought had rapt me, where
She dwells, whom still on
earth I seek in vain;
And there, with those whom
the third heavens contain,
I saw her, much more kind,
and much more fair.
My hand she took, and said:
“Within this sphere,
If hope deceive me not, thou
shalt again
With me reside: who caused
thy mortal pain
Am I, and even in summer closed
my year.
My bliss no human thought
can understand:
Thee only I await; and, that
erewhile
You held so dear, the veil
I left behind.”—
She ceased—ah why?
Why did she loose my hand?
For oh! her hallow’d
words, her roseate smile
In heaven had well nigh fix’d
my ravish’d mind!
CHARLEMONT.
Amor che meco al buon tempo ti stavi.
HE VENTS HIS SORROW TO ALL WHO WITNESSED HIS FORMER FELICITY.
Love, that in
happier days wouldst meet me here
Along these meads that nursed
our kindred strains;
And that old debt to clear
which still remains,
Sweet converse with the stream
and me wouldst share:
Ye flowers, leaves, grass,
woods, grots, rills, gentle air,
Low valleys, lofty hills,
and sunny plains:
The harbour where I stored
my love-sick pains,
And all my various chance,
my racking care:
Ye playful inmates of the
greenwood shade;
Ye nymphs, and ye that in
the waves pursue
That life its cool and grassy
bottom lends:—
My days were once so fair;
now dark and dread
As death that makes them so.
Thus the world through
On each as soon as born his
fate attends.
ANON., OX., 1795.
On these green
banks in happier days I stray’d
With Love, who whisper’d
many a tender tale;
And the glad waters, winding
through the dale,
Heard the sweet eloquence
fond Love display’d.
You, purpled plain, cool grot,
and arching glade;
Ye hills, ye streams, where
plays the silken gale;
Ye pathless wilds, you rock-encircled
vale
Which oft have beard the tender
plaints I made;
Ye blue-hair’d nymphs,
who ceaseless revel keep,
In the cool bosom of the crystal
deep;
Ye woodland maids who climb
the mountain’s brow;
Ye mark’d how joy once
wing’d each hour so gay;
Ah, mark how sad each hour
now wears away!
So fate with human bliss blends
human woe!
ANON. 1777.
Mentre che ’l cor dagli amorosi vermi.
HAD SHE NOT DIED SO EARLY, HE WOULD HAVE LEARNED TO PRAISE HER MORE WORTHILY.
While on my heart
the worms consuming prey’d
Of Love, and I with all his
fire was caught;
The steps of my fair wild
one still I sought
To trace o’er desert
mountains as she stray’d;
And much I dared in bitter
strains to upbraid
Both Love and her, whom I
so cruel thought;
But rude was then my genius,
and untaught
My rhymes, while weak and
new the ideas play’d.
Dead is that fire; and cold
its ashes lie
In one small tomb; which had
it still grown on
E’en to old age, as
oft by others felt,
Arm’d with the power
of rhyme, which wretched I
E’en now disclaim, my
riper strains had won
E’en stones to burst,
and in soft sorrows melt.
ANON., OX., 1795.
Anima bella, da quel nodo sciolta.
HE PRAYS LAURA TO LOOK DOWN UPON HIM FROM HEAVEN.
Bright spirit,
from those earthly bonds released,
The loveliest ever wove in
Nature’s loom,
From thy bright skies compassionate
the gloom
Shrouding my life that once
of joy could taste!
Each false suggestion of thy
heart has ceased,
That whilom bade thee stem
disdain assume;
Now, all secure, heaven’s
habitant become,
List to my sighs, thy looks
upon me cast.
Mark the huge rock, whence
Sorga’s waters rise;
And see amidst its waves and
borders stray
One fed by grief and memory
that ne’er dies
But from that spot, oh! turn
thy sight away
Where I first loved, where
thy late dwelling lies;
That in thy friends thou nought
ungrateful may’st survey!
NOTT.
Blest soul, that,
loosen’d from those bands, art flown—
Bands than which Nature never
form’d more fair,
Look down and mark how changed
to carking care
From gladdest thoughts I pass
my days unknown.
Each false opinion from my
heart is gone,
That once to me made thy sweet
sight appear
Most harsh and bitter; now
secure from fear
Here turn thine eyes, and
listen to my moan.
Turn to this rock whence Sorga’s
waters rise,
And mark, where through the
mead its waters flow,
One who of thee still mindful
ceaseless sighs:
But leave me there unsought
for, where to glow
Our flames began, and where
thy mansion lies,
Lest thou in thine shouldst
see what grieved thee so.
ANON., OX., 1795.
Quel sol che mi mostrava il cammin destro.
LOVE AND HE SEEK LAURA, BUT FIND NO TRACES OF HER EXCEPT IN THE SKY.
That sun, which
ever signall’d the right road,
Where flash’d her own
bright feet, to heaven to fly,
Returning to the Eternal Sun
on high,
Has quench’d my light,
and cast her earthly load;
Thus, lone and weary, my oft
steps have trode,
As some wild animal, the sere
woods by,
Fleeing with heavy heart and
downcast eye
The world which since to me
a blank has show’d.
Still with fond search each
well-known spot I pace
Where once I saw her:
Love, who grieves me so,
My only guide, directs me
where to go.
I find her not: her every
sainted trace
Seeks, in bright realms above,
her parent star
From grisly Styx and black
Avernus far.
MACGREGOR.
Io pensava assai destro esser sull’ ale.
UNWORTHY TO HAVE LOOKED UPON HER, HE IS STILL MORE SO TO ATTEMPT HER PRAISES.
I thought me apt
and firm of wing to rise
(Not of myself, but him who
trains us all)
In song, to numbers fitting
the fair thrall
Which Love once fasten’d
and which Death unties.
Slow now and frail, the task
too sorely tries,
As a great weight upon a sucker
small:
“Who leaps,” I
said, “too high may midway fall:
Man ill accomplishes what
Heaven denies.”
So far the wing of genius
ne’er could fly—
Poor style like mine and faltering
tongue much less—
As Nature rose, in that rare
fabric, high.
Love follow’d Nature
with such full success
In gracing her, no claim could
I advance
Even to look, and yet was
bless’d by chance.
MACGREGOR.
Quella per cui con Sorga ho cangiat’ Arno.
HE ATTEMPTS TO PAINT HER BEAUTIES, BUT NOT HER VIRTUES.
She, for whose
sake fair Arno I resign,
And for free poverty court-affluence
spurn,
Has known to sour the precious
sweets to turn
On which I lived, for which
I burn and pine.
Though since, the vain attempt
has oft been mine
That future ages from my song
should learn
Her heavenly beauties, and
like me should burn,
My poor verse fails her sweet
face to define.
The gifts, though all her
own, which others share,
Which were but stars her bright
sky scatter’d o’er,
Haply of these to sing e’en
I might dare;
But when to the diviner part
I soar,
To the dull world a brief
and brilliant light,
Courage and wit and art are
baffled quite.
MACGREGOR.
L’ alto e novo miracol ch’ a di nostri.
IT IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR HIM TO DESCRIBE HER EXCELLENCES.
The wonder, high
and new, that, in our days,
Dawn’d on the world,
yet would not there remain,
Which heaven but show’d
to us to snatch again
Better to blazon its own starry
ways;
That to far times I her should
paint and praise
Love wills, who prompted first
my passionate strain;
But now wit, leisure, pen,
page, ink in vain
To the fond task a thousand
times he sways.
My slow rhymes struggle not
to life the while;
I feel it, and whoe’er
to-day below,
Or speak or write of love
will prove it so.
Who justly deems the truth
beyond all style,
Here silent let him muse,
and sighing say,
Blessed the eyes who saw her
living day!
MACGREGOR.
Zefiro torna, e ’l bel tempo rimena.
RETURNING SPRING BRINGS TO HIM ONLY INCREASE OF GRIEF.
Zephyr returns;
and in his jocund train
Brings verdure, flowers, and
days serenely clear;
Brings Progne’s twitter,
Philomel’s lorn strain,
With every bloom that paints
the vernal year;
Cloudless the skies, and smiling
every plain;
With joyance flush’d,
Jove views his daughter dear;
Love’s genial power
pervades earth, air, and main;
All beings join’d in
fond accord appear.
But nought to me returns save
sorrowing sighs,
Forced from my inmost heart
by her who bore
Those keys which govern’d
it unto the skies:
The blossom’d meads,
the choristers of air,
Sweet courteous damsels can
delight no more;
Each face looks savage, and
each prospect drear.
NOTT.
The spring returns,
with all her smiling train;
The wanton Zephyrs breathe
along the bowers,
The glistening dew-drops hang
on bending flowers,
And tender green light-shadows
o’er the plain:
And thou, sweet Philomel,
renew’st thy strain,
Breathing thy wild notes to
the midnight grove:
All nature feels the kindling
fire of love,
The vital force of spring’s
returning reign.
But not to me returns the
cheerful spring!
O heart! that know’st
no period to thy grief,
Nor Nature’s smiles
to thee impart relief,
Nor change of mind the varying
seasons bring:
She, she is gone! All
that e’er pleased before,
Adieu! ye birds ye flowers,
ye fields, that charm no more!
WOODHOUSELEE.
Returning Zephyr
the sweet season brings,
With flowers and herbs his
breathing train among,
And Progne twitters, Philomela
sings,
Leading the many-colour’d
spring along;
Serene the sky, and fair the
laughing field,
Jove views his daughter with
complacent brow;
Earth, sea, and air, to Love’s
sweet influence yield,
And creatures all his magic
power avow:
DACRE.
Zephyr returns
and winter’s rage restrains,
With herbs, with flowers,
his blooming progeny!
Now Progne prattles, Philomel
complains,
And spring assumes her robe
of various dye;
The meadows smile, heaven
glows, nor Jove disdains
To view his daughter with
delighted eye;
While Love through universal
nature reigns,
And life is fill’d with
amorous sympathy!
But grief, not joy, returns
to me forlorn,
And sighs, which from my inmost
heart proceed
For her, by whom to heaven
its keys were borne.
The song of birds, the flower-enamell’d
mead,
And graceful acts, which most
the fair adorn,
A desert seem, and beasts
of savage prey!
CHARLEMONT.
Quel rosignuol che si soave piagne.
THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE REMINDS HIM OF HIS UNHAPPY LOT.
Yon nightingale,
whose bursts of thrilling tone,
Pour’d in soft sorrow
from her tuneful throat,
Haply her mate or infant brood
bemoan,
Filling the fields and skies
with pity’s note;
Here lingering till the long
long night is gone,
Awakes the memory of my cruel
lot—
But I my wretched self must
wail alone:
Fool, who secure from death
an angel thought!
O easy duped, who thus on
hope relies!
Who would have deem’d
the darkness, which appears,
From orbs more brilliant than
the sun should rise?
Now know I, made by sad experience
wise,
That Fate would teach me by
a life of tears,
On wings how fleeting fast
all earthly rapture flies!
WRANGHAM.
Yon nightingale,
whose strain so sweetly flows,
Mourning her ravish’d
young or much-loved mate,
A soothing charm o’er
all the valleys throws
And skies, with notes well
tuned to her sad state:
And all the night she seems
my kindred woes
With me to weep and on my
sorrows wait;
Sorrows that from my own fond
fancy rose,
Who deem’d a goddess
could not yield to fate.
How easy to deceive who sleeps
secure!
Who could have thought that
to dull earth would turn
Those eyes that as the sun
shone bright and pure?
Ah! now what Fortune wills
I see full sure:
That loathing life, yet living
I should see
How few its joys, how little
they endure!
ANON., OX., 1795.
That nightingale,
who now melodious mourns
Perhaps his children or his
consort dear,
The heavens with sweetness
fills; the distant bourns
Resound his notes, so piteous
and so clear;
With me all night he weeps,
and seems by turns
To upbraid me with my fault
and fortune drear,
Whose fond and foolish heart,
where grief sojourns,
A goddess deem’d exempt
from mortal fear.
Security, how easy to betray!
The radiance of those eyes
who could have thought
Should e’er become a
senseless clod of clay?
Living, and weeping, late
I’ve learn’d to say
That here below—Oh,
knowledge dearly bought!—
Whate’er delights will
scarcely last a day!
CHARLEMONT.
Ne per sereno cielo ir vaghe stelle.
NOTHING THAT NATURE OFFERS CAN AFFORD HIM CONSOLATION.
Not skies serene,
with glittering stars inlaid,
Nor gallant ships o’er
tranquil ocean dancing,
Nor gay careering knights
in arms advancing,
Nor wild herds bounding through
the forest glade,
Nor tidings new of happiness
delay’d,
Nor poesie, Love’s witchery
enhancing,
Nor lady’s song beside
clear fountain glancing,
In beauty’s pride, with
chastity array’d;
Nor aught of lovely, aught
of gay in show,
Shall touch my heart, now
cold within her tomb
Who was erewhile my life and
light below!
So heavy—tedious—sad—my
days unblest,
That I, with strong desire,
invoke Death’s gloom,
Her to behold, whom ne’er
to have seen were best!
DACRE.
Nor stars bright
glittering through the cool still air,
Nor proud ships riding on
the tranquil main,
Nor armed knights light pricking
o’er the plain,
Nor deer in glades disporting
void of care,
Nor tidings hoped by recent
messenger,
Nor tales of love in high
and gorgeous strain,
Nor by clear stream, green
mead, or shady lane
Sweet-chaunted roundelay of
lady fair;
Nor aught beside my heart
shall e’er engage—
Sepulchred, as ’tis
henceforth doom’d to be,
With her, my eyes’ sole
mirror, beam, and bliss.
Oh! how I long this weary
pilgrimage
To close; that I again that
form may see,
Which never to have seen had
been my happiness!
WRANGHAM.
Passato e ’l tempo omai, lasso! che tanto.
HIS ONLY DESIRE IS AGAIN TO BE WITH HER.
Fled—fled,
alas! for ever—is the day,
Which to my flame some soothing
whilom brought;
And fled is she of whom I
wept and wrote:
Yet still the pang, the tear,
prolong their stay!
And fled that angel vision
far away;
But flying, with soft glance
WRANGHAM.
Ah! gone for ever
are the happy years
That soothed my soul amid
Love’s fiercest fire,
And she for whom I wept and
tuned my lyre
Has gone, alas!—But
left my lyre, my tears:
Gone is that face, whose holy
look endears;
But in my heart, ere yet it
did retire,
Left the sweet radiance of
its eyes, entire;—
My heart? Ah; no! not
mine! for to the spheres
Of light she bore it captive,
soaring high,
In angel robe triumphant,
and now stands
Crown’d with the laurel
wreath of chastity:
Oh! could I throw aside these
earthly bands
That tie me down where wretched
mortals sigh,—
To join blest spirits in celestial
lands!
MOREHEAD.
Mente mia che presaga de’ tuoi danni.
HE RECALLS WITH GRIEF THEIR LAST MEETING.
My mind! prophetic
of my coming fate,
Pensive and gloomy while yet
joy was lent,
On the loved lineaments still
fix’d, intent
To seek dark bodings, ere
thy sorrow’s date!
From her sweet acts, her words,
her looks, her gait,
From her unwonted pity with
sadness blent,
Thou might’st have said,
hadst thou been prescient,
“I taste my last of
bliss in this low state!”
My wretched soul! the poison,
oh, how sweet!
That through my eyes instill’d
the burning smart,
Gazing on hers, no more on
earth to meet!
To them—my bosom’s
wealth! condemn’d to part
On a far journey—as
to friends discreet,
All my fond thoughts I left,
and lingering heart.
DACRE.
Tutta la mia fiorita e verde etade.
JUST WHEN HE MIGHT FAIRLY HOPE SOME RETURN OF AFFECTION, ENVIOUS DEATH CARRIES HER OFF.
All my green years
and golden prime of man
Had pass’d away, and
with attemper’d sighs
My bosom heaved—ere
yet the days arise
When life declines, contracting
its brief span.
Already my loved enemy began
To lull suspicion, and in
sportive guise,
With timid confidence, though
playful, wise,
In gentle mockery my long
pains to scan:
The hour was near when Love,
at length, may mate
With Chastity; and, by the
dear one’s side,
The lover’s thoughts
and words may freely flow:
Death saw, with envy, my too
happy state,
E’en its fair promise—and,
with fatal pride,
Strode in the midway forth,
an armed foe!
DACRE.
Now of my life
each gay and greener year
Pass’d by, and cooler
grew each hour the flame
With which I burn’d:
and to that point we came
Whence life descends, as to
its end more near;
Now ’gan my lovely foe
each virtuous fear
Gently to lay aside, as safe
from blame;
And though with saint-like
virtue still the same,
Mock’d my sweet pains
indeed, but deign’d to hear
Nigh drew the time when Love
delights to dwell
With Chastity; and lovers
with their mate
Can fearless sit, and all
they muse of tell.
Death envied me the joys of
such a state;
Nay, e’en the hopes
I form’d: and on them fell
E’en in midway, like
some arm’d foe in wait.
ANON., OX., 1795.
Tempo era omai da trovar pace o tregua.
HE CONSOLES HIMSELF WITH THE BELIEF THAT SHE NOW AT LAST SYMPATHISES WITH HIM.
’Twas time
at last from so long war to find
Some peace or truce, and,
haply, both were nigh,
But Death their welcome feet
has turn’d behind,
Who levels all distinctions,
low as high;
And as a cloud dissolves before
the wind,
So she, who led me with her
lustrous eye,
Whom ever I pursue with faithful
mind,
Her fair life briefly ending,
sought the sky.
Had she but stay’d,
as I grew changed and old
Her tone had changed, and
no distrust had been
To parley with me on my cherish’d
ill:
With what frank sighs and
fond I then had told
My lifelong toils, which now
from heaven, I ween,
She sees, and with me sympathises
still.
MACGREGOR.
My life’s
long warfare seem’d about to cease,
Peace had my spirit’s
contest well nigh freed;
But levelling Death, who doth
to all concede
An equal doom, clipp’d
Time’s blest wings of peace:
As zephyrs chase the clouds
of gathering fleece,
So did her life from this
world’s breath recede,
Their vision’d light
could once my footsteps lead,
But now my all, save thought,
she doth release.
Oh! would that she her flight
awhile had stay’d,
For Time had stamp’d
on me his warning hand,
And calmer I had told my storied
love:
To her in virtue’s tone
I had convey’d
My heart’s long grief—now,
she doth understand,
And sympathises with that
grief above.
WOLLASTON.
Tranquillo porto avea mostrato Amore.
DEATH HAS ROBBED HIM IN ONE MOMENT OF THE FRUIT OF HIS LIFE.
From life’s
long storm of trouble and of tears
Love show’d a tranquil
haven and fair end
’Mid better thoughts
which riper age attend,
That vice lays bare and virtue
clothes and cheers.
She saw my true heart, free
from doubts and fears,
And its high faith which could
no more offend;
Ah, cruel Death! how quick
wert thou to rend
In so few hours the fruit
of many years!
A longer life the time had
surely brought
When in her chaste ear my
full heart had laid
The ancient burthen of its
dearest thought;
And she, perchance, might
then have answer made,
Forth-sighing some blest words,
whilst white and few
Our locks became, and wan
our cheeks in hue.
MACGREGOR.
Al cader d’ una pianta che si svelse.
UNDER THE ALLEGORY OF A LAUREL HE AGAIN DEPLORES HER DEATH.
As a fair plant,
uprooted by oft blows
Of trenchant spade, or which
the blast upheaves,
Scatters on earth its green
and lofty leaves,
And its bare roots to the
broad sunlight shows;
Love such another for my object
chose,
Of whom for me the Muse a
subject weaves,
Who in my captured heart her
home achieves,
As on some wall or tree the
ivy grows
That living laurel—where
their chosen nest
My high thoughts made, where
sigh’d mine ardent grief,
Yet never stirr’d of
its fair boughs a leaf—
To heaven translated, in my
heart, her rest,
Left deep its roots, whence
ever with sad cry
I call on her, who ne’er
vouchsafes reply.
MACGREGOR.
I di miei piu leggier che nessun cervo.
HIS PASSION FINDS ITS ONLY CONSOLATION IN CONTEMPLATING HER IN HEAVEN.
My days more swiftly
than the forest hind
Have fled like shadows, and
no pleasure seen
Save for a moment, and few
hours serene,
Whose bitter-sweet I treasure
in true mind.
O wretched world, unstable,
wayward! Blind
Whose hopes in thee alone
have centred been;
In thee my heart was captived
by her mien
Who bore it with her when
she earth rejoin’d:
Her better spirit, now a deathless
flower,
And in the highest heaven
that still shall be,
Each day inflames me with
its beauties more.
Alone, though frailer, fonder
every hour,
I muse on her—Now
what, and where is she,
And what the lovely veil which
here she wore?
MACGREGOR.
Oh! swifter than
the hart my life hath fled,
A shadow’d dream; one
winged glance hath seen
Its only good; its hours (how
few serene!)
The sweet and bitter tide
of thought have fed:
Ephemeral world! in pride
WOLLASTON.
Sente l’ aura mia antica, e i dolci colli.
HE REVISITS VAUCLUSE.
I feel the well-known
gale; the hills I spy
So pleasant, whence my fair
her being drew,
Which made these eyes, while
Heaven was willing, shew
Wishful, and gay; now sad,
and never dry.
O feeble hopes! O thoughts
of vanity!
Wither’d the grass,
the rills of turbid hue;
And void and cheerless is
that dwelling too,
In which I live, in which
I wish’d to die;
Hoping its mistress might
at length afford
Some respite to my woes by
plaintive sighs,
And sorrows pour’d from
her once-burning eyes.
I’ve served a cruel
and ungrateful lord:
While lived my beauteous flame,
my heart be fired;
And o’er its ashes now
I weep expired.
NOTT.
Once more, ye
balmy gales, I feel you blow;
Again, sweet hills, I mark
the morning beams
Gild your green summits; while
your silver streams
Through vales of fragrance
undulating flow.
But you, ye dreams of bliss,
no longer here
Give life and beauty to the
glowing scene:
For stern remembrance stands
where you have been,
And blasts the verdure of
the blooming year.
O Laura! Laura! in the
dust with thee,
Would I could find a refuge
from despair!
Is this thy boasted triumph.
Love, to tear
A heart thy coward malice
dares not free;
And bid it live, while every
hope is fled,
To weep, among the ashes of
the dead?
ANNE BANNERMAN.
E questo ’l nido in che la mia Fenice.
THE SIGHT OF LAURA’S HOUSE REMINDS HIM OF HIS MISERY.
Is this the nest
in which my phoenix first
Her plumage donn’d of
purple and of gold,
Beneath her wings who knew
my heart to hold,
For whom e’en yet its
sighs and wishes burst?
Prime root in which my cherish’d
ill had birth,
Where is the fair face whence
that bright light came.
Alive and glad which kept
me in my flame?
Now bless’d in heaven
as then alone on earth;
Wretched and lonely thou hast
left me here,
Fond lingering by the scenes,
with sorrows drown’d,
To thee which consecrate I
still revere.
Watching the hills as dark
night gathers round,
Whence its last flight to
heaven thy soul did take,
And where my day those bright
eyes wont to make.
MACGREGOR.
Is this the nest
in which her wings of gold,
Of gold and purple plume,
my phoenix laid?
How flutter’d my fond
heart beneath their shade!
But now its sighs proclaim
that dwelling cold:
Sweet source! from which my
bliss, my bane, have roll’d,
Where is that face, in living
light array’d,
That burn’d me, yet
my sole enjoyment made?
Unparallel’d on earth,
the heavens now hold
Thee bless’d!—but
I am left wretched, alone!
Yet ever in my grief return
to see
And honour this sweet place,
though thou art gone.
A black night veils the hills,
whence rising free
Thou took’st thy heavenward
flight! Ah! when they shone
In morning radiance, it was
all from thee!
MOREHEAD.
Mai non vedranno le mie luci asciutte.
TO THE MEMORY OF GIACOMO COLONNA, WHO DIED BEFORE PETRARCH COULD REPLY TO A LETTER OF HIS.
Ne’er shall
I see again with eyes unwet,
Or with the sure powers of
a tranquil mind,
Those characters where Love
so brightly shined,
And his own hand affection
seem’d to set;
Spirit! amid earth’s
strifes unconquer’d yet,
Breathing such sweets from
heaven which now has shrined,
As once more to my wandering
verse has join’d
The style which Death had
led me to forget.
Another work, than my young
leaves more bright,
I thought to show: what
envying evil star
Snatch’d thee, my noble
treasure, thus from me?
So soon who hides thee from
my fond heart’s sight,
And from thy praise my loving
tongue would bar?
My soul has rest, sweet sigh!
alone in thee.
MACGREGOR.
Oh! ne’er
shall I behold with tearless eye
Or tranquil soul those characters
of thine,
In which affection doth so
brightly shine,
And charity’s own hand
I can descry!
Blest soul! that could this
earthly strife defy,
Thy sweets instilling from
thy home divine,
Thou wakest in me the tone
which once was mine,
To sing my rhymes Death’s
power did long deny.
With these, my brow’s
young leaves, I fondly dream’d
Another work than this had
greeted thee:
What iron planet envied thus
our love?
My treasure! veil’d
ere age had darkly gleam’d;
Thou—whom my song
records—my heart doth see;
Thou wakest my sigh, and sighing,
rest I prove.
WOLLASTON.
Standomi un giorno solo alla finestra.
UNDER VARIOUS ALLEGORIES HE PAINTS THE VIRTUE, BEAUTY, AND UNTIMELY DEATH OF LAURA.
While at my window
late I stood alone,
So new and many things there
cross’d my sight,
To view them I had almost
weary grown.
A dappled hind appear’d
upon the right,
In aspect gentle, yet of stately
stride,
By two swift greyhounds chased,
a black and white,
Who tore in the poor side
Of that fair creature wounds
so deep and wide,
That soon they forced her
where ravine and rock
The onward passage block:
Then triumph’d Death
her matchless beauties o’er,
And left me lonely there her
sad fate to deplore.
Upon the summer wave a gay
ship danced,
Her cordage was of silk, of
gold her sails,
Her sides with ivory and ebon
glanced,
The sea was tranquil, favouring
were the gales,
And heaven as when no cloud
its azure veils.
A rich and goodly merchandise
is hers;
But soon the tempest wakes,
And wind and wave to such
mad fury stirs,
That, driven on the rocks,
in twain she breaks;
My heart with pity aches,
That a short hour should whelm,
a small space hide,
Riches for which the world
no equal had beside.
In a fair grove a bright young
laurel made
—Surely to Paradise
the plant belongs!—
Of sacred boughs a pleasant
summer shade,
From whose green depths there
issued so sweet songs
Of various birds, and many
a rare delight
Of eye and ear, what marvel
from the world
They stole my senses quite!
While still I gazed, the heavens
grew black around,
The fatal lightning flash’d,
and sudden hurl’d,
Uprooted to the ground,
That blessed birth. Alas!
for it laid low,
And its dear shade whose like
we ne’er again shall know.
A crystal fountain in that
very grove
Gush’d from a rock,
whose waters fresh and clear
Shed coolness round and softly
murmur’d love;
Never that leafy screen and
mossy seat
Drew browsing flock or whistling
rustic near
But nymphs and muses danced
to music sweet.
There as I sat and drank
With infinite delight their
carols gay,
And mark’d their sport,
the earth before me sank
And bore with it away
The fountain and the scene,
to my great grief,
Who now in memory find a sole
and scant relief.
A lovely and rare bird within
the wood,
Whose crest with gold, whose
wings with purple gleam’d,
Alone, but proudly soaring,
next I view’d,
Of heavenly and immortal birth
which seem’d,
Flitting now here, now there,
until it stood
Where buried fount and broken
laurel lay,
And sadly seeing there
The fallen trunk, the boughs
all stripp’d and bare,
The channel dried—for
all things to decay
So tend—it turn’d
away
As if in angry scorn, and
instant fled,
While through me for her loss
new love and pity spread.
At length along the flowery
sward I saw
So sweet and fair a lady pensive
move
That her mere thought inspires
a tender awe;
Meek in herself, but haughty
against Love,
Flow’d from her waist
a robe so fair and fine
Seem’d gold and snow
together there to join:
But, ah! each charm above
Was veil’d from sight
in an unfriendly cloud:
Stung by a lurking snake,
as flowers that pine
Her head she gently bow’d,
And joyful pass’d on
high, perchance secure:
Alas! that in the world grief
only should endure.
My song! in each sad change,
These visions, as they rise,
sweet, solemn, strange,
But show how deeply in thy
master’s breast
The fond desire abides to
die and be at rest.
MACGREGOR.
Amor, quando fioria.
HIS GRIEF AT SURVIVING HER IS MITIGATED BY THE CONSCIOUSNESS THAT SHE NOW KNOWS HIS HEART.
Yes, Love, at
that propitious time
When hope was in its bloomy
prime,
And when I vainly fancied
nigh
The meed of all my constancy;
Then sudden she, of whom I
sought
Compassion, from my sight
was caught.
O ruthless Death! O life
severe!
The one has sunk me deep in
care,
And darken’d cruelly
my day,
That shone with hope’s
enlivening ray:
The other, adverse to my will,
Doth here on earth detain
me still;
And interdicts me to pursue
Her, who from all its scenes
withdrew:
Yet in my heart resides the
fair,
For ever, ever present there;
Who well perceives the ills
that wait
Upon my wretched, mortal state.
NOTT.
Yes, Love, while
hope still bloom’d with me in pride,
While seem’d of all
my faith the guerdon nigh,
She, upon whom for mercy I
relied,
Was ravish’d from my
doting desolate eye.
O ruthless Death! O life
unwelcome! this
Plunged me in deepest woe,
And rudely crush’d my
every hope of bliss;
Against my will that keeps
me here below,
Who else would yearn to go,
And join the sainted fair
who left us late;
Yet present every hour
In my heart’s core there
wields she her old power,
And knows, whate’er
my life, its every state!
MACGREGOR.
Tacer non posso, e temo non adopre.
HE RECALLS HER MANY GRACES.
Fain would I speak—too
long has silence seal’d
Lips that would gladly with
my full heart move
With one consent, and yield
Homage to her who listens
from above;
Yet how can I, without thy
prompting, Love,
With mortal words e’er
equal things divine,
And picture faithfully
The walls were alabaster,
the roof gold,
Ivory the doors, the sapphire
windows lent
Whence on my heart of old
Its earliest sigh, as shall
my last, was sent;
In arrowy jets of fire thence
came and went
Arm’d messengers of
love, whereof to think
As then they were, with awe
—Though now for
them with laurel crown’d—I shrink
Of one rare diamond, square,
without a flaw,
High in the midst a stately
throne was placed
Where sat the lovely lady
all alone:
In front a column shone
Of crystal, and thereon each
thought was traced
In characters so clear, and
quick, and true,
By turns it gladden’d
me and grieved to view.
To weapons such as these,
sharp, burning, bright,
To the green glorious banner
waved above,
—’Gainst
which would fail in fight
Mars, Polypheme, Apollo, mighty
Jove—
While still my sorrow fresh
and verdant throve,
I stood defenceless, doom’d;
her easy prey
She led me as she chose
Whence to escape I knew nor
art nor way;
But, as a friend, who, haply,
grieves yet goes,
Sees something still to lure
his eyes and heart,
Just so on her, for whom I
am in thrall,
Sole perfect work of all
That graced her age, unable
to depart,
With such desire my rapt regards
I set,
As soon myself and misery
to forget.
On earth myself, my heart
in Eden dwelt,
Lost in sweet Lethe every
other care,
As my live frame I felt
To marble turn, watching that
wonder rare;
When old in years, but youthful
still in air,
A lady briefly, quietly drew
nigh,
And thus beholding me,
With reverent aspect and admiring
eye,
Kind offer made my counsellor
to be:
“My power,” she
said, “is more than mortals know—
Lighter than air, I, in an
instant, make
Their hearts exult or ache,
I loose and bind whate’er
is seen below;
Thine eyes, upon that sun,
as eagles’, bend,
But to my words with willing
ears attend.
“The day when she was
born, the stars that win
Prosperity for man shone bright
above;
Their high glad homes within
Each on the other smiled with
gratulant love;
Fair Venus, and, with gentle
aspect, Jove
The beautiful and lordly mansions
held:
Seem’d as each adverse
light
Throughout all heaven was
darken’d and dispell’d,
The sun ne’er look’d
upon a day so bright;
“When first she enter’d
on this life below,
Which, to say sooth, not worthy
was to hold,
’Twas strange to see
her so
Angelical and dear in baby
mould;
A snowy pearl she seem’d
in finest gold;
Next as she crawl’d,
or totter’d with short pace,
Wood, water, earth, and stone
Grew green, and clear, and
soft; with livelier grace
The sward beneath her feet
and fingers shone;
With flowers the champain
to her bright eyes smiled;
At her sweet voice, babbling
through lips that yet
From Love’s own fount
were wet,
The hoarse wind silent grew,
the tempest mild:
Thus clearly showing to the
dull blind world
How much in her was heaven’s
own light unfurl’d.
“At length, her life’s
third flowery epoch won,
She, year by year, so grew
in charms and worth,
That ne’er, methinks,
the sun
Such gracefulness and beauty
saw on earth;
Her eyes so full of modesty
and mirth,
Music and welcome on her words
so hung,
That mute in her high praise,
Which thine alone may sound,
is every tongue:
So bright her countenance
with heavenly rays,
Not long thy dazzled vision
there may rest;
From this her fair and fleshly
tenement
Such fire through thine is
sent
(Though gentler never kindled
human breast),
That yet I fear her sudden
flight may be
Too soon the cause of bitter
grief to thee.”
This said, she turn’d
her to the rapid wheel
Whereon she winds of mortal
life the thread;
Too true did she reveal
The doom of woe which darken’d
o’er my head!
A few brief years flew by,
When she, for whom I so desire
to die,
By black and pitiless Death,
who could not slay
A fairer form than hers, was
snatch’d away!
MACGREGOR.
Or hai fatto l’ estremo di tua possa.
DEATH MAY DEPRIVE HIM OF THE SIGHT OF HER BEAUTIES, BUT NOT OF THE MEMORY OF HER VIRTUES.
Now hast thou
shown, fell Death! thine utmost might.
Through Love’s bright
realm hast want and darkness spread,
Hast now cropp’d beauty’s
flower, its heavenly light
Quench’d, and enclosed
in the grave’s narrow bed;
Now hast thou life despoil’d
of all delight,
Its ornament and sovereign
honour shed:
But fame and worth it is not
thine to blight;
These mock thy power, and
sleep not with the dead.
Be thine the mortal part;
heaven holds the best,
DACRE.
Now hast thou
shown the utmost of thy might,
O cruel Death! Love’s
kingdom hast thou rent,
And made it poor; in narrow
grave hast pent
The blooming flower of beauty
and its light!
Our wretched life thou hast
despoil’d outright
Of every honour, every ornament!
But then her fame, her worth,
by thee unblent,
Shall still survive!—her
dust is all thy right;
The rest heaven holds, proud
of her charms divine
As of a brighter sun.
Nor dies she here—
Her memory lasts, to good
men ever dear!
O angel new, in thy celestial
sphere
Let pity now thy sainted heart
incline,
As here below thy beauty vanquish’d
mine!
CHARLEMONT.
L’ aura e l’ odore e ‘l refrigerio e l’ ombra.
HER OWN VIRTUES IMMORTALISE HER IN HEAVEN, AND HIS PRAISES ON EARTH.
The air and scent,
the comfort and the shade
Of my sweet laurel, and its
flowery sight,
That to my weary life gave
rest and light,
Death, spoiler of the world,
has lowly laid.
As when the moon our sun’s
eclipse has made,
My lofty light has vanish’d
so in night;
For aid against himself I
Death invite;
With thoughts so dark does
Love my breast invade.
Thou didst but sleep, bright
lady, a brief sleep,
In bliss amid the chosen spirits
to wake,
Who gaze upon their God, distinct
and near:
And if my verse shall any
value keep,
Preserved and praised ’mid
noble minds to make
Thy name, its memory shall
be deathless here.
MACGREGOR.
The fragrant gale,
and the refreshing shade
Of my sweet laurel, and its
verdant form,
That were my shelter in life’s
weary storm,
Have felt the power that makes
all nature fade:
Now has my light been lost
in gloomy shade,
E’en as the sun behind
his sister’s form:
I call for Death to free me
from Death’s storm,
But Love descends and brings
me better aid!
He tells me, lady, that one
moment’s sleep
Alone was thine, and then
thou didst awake
Among the elect, and in thy
Maker’s arms:
And if my verse oblivion’s
power can keep
Aloof, thy name its place
on earth-will take
Where Genius still will dote
upon thy charms!
MOREHEAD.
L’ ultimo, lasso! de’ miei giorni allegri.
HE REVERTS TO THEIR LAST MEETING.
The last, alas!
of my bright days and glad
—Few have been
mine in this brief life below—
Had come; I felt my heart
as tepid snow,
Presage, perchance, of days
both dark and sad.
As one in nerves, and pulse,
and spirits bad,
Who of some frequent fever
waits the blow,
E’en so I felt—for
how could I foreknow
Such near end of the half-joys
I have had?
Her beauteous eyes, in heaven
now bright and bless’d
With the pure light whence
health and life descends,
(Wretched and beggar’d
leaving me behind,)
With chaste and soul-lit beams
our grief address’d:
“Tarry ye here in peace,
beloved friends,
Though here no more, we yet
shall there be join’d.”
MACGREGOR.
Ah me! the last
of all my happy days
(Not many happy days my years
can show)
Was come! I felt my heart
as turn’d to snow,
Presage, perhaps, that happiness
decays!
E’en as the man whose
shivering frame betrays,
And fluttering pulse, the
ague’s coming blow;
’Twas thus I felt!—but
could I therefore know
How soon would end the bliss
that never stays?
Those eyes that now, in heaven’s
delicious light,
Drink in pure beams which
life and glory rain,
Just as they left mine, blinded,
sunk in night,
Seem’d thus to say,
sparkling unwonted bright,—
“Awhile, beloved friends,
in peace remain,
Oh, we shall yet elsewhere
exchange fond looks again!”
MOREHEAD.
O giorno, o ora, o ultimo momento.
HE MOURNS HIS WANT OF PERCEPTION AT THAT MEETING.
O Day, O hour,
O moment sweetest, last,
O stars conspired to make
me poor indeed!
O look too true, in which
I seem’d to read.
At parting, that my happiness
was past;
Now my full loss I know, I
feel at last:
Then I believed (ah! weak
and idle creed!)
’Twas but a part alone
I lost; instead,
Was there a hope that flew
not with the blast?
For, even then, it was in
heaven ordain’d
That the sweet light of all
my life should die:
’Twas written in her
sadly-pensive eye!
But mine unconscious of the
truth remain’d;
Or, what it would not see,
to see refrain’d,
That I might sink in sudden
misery!
MOREHEAD.
Dark hour, last
moment of that fatal day!
Stars which to beggar me of
bliss combined!
O faithful glance, too well
which seem’dst to say
Farewell to me, farewell to
peace of mind!
Awaken’d now, my losses
I survey:
Alas! I fondly thought—thoughts
weak and blind!—
That absence would take part,
not all, away;
How many hopes it scatter’d
to the wind.
Heaven had already doom’d
it otherwise,
MACGREGOR.
Quel vago, dolce, caro, onesto sguardo.
HE SHOULD HAVE FORESEEN HIS LOSS IN THE UNUSUAL LUSTRE OF HER EYES.
That glance of
hers, pure, tender, clear, and sweet,
Methought it said, “Take
what thou canst while nigh;
For here no more thou’lt
see me, till on high
From earth have mounted thy
slow-moving feet.”
O intellect than forest pard
more fleet!
Yet slow and dull thy sorrow
to descry,
How didst thou fail to see
in her bright eye
What since befell, whence
I my ruin meet.
Silently shining with a fire
sublime,
They said, “O friendly
lights, which long have been
Mirrors to us where gladly
we were seen,
Heaven waits for you, as ye
shall know in time;
Who bound us to the earth
dissolves our bond,
But wills in your despite
that you shall live beyond.”
MACGREGOR.
Solea dalla fontana di mia vita.
MEMORY IS HIS ONLY SOLACE AND SUPPORT.
I who was wont
from life’s best fountain far
So long to wander, searching
land and sea,
Pursuing not my pleasure,
but my star,
And alway, as Love knows who
strengthen’d me,
Ready in bitter exile to depart,
For hope and memory both then
fed my heart;
Alas! now wring my hands,
and to unkind
And angry Fortune, which away
has reft
That so sweet hope, my armour
have resign’d;
And, memory only left,
I feed my great desire on
that alone,
Whence frail and famish’d
is my spirit grown.
As haply by the way, if want
of food
Compel the traveller to relax
his speed,
Losing that strength which
first his steps endued,
So feeling, for my weary life,
the need
Of that dear nourishment Death
rudely stole,
Leaving the world all bare,
and sad my soul,
From time to time fair pleasures
pall, my sweet
To bitter turns, fear rises,
and hopes fail,
My course, though brief, that
I shall e’er complete:
Cloudlike before the gale,
To win some resting-place
from rest I flee,
—If such indeed
my doom, so let it be.
Never to mortal life could
I incline,
—Be witness, Love,
with whom I parley oft—
Except for her who was its
light and mine.
And since, below extinguish’d,
shines aloft
The life in which I lived,
if lawful ’twere,
My chief desire would be to
follow her:
But mine is ample cause of
In those bright eyes, where
wont my heart to dwell,
Until by envy my hard fortune
stirr’d
Rose from so rich a temple
to expel,
Love with his proper hand
had character’d
In lines of pity what, ere
long, I ween
The issue of my old desire
had been.
Dying alone, and not my life
with me,
Comely and sweet it then had
been to die,
Leaving my life’s best
part unscathed and free;
But now my fond hopes lie
Dead in her silent dust:
a secret chill
Shoots through me when I think
that I live still.
If my poor intellect had but
the force
To help my need, and if no
other lure
Had led it from the plain
and proper course,
Upon my lady’s brow
’twere easy sure
To have read this truth, “Here
all thy pleasure dies,
And hence thy lifelong trial
dates its rise.”
My spirit then had gently
pass’d away
In her dear presence from
all mortal care;
Freed from this troublesome
and heavy clay,
Mounting, before her, where
Angels and saints prepared
on high her place,
Whom I but follow now with
slow sad pace.
My song! if one there be
Who in his love finds happiness
and rest,
Tell him this truth from me,
“Die, while thou still
art bless’d,
For death betimes is comfort,
not dismay,
And who can rightly die needs
no delay.”
MACGREGOR.
Mia benigna fortuna e ’l viver lieto.
IN HIS MISERY HE DESIRES DEATH THE MORE HE REMEMBERS HIS PAST CONTENTMENT AND COMFORT.
My favouring fortune
and my life of joy,
My days so cloudless, and
my tranquil nights,
The tender sigh, the pleasing
power of song,
Which gently wont to sound
in verse and rhyme,
Suddenly darken’d into
grief and tears,
Make me hate life and inly
pray for death!
O cruel, grim, inexorable
Death!
How hast thou dried my every
source of joy,
And left me to drag on a life
of tears,
Through darkling days and
melancholy nights.
My heavy sighs no longer meet
in rhyme,
And my hard martyrdom exceeds
all song!
Where now is vanish’d
my once amorous song?
To talk of anger and to treat
with death;
Where the fond verses, where
the happy rhyme
Welcomed by gentle hearts
with pensive joy?
Where now Love’s communings
that cheer’d my nights?
My sole theme, my one thought,
is now but tears!
Erewhile to my desire so sweet
were tears
Their tenderness refined my
else rude song,
And made me wake and watch
the livelong nights;
But sorrow now to me is worse
than death,
Since lost for aye that look
of modest joy,
The lofty subject of my lowly
rhyme!
Love in those bright eyes
to my ready rhyme
Gave a fair theme, now changed,
alas! to tears;
With grief remembering that
time of joy,
My changed thoughts issue
find in other song,
Evermore thee beseeching,
pallid Death,
To snatch and save me from
these painful nights!
Sleep has departed from my
anguish’d nights,
Music is absent from my rugged
rhyme,
Which knows not now to sound
of aught but death;
Its notes, so thrilling once,
all turn’d to tears,
Love knows not in his reign
such varied song,
As full of sadness now as
then of joy!
Man lived not then so crown’d
as I with joy,
Man lives not now such wretched
days and nights;
And my full festering grief
but swells the song
Which from my bosom draws
the mournful rhyme;
I lived in hope, who now live
but in tears,
Nor against death have other
hope save death!
Me Death in her has kill’d;
and only Death
Can to my sight restore that
face of joy,
Which pleasant made to me
e’en sighs and tears,
Balmy the air, and dewy soft
the nights,
Wherein my choicest thoughts
I gave to rhyme
While Love inspirited my feeble
song!
Would that such power as erst
graced Orpheus’ song
Were mine to win my Laura
back from death,
As he Eurydice without a rhyme;
Then would I live in best
excess of joy;
Or, that denied me, soon may
some sad night
Close for me ever these twin
founts of tears!
Love! I have told with
late and early tears,
My grievous injuries in doleful
song;
Not that I hope from thee
less cruel nights;
And therefore am I urged to
pray for death,
Which hence would take me
but to crown with joy,
Where lives she whom I sing
in this sad rhyme!
If so high may aspire my weary
rhyme,
To her now shelter’d
safe from rage and tears,
Whose beauties fill e’en
heaven with livelier joy,
Well would she recognise my
alter’d song,
Which haply pleased her once,
ere yet by death
Her days were cloudless made
and dark my nights!
O ye, who fondly sigh for
better nights,
Who listen to love’s
will, or sing in rhyme,
Pray that for me be no delay
in death,
The port of misery, the goal
of tears,
But let him change for me
his ancient song,
Since what makes others sad
fills me with joy!
Ay! for such joy, in one or
in few nights,
I pray in rude song and in
anguish’d rhyme,
That soon my tears may ended
be in death!
MACGREGOR.
Ite, rime dolenti, al duro sasso.
HE PRAYS THAT SHE WILL BE NEAR HIM AT HIS DEATH, WHICH HE FEELS APPROACHING.
Go, plaintive
verse, to the cold marble go,
Which hides in earth my treasure
from these eyes;
There call on her who answers
from yon skies,
Although the mortal part dwells
dark and low.
Of life how I am wearied make
her know,
Of stemming these dread waves
that round me rise:
But, copying all her virtues
I so prize,
Her track I follow, yet my
steps are slow.
I sing of her, living, or
dead, alone;
(Dead, did I say? She
is immortal made!)
That by the world she should
be loved, and known.
Oh! in my passage hence may
she be near,
To greet my coming that’s
not long delay’d;
And may I hold in heaven the
rank herself holds there!
NOTT.
Go, melancholy
rhymes! your tribute bring
To that cold stone, which
holds the dear remains
Of all that earth held precious;—uttering,
If heaven should deign to
hear them, earthly strains.
Tell her, that sport of tempests,
fit no more
To stem the troublous ocean,—here
at last
Her votary treads the solitary
shore;
His only pleasure to recall
the past.
Tell her, that she who living
ruled his fate,
In death still holds her empire:
all his care,
So grant the Muse her aid,—to
celebrate
Her every word, and thought,
and action fair.
Be this my meed, that in the
hour of death
Her kindred spirit may hail,
and bless my parting breath!
WOODHOUSELEE.
S’ onesto amor puo meritar mercede.
HE PRAYS THAT, IN REWARD FOR HIS LONG AND VIRTUOUS ATTACHMENT, SHE WILL VISIT HIM IN DEATH.
If Mercy e’er
rewardeth virtuous love,
If Pity still can do, as she
has done,
I shall have rest, for clearer
than the sun
My lady and the world my faith
approve.
Who fear’d me once,
now knows, yet scarce believes
I am the same who wont her
love to seek,
Who seek it still; where she
but heard me speak,
Or saw my face, she now my
soul perceives.
Wherefore I hope that e’en
in heaven she mourns
My heavy anguish, and on me
the while
Her sweet face eloquent of
pity turns,
And that when shuffled off
this mortal coil,
Her way to me with that fair
band she’ll wend,
True follower of Christ and
virtue’s friend.
MACGREGOR.
If virtuous love
doth merit recompense—
If pity still maintain its
wonted sway—
I that reward shall win, for
bright as day
To earth and Laura breathes
my faith’s incense.
WOLLASTON.
Vidi fra mille donne una gia tale.
BEAUTY SHOWED ITSELF IN, AND DISAPPEARED WITH, LAURA.
’Mid many
fair one such by me was seen
That amorous fears my heart
did instant seize,
Beholding her—nor
false the images—
Equal to angels in her heavenly
mien.
Nothing in her was mortal
or terrene,
As one whom nothing short
of heaven can please;
My soul well train’d
for her to burn and freeze
Sought in her wake to mount
the blue serene.
But ah! too high for earthly
wings to rise
Her pitch, and soon she wholly
pass’d from sight:
The very thought still makes
me cold and numb;
O beautiful and high and lustrous
eyes,
Where Death, who fills the
world with grief and fright,
Found entrance in so fair
a form to come.
MACGREGOR.
Tornami a mente, anzi v’ e dentro quella.
SHE IS SO FIXED IN HIS HEART THAT AT TIMES HE BELIEVES HER STILL ALIVE, AND IS FORCED TO RECALL THE DATE OF HER DEATH.
Oh! to my soul
for ever she returns;
Or rather Lethe could not
blot her thence,
Such as she was when first
she struck my sense,
In that bright blushing age
when beauty burns:
So still I see her, bashful
as she turns
Retired into herself, as from
offence:
I cry—“’Tis
she! she still has life and sense:
Oh, speak to me, my love!”—Sometimes
she spurns
My call; sometimes she seems
to answer straight:
Then, starting from my waking
dream, I say,—
“Alas! poor wretch,
thou art of mind bereft!
Forget’st thou the first
hour of the sixth day
Of April, the three hundred,
forty eight,
And thousandth year,—when
she her earthly mansion left?”
MOREHEAD.
My mind recalls
her; nay, her home is there,
Nor can Lethean draught drive
thence her form,
I see that star’s pure
ray her spirit warm,
Whose grace and spring-time
beauty she doth wear.
As thus my vision paints her
charms so rare,
That none to such perfection
may conform,
I cry, “’Tis she!
death doth to life transform!”
And then to hear that voice,
I wake my prayer.
WOLLASTON.
Questo nostro caduco e fragil bene.
NATURE DISPLAYED IN HER EVERY CHARM, BUT SOON WITHDREW HER FROM SIGHT.
This gift of beauty
which a good men name,
Frail, fleeting, fancied,
false, a wind, a shade,
Ne’er yet with all its
spells one fair array’d,
Save in this age when for
my cost it came.
Not such is Nature’s
duty, nor her aim,
One to enrich if others poor
are made,
But now on one is all her
wealth display’d,
—Ladies, your pardon
let my boldness claim.
Like loveliness ne’er
lived, or old or new,
Nor ever shall, I ween, but
hid so strange,
Scarce did our erring world
its marvel view,
So soon it fled; thus too
my soul must change
The little light vouchsafed
me from the skies
Only for pleasure of her sainted
eyes.
MACGREGOR.
O tempo, o ciel volubil che fuggendo.
HE NO LONGER CONTEMPLATES THE MORTAL, BUT THE IMMORTAL BEAUTIES OF LAURA.
O Time! O
heavens! whose flying changes frame
Errors and snares for mortals
poor and blind;
O days more swift than arrows
or the wind,
Experienced now, I know your
treacherous aim.
You I excuse, myself alone
I blame,
For Nature for your flight
who wings design’d
To me gave eyes which still
I have inclined
To mine own ill, whence follow
grief and shame.
An hour will come, haply e’en
now is pass’d,
Their sight to turn on my
diviner part
And so this infinite anguish
end at last.
Rejects not your long yoke,
O Love, my heart,
But its own ill by study,
sufferings vast:
Virtue is not of chance, but
painful art.
MACGREGOR.
O Time! O
circling heavens! in your flight
Us mortals ye deceive—so
poor and blind;
O days! more fleeting than
the shaft or wind,
Experience brings your treachery
to my sight!
But mine the error—ye
yourselves are right;
Your flight fulfils but that
your wings design’d:
My eyes were Nature’s
gift, yet ne’er could find
But one blest light—and
hence their present blight.
It now is time (perchance
the hour is pass’d)
That they a safer dwelling
should select,
And thus repose might soothe
my grief acute:
Love’s yoke the spirit
may not from it cast,
(With oh what pain!) it may
its ill eject;
But virtue is attain’d
but by pursuit!
WOLLASTON.
Quel, che d’ odore e di color vincea.
THE LAUREL, IN WHOM HE PLACED ALL HIS JOY HAS BEEN TAKEN FROM HIM TO ADORN HEAVEN.
That which in
fragrance and in hue defied
The odoriferous and lucid
East,
Fruits, flowers and herbs
and leaves, and whence the West
Of all rare excellence obtain’d
the prize,
My laurel sweet, which every
beauty graced,
Where every glowing virtue
loved to dwell,
Beheld beneath its fair and
friendly shade
My Lord, and by his side my
Goddess sit.
Still have I placed in that
beloved plant
My home of choicest thoughts:
in fire, in frost
Shivering or burning, still
I have been bless’d.
The world was of her perfect
honours full
When God, his own bright heaven
therewith to grace,
Reclaim’d her for Himself,
for she was his.
MACGREGOR.
Lasciato hai, Morte, senza sole il mondo.
HER TRUE WORTH WAS KNOWN ONLY TO HIM AND TO HEAVEN.
Death, thou the
world, since that dire arrow sped,
Sunless and cold hast left;
Love weak and blind;
Beauty and grace their brilliance
have resign’d,
And from my heavy heart all
joy is fled;
Honour is sunk, and softness
banished.
I weep alone the woes which
all my kind
Should weep—for
virtue’s fairest flower has pined
Beneath thy touch: what
second blooms instead?
Let earth, sea, air, with
common wail bemoan
Man’s hapless race;
which now, since Laura died,
A flowerless mead, a gemless
ring appears.
The world possess’d,
nor knew her worth, till flown!
I knew it well, who here in
grief abide;
And heaven too knows, which
decks its forehead with my tears.
WRANGHAM.
Thou, Death, hast
left this world’s dark cheerless way
Without a sun: Love blind
and stripp’d of arms;
Left mirth despoil’d;
beauty bereaved of charms;
And me self-wearied, to myself
a prey;
Left vanish’d, sunk,
whate’er was courteous, gay:
I only weep, yet all must
feel alarms:
If beauty’s bud the
hand of rapine harms
It dies, and not a second
views the day!
Let air, earth, ocean weep
for human kind;
For human kind, deprived of
Laura, seems
A flowerless mead, a ring
whose gem is lost.
None knew her worth while
to this orb confined,
Save me her bard, whose sorrow
ceaseless streams,
And heaven, that’s made
more beauteous at my cost.
NOTT.
Conobbi, quanto il ciel gli occhi m’ aperse.
HER PRAISES ARE, COMPARED WITH HER DESERTS, BUT AS A DROP TO THE OCEAN.
So far as to mine
eyes its light heaven show’d,
So far as love and study train’d
my wings,
Novel and beautiful but mortal
things
From every star I found on
her bestow’d:
So many forms in rare and
varied mode
Of heavenly beauty from immortal
springs
My panting intellect before
me brings,
Sunk my weak sight before
their dazzling load.
Hence, whatsoe’er I
spoke of her or wrote,
Who, at God’s right,
returns me now her prayers,
Is in that infinite abyss
a mote:
For style beyond the genius
never dares;
Thus, though upon the sun
man fix his sight,
He seeth less as fiercer burns
its light.
MACGREGOR.
Dolce mio caro e prezioso pegno.
HE PRAYS HER TO APPEAR BEFORE HIM IN A VISION.
Dear precious
pledge, by Nature snatch’d away,
But yet reserved for me in
realms undying;
O thou on whom my life is
aye relying,
Why tarry thus, when for thine
aid I pray?
Time was, when sleep could
to mine eyes convey
Sweet visions, worthy thee;—why
is my sighing
Unheeded now?—who
keeps thee from replying?
Surely contempt in heaven
cannot stay:
Often on earth the gentlest
heart is fain
To feed and banquet on another’s
woe
(Thus love is conquer’d
in his own domain),
But thou, who seest through
me, and dost know
All that I feel,—thou,
who canst soothe my pain,
Oh! let thy blessed shade
its peace bestow.
WROTTESLEY.
Deh qual pieta, qual angel fu si presto.
HIS PRAYER IS HEARD.
What angel of
compassion, hovering near,
Heard, and to heaven my heart
grief instant bore,
Whence now I feel descending
as of yore
My lady, in that bearing chaste
and dear,
My lone and melancholy heart
to cheer,
So free from pride, of humbleness
such store,
In fine, so perfect, though
at death’s own door,
I live, and life no more is
dull and drear.
Blessed is she who so can
others bless
With her fair sight, or with
that tender speech
To whose full meaning love
alone can reach.
“Dear friend,”
she says, “thy pangs my soul distress;
But for our good I did thy
homage shun”—
In sweetest tones which might
arrest the sun.
MACGREGOR.
Del cibo onde ’l signor mio sempre abbonda.
HE DESCRIBES THE APPARITION OF LAURA.
Food wherewithal
my lord is well supplied,
With tears and grief my weary
heart I’ve fed;
As fears within and paleness
o’er me spread,
Oft thinking on its fatal
wound and wide:
But in her time with whom
no other vied,
Equal or second, to my suffering
bed
Comes she to look on whom
I almost dread,
And takes her seat in pity
by my side.
With that fair hand, so long
desired in vain,
She check’d my tears,
while at her accents crept
A sweetness to my soul, intense,
divine.
“Is this thy wisdom,
to parade thy pain?
No longer weep! hast thou
not amply wept?
Would that such life were
thine as death is mine!”
MACGREGOR.
With grief and
tears (my soul’s proud sovereign’s food)
I ever nourish still my aching
heart;
I feel my blanching cheek,
and oft I start
As on Love’s sharp engraven
wound I brood.
But she, who e’er on
earth unrivall’d stood,
Flits o’er my couch,
when prostrate by his dart
I lie; and there her presence
doth impart.
Whilst scarce my eyes dare
meet their vision’d good,
With that fair hand in life
I so desired,
She stays my eyes’ sad
tide; her voice’s tone
Awakes the balm earth ne’er
to man can give:
And thus she speaks:—“Oh!
vain hath wisdom fired
The hopeless mourner’s
breast; no more bemoan,
I am not dead—would
thou like me couldst live!”
WOLLASTON.
Ripensando a quel ch’ oggi il ciel onora.
HE WOULD DIE OF GRIEF WERE SHE NOT SOMETIMES TO CONSOLE HIM BY HER PRESENCE.
To that soft look
which now adorns the skies,
The graceful bending of the
radiant head,
The face, the sweet angelic
accents fled,
That soothed me once, but
now awake my sighs
Oh! when to these imagination
flies,
I wonder that I am not long
since dead!
’Tis she supports me,
for her heavenly tread
Is round my couch when morning
visions rise!
In every attitude how holy,
chaste!
How tenderly she seems to
hear the tale
Of my long woes, and their
relief to seek!
But when day breaks she then
appears in haste
The well-known heavenward
path again to scale,
With moisten’d eye,
and soft expressive cheek!
MOREHEAD.
’Tis sweet,
though sad, my trembling thoughts to raise,
As memory dwells upon that
form so dear,
And think that now e’en
angels join to praise
The gentle virtues that adorn’d
her here;
That face, that look, in fancy
to behold—
To hear that voice that did
with music vie—
The bending head, crown’d
with its locks of gold—
All, all that charm’d,
now but sad thoughts supply.
How had I lived her bitter
WROTTESLEY.
Fu forse un tempo dolce cosa amore.
HE COMPLAINS OF HIS SUFFERINGS, WHICH ADMIT OF NO RELIEF.
Love, haply, was
erewhile a sweet relief;
I scarce know when; but now
it bitter grows
Beyond all else. Who
learns from life well knows,
As I have learnt to know from
heavy grief;
She, of our age, who was its
honour chief,
Who now in heaven with brighter
lustre glows,
Has robb’d my being
of the sole repose
It knew in life, though that
was rare and brief.
Pitiless Death my every good
has ta’en!
Not the great bliss of her
fair spirit freed
Can aught console the adverse
life I lead.
I wept and sang; who now can
wake no strain,
But day and night the pent
griefs of my soul
From eyes and tongue in tears
and verses roll.
MACGREGOR.
Spinse amor e dolor ove ir non debbe.
REFLECTING THAT LAURA IS IN HEAVEN, HE REPENTS HIS EXCESSIVE GRIEF, AND IS CONSOLED.
Sorrow and Love
encouraged my poor tongue,
Discreet in sadness, where
it should not go,
To speak of her for whom I
burn’d and sung,
What, even were it true, ’twere
wrong to show.
That blessed saint my miserable
state
Might surely soothe, and ease
my spirit’s strife,
Since she in heaven is now
domesticate
With Him who ever ruled her
heart in life.
Wherefore I am contented and
consoled,
Nor would again in life her
form behold;
Nay, I prefer to die, and
live alone.
Fairer than ever to my mental
eye,
I see her soaring with the
angels high,
Before our Lord, her maker
and my own.
MACGREGOR.
My love and grief
compell’d me to proclaim
My heart’s lament, and
urged me to convey
That, were it true, of her
I should not say
Who woke alike my song and
bosom’s flame.
For I should comfort find,
’mid this world’s shame,
To mark her soul’s beatified
array,
To think that He who here
had own’d its sway,
Doth now within his home its
presence claim.
And true I comfort find—myself
resign’d,
I would not woo her back to
earthly gloom;
Oh! rather let me die, or
live still lone!
My mental eye, that holds
her there enshrined,
Now paints her wing’d,
bright with celestial bloom,
Prostrate beneath our mutual
Heaven’s throne.
WOLLASTON.
Gli angeli eletti e l’ anime beate.
HE DIRECTS ALL HIS THOUGHTS TO HEAVEN, WHERE LAURA AWAITS AND BECKONS HIM.
The chosen angels,
and the spirits blest,
Celestial tenants, on that
glorious day
My Lady join’d them,
throng’d in bright array
Around her, with amaze and
awe imprest.
“What splendour, what
new beauty stands confest
Unto our sight?”—among
themselves they say;
“No soul, in this vile
age, from sinful clay
To our high realms has risen
so fair a guest.”
Delighted to have changed
her mortal state,
She ranks amid the purest
of her kind;
And ever and anon she looks
behind,
To mark my progress and my
coming wait;
Now my whole thought, my wish
to heaven I cast;
’Tis Laura’s voice
I hear, and hence she bids me haste.
NOTT.
The chosen angels,
and the blest above,
Heaven’s citizens!—the
day when Laura ceased
To adorn the world, about
her thronging press’d,
Replete with wonder and with
holy love.
“What sight is this?—what
will this beauty prove?”
Said they; “for sure
no form in charms so dress’d,
From yonder globe to this
high place of rest,
In all the latter age, did
e’er remove!”
She, pleased and happy with
her mansion new,
Compares herself with the
most perfect there;
And now and then she casts
a glance to view
If yet I come, and seems to
wish me near.
Rise then, my thoughts, to
heaven!—vain world, adieu!
My Laura calls! her quickening
voice I hear!
CHARLEMONT.
Donna che lieta col Principio nostro.
HE CONJURES LAURA, BY THE PURE LOVE HE EVER BORE HER, TO OBTAIN FOR HIM A SPEEDY ADMISSION TO HER IN HEAVEN.
Lady, in bliss
who, by our Maker’s feet,
As suited for thine excellent
life alone,
Art now enthroned in high
and glorious seat,
Adorn’d with charms
nor pearls nor purple own;
O model high and rare of ladies
sweet!
Now in his face to whom all
things are known,
Look on my love, with that
pure faith replete,
As long my verse and truest
tears have shown,
And know at last my heart
on earth to thee
Was still as now in heaven,
nor wish’d in life
More than beneath thine eyes’
bright sun to be:
Wherefore, to recompense the
tedious strife,
Which turn’d my liege
heart from the world away,
Pray that I soon may come
with thee to stay.
MACGREGOR.
Lady! whose gentle
virtues have obtain’d
For thee a dwelling with thy
Maker blest,
To sit enthroned above, in
angels’ vest
(Whose lustre gold nor purple
had attain’d):
Ah! thou who here the most
exalted reign’d,
Now through the eyes of Him
who knows each breast,
That heart’s pure faith
and love thou canst attest,
Which both my pen and tears
alike sustain’d.
Thou, knowest, too, my heart
was thine on earth,
As now it is in heaven; no
wish was there
But to avow thine eyes, its
only shrine:
Thus to reward the strife
which owes its birth
To thee, who won my each affection’d
care,
Pray God to waft me to his
home and thine!
WOLLASTON.
Da’ piu begli occhi e dal piu chiaro viso.
HIS ONLY COMFORT IS THE EXPECTATION OF MEETING HER AGAIN IN HEAVEN.
The brightest
eyes, the most resplendent face
That ever shone; and the most
radiant hair,
With which nor gold nor sunbeam
could compare;
The sweetest accent, and a
smile all grace;
Hands, arms, that would e’en
motionless abase
Those who to Love the most
rebellious were;
Fine, nimble feet; a form
that would appear
Like that of her who first
did Eden trace;
These fann’d life’s
spark: now heaven, and all its choir
Of angel hosts those kindred
charms admire;
While lone and darkling I
on earth remain.
Yet is not comfort fled; she,
who can read
Each secret of my soul, shall
intercede;
And I her sainted form behold
again.
NOTT.
Yes, from those
finest eyes, that face most sweet
That ever shone, and from
that loveliest hair,
With which nor gold nor sunbeam
may compare,
That speech with love, that
smile with grace replete,
From those soft hands, those
white arms which defeat.
Themselves unmoved, the stoutest
hearts that e’er
To Love were rebels; from
those feet so fair,
From her whole form, for Eden
only meet,
My spirit took its life—now
these delight
The King of Heaven and his
angelic train,
While, blind and naked, I
am left in night.
One only balm expect I ’mid
my pain—
That she, mine every thought
who now can see,
May win this grace—that
I with her may be.
MACGREGOR.
E’ mi par d’ or in ora udire il messo.
HE FEELS THAT THE DAY OF THEIR REUNION IS AT HAND.
Methinks from
hour to hour her voice I hear:
My Lady calls me! I would
fain obey;
Within, without, I feel myself
decay;
And am so alter’d—not
with many a year—
That to myself a stranger
I appear;
MACGREGOR.
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 lustrous 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.
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
Shines e’en from heaven
my secret conscience through,
Of lost time and loved sin
the glass 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.
Non puo 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:
WOLLASTON.
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 pass’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 God 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 vanishing, sleep follows
in her train.
DACRE.
Quell’ antiquo mio dolce empio signore.
LOVE, SUMMONED BY THE POET TO THE TRIBUNAL OF REASON, PASSES 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 nobler
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.
What wit so rare such language
to employ
That yet may free me from
this wretched thrall.
Or even my complaint,
So great and just, against
this ingrate paint?
O little sweet! much bitterness
and gall!
How have you changed my life,
so tranquil, ere
With the false witchery blind,
That alone lured me to his
amorous snare!
If right I judge, a mind
I boasted once with higher
feelings rife,
—But he destroy’d
my peace, he plunged me in this strife!
“Less for myself to
care, through him I’ve grown.
And less my God to honour
than I ought:
Through him my every thought
On a frail beauty blindly
have I thrown;
In this my counsellor he stood
alone,
Still prompt with cruel aid
so to provoke
My young desire, that I
Hoped respite from his harsh
and heavy yoke.
But, ah! what boots—though
changing time sweep by,
If from this changeless passion
nought can save—
A genius proud and high?
Or what Heaven’s other
envied gifts to have,
If still I groan the slave
Of the fierce despot whom
I here accuse,
Who turns e’en my sad
life to his triumphant use?
“’Twas he who
made me desert countries seek,
Wild tribes and nations dangerous,
manners rude,
My path with thorns he strew’d,
And every error that betrays
the weak.
Valley and mountain, marsh,
and stream, and sea,
On every side his snares were
set for me.
In June December came,
With present peril and sharp
toil the same;
Alone they left me never,
neither he,
Nor she, whom I so fled, my
other foe:
Untimely in my tomb,
If by some painful death not
yet laid low.
My safety from such doom
Heaven’s gracious pity,
not this tyrant, deigns,
Who feeds upon my grief, and
profits in my pains!
“No quiet hour, since
first I own’d his reign,
I’ve known, nor hope
to know: repose is fled
From my unfriendly bed,
Nor herb nor spells can bring
it back again.
By fraud and force he gain’d
and guards his power
O’er every sense; soundeth
from steeple near,
By day, by night, the hour,
I feel his hand in every stroke
I hear.
Never did cankerworm fair
tree devour,
As he my heart, wherein he,
gnawing, lurks,
And, there, my ruin works.
Hence my past martyrdom and
tears arise,
My present speech, these sighs,
Which tear and tire myself,
and haply thee,
—Judge then between
us both, thou knowest him and me!”
With fierce reproach my adversary
rose:
“Lady,” he spoke,
“the rebel to a close
Is heard at last, the truth
Receive from me which he has
shrunk to tell:
Big words to bandy, specious
lies to sell,
He plies right well the vile
trade of his youth,
Freed from whose shame, to
share
My easy pleasures, by my friendly
care,
From each false passion which
had work’d him ill,
Kept safe and pure, laments
he, graceless, still
The sweet life he has gain’d?
And, blindly, thus his fortune
dares he blame,
Who owes his very fame
To me, his genius who sublimed,
sustain’d,
In the proud flight to which
he, else, had dared not aim?
“Well knows he how,
in history’s every page,
The laurell’d chief,
the monarch on his throne,
The poet and the sage,
Favourites of fortune, or
for virtue known,
Were cursed by evil stars,
in loves debased,
Soulless and vile, their hearts,
their fame, to waste:
While I, for him alone,
From all the lovely ladies
of the earth,
Chose one, so graced with
beauty and with worth,
The eternal sun her equal
ne’er beheld.
Such charm was in her life,
Such virtue in her speech
with music rife,
Their wondrous power dispell’d
Each vain and vicious fancy
from his heart,
—A foe I am indeed,
if this a foeman’s part!
“Such was my anger,
these my hate and slights,
Than all which others could
bestow more sweet;
Evil for good I meet,
If thus ingratitude my grace
requites.
So high, upon my wings, he
soar’d in fame,
To hear his song, fair dames
and gentle knights
In throngs delighted came.
Among the gifted spirits of
our time
His name conspicuous shines;
in every clime
Admired, approved, his strains
an echo find.
Such is he, but for me
A mere court flatterer who
was doom’d to be,
Unmark’d amid his kind,
Till, in my school, exalted
and made known
By her, who, of her sex, stood
peerless and alone!
“If my great service
more there need to tell,
I have so fenced and fortified
him well,
That his pure mind on nought
Of gross or grovelling now
can brook to dwell;
Modest and sensitive, in deed,
word, thought,
Her captive from his youth,
she so her fair
And virtuous image press’d
Upon his heart, it left its
likeness there:
Whate’er his life has
shown of good or great,
In aim or action, he from
us possess’d.
Never was midnight dream
So full of error as to us
his hate!
For Heaven’s and man’s
esteem
If still he keep, the praise
is due to us,
Whom in its thankless pride
his blind rage censures thus!
“In fine, ’twas
I, my past love to exceed,
Who heavenward fix’d
his hope, who gave him wings
To fly from mortal things,
Which to eternal bliss the
path impede;
With his own sense, that,
seeing how in her
Virtues and charms so great
and rare combined,
A holy pride might stir
And to the Great First Cause
exalt his mind,
(In his own verse confess’d
this truth we see,)
While that dear lady whom
I sent to be
The grace, the guard, and
guide
Of his vain life”—But
here a heart-deep groan
I sudden gave, and cried,
“Yes! sent and snatch’d
her from me.” He replied,
“Not I, but Heaven above,
which will’d her for its own!”
At length before that high
tribunal each—
With anxious trembling I,
while in his mien
Was conscious triumph seen—
With earnest prayer concluded
thus his speech:
“Speak, noble lady!
we thy judgment wait.”
She then with equal air:
“It glads me to have
heard your keen debate,
But in a cause so great,
More time and thought it needs
just verdict to declare!”
MACGREGOR.
[OF PARTS ONLY]
I cited once t’
appear before the noble queen,
That ought to guide each mortal
life that in this world is seen,
That pleasant cruel foe that
robbeth hearts of ease,
And now doth frown, and then
doth fawn, and can both grieve and please;
And there, as gold in fire
full fined to each intent,
Charged with fear, and terror
eke I did myself present,
As one that doubted death,
and yet did justice crave,
And thus began t’ unfold
my cause in hope some help to have.
“Madam, in tender youth
I enter’d first this reign,
Where other sweet I never
felt, than grief and great disdain;
And eke so sundry kinds of
torments did endure.
As life I loathed, and death
desired my cursed case to cure;
And thus my woeful days unto
this hour have pass’d
In smoky sighs and scalding
tears, my wearied life to waste;
O Lord! what graces great
I fled, and eke refused
To serve this cruel crafty
Sire that doubtless trust abused.”
“What wit can use such
words to argue and debate,
What tongue express the full
effect of mine unhappy state;
What hand with pen can paint
t’ uncipher this deceit;
What heart so hard that would
not yield that once hath seen his bate;
What great and grievous wrongs,
what threats of ill success,
What single sweet, mingled
with mass of double bitterness.
With what unpleasant pangs,
with what an hoard of pains,
Hath he acquainted my green
years by his false pleasant trains.”
“Who by resistless power
hath forced me sue his dance,
That if I be not much abused
had found much better
And when I most resolved to
lead most quiet life, chance;
He spoil’d me of discordless
state, and thrust me in truceless strife.
He hath bewitch’d me
so that God the less I served,
And due respect unto myself
the further from me swerv’d;
He hath the love of one so
painted in my thought,
That other thing I can none
mind, nor care for as I ought.
And all this comes from him,
both counsel and the cause.
That whet my young desire
so much to th’ honour of his laws.”
HARINGTON MS.
Dicemi spesso il mio fidato speglio.
HE AWAKES TO A CONVICTION OF THE NEAR APPROACH OF DEATH.
My faithful mirror
oft to me has told—
My weary spirit and my shrivell’d
skin
My failing powers to prove
it all begin—
“Deceive thyself no
longer, thou art old.”
Man is in all by Nature best
controll’d,
And if with her we struggle,
time creeps in;
At the sad truth, on fire
as waters win,
A long and heavy sleep is
off me roll’d;
And I see clearly our vain
life depart,
That more than once our being
cannot be:
Her voice sounds ever in my
inmost heart.
Who now from her fair earthly
frame is free:
She walk’d the world
so peerless and alone,
Its fame and lustre all with
her are flown.
MACGREGOR.
The mirror’d
friend—my changing form hath read.
My every power’s incipient
decay—
My wearied soul—alike,
in warning say
“Thyself no more deceive,
thy youth hath fled.”
’Tis ever best to be
by Nature led,
We strive with her, and Death
makes us his prey;
At that dread thought, as
flames the waters stay,
The dream is gone my life
hath sadly fed.
I wake to feel how soon existence
flies:
Once known, ’tis gone,
and never to return.
Still vibrates in my heart
the thrilling tone
Of her, who now her beauteous
shrine defies:
But she, who here to rival,
none could learn,
Hath robb’d her sex,
and with its fame hath flown.
WOLLASTON.
Volo con l’ ali de’ pensieri al cielo.
HE SEEMS TO BE WITH HER IN HEAVEN.
So often on the
wings of thought I fly
Up to heaven’s blissful
seats, that I appear
As one of those whose treasure
is lodged there,
The rent veil of mortality
thrown by.
A pleasing chillness thrills
my heart, while I
Listen to her voice, who bids
me paleness wear—
“Ah! now, my friend,
I love thee, now revere,
For changed thy face, thy
manners,” doth she cry.
She leads me to her Lord:
and then I bow,
Preferring humble prayer,
He would allow
That I his glorious face,
and hers might see.
Thus He replies: “Thy
destiny’s secure;
To stay some twenty, or some
ten years more,
Is but a little space, though
long it seems to thee.”
NOTT.
Morte ha spento quel Sol ch’ abbagliar suolmi.
WEARY OF LIFE, NOW THAT SHE IS NO LONGER WITH HIM, HE DEVOTES HIMSELF TO GOD.
Death has the
bright sun quench’d which wont to burn;
Her pure and constant eyes
his dark realms hold:
She now is dust, who dealt
me heat and cold;
To common trees my chosen
laurels turn;
Hence I at once my bliss and
bane discern.
None now there is my feelings
MACGREGOR.
Tennemi Amor anni ventuno ardendo.
HE CONFESSES AND REGRETS HIS SINS, AND PRAYS GOD TO SAVE HIM FROM ETERNAL DEATH.
Love held me one
and twenty years enchain’d,
His flame was joy—for
hope was in my grief!
For ten more years I wept
without relief,
When Laura with my heart,
to heaven attain’d.
Now weary grown, my life I
had arraign’d
That in its error, check’d
(to my belief)
Blest virtue’s seeds—now,
in my yellow leaf,
I grieve the misspent years,
existence stain’d.
Alas! it might have sought
a brighter goal,
In flying troublous thoughts,
and winning peace;
O Father! I repentant
seek thy throne:
Thou, in this temple hast
enshrined my soul,
Oh, bless me yet, and grant
its safe release!
Unjustified—my
sin I humbly own.
WOLLASTON.
I’ vo piangendo i miei passati tempi.
HE HUMBLY CONFESSES THE ERRORS OF HIS PAST LIFE, AND PRAYS FOR DIVINE GRACE.
Weeping, I still
revolve the seasons flown
In vain idolatry of mortal
things;
Not soaring heavenward; though
my soul had wings
Which might, perchance, a
glorious flight have shown.
O Thou, discerner of the guilt
I own,
Giver of life immortal, King
of Kings,
Heal Thou the wounded heart
which conscience stings:
It looks for refuge only to
thy throne.
Thus, although life was warfare
and unrest,
Be death the haven of peace;
and if my day
Was vain—yet make
the parting moment blest!
Through this brief remnant
of my earthly way,
And in death’s billows,
be thy hand confess’d;
Full well Thou know’st,
this hope is all my stay!
SHEPPARD.
Still do I mourn
the years for aye gone by,
Which on a mortal love I lavished,
Nor e’er to soar my
pinions balanced,
Though wing’d perchance
no humble height to fly.
Thou, Dread Invisible, who
from on high
Look’st down upon this
suffering erring head,
Oh, be thy succour to my frailty
sped,
And with thy grace my indigence
supply!
My life in storms and warfare
doom’d to spend,
Harbour’d in peace that
life may I resign:
It’s course though idle,
pious be its end!
Oh, for the few brief days,
which yet are mine,
And for their close, thy guiding
hand extend!
Thou know’st on Thee
alone my heart’s firm hopes recline.
WRANGHAM.
Dolci durezze e placide repulse.
HE OWES HIS OWN SALVATION TO THE VIRTUOUS CONDUCT OF LAURA.
O sweet severity,
repulses mild,
With chasten’d love,
and tender pity fraught;
Graceful rebukes, that to
mad passion taught
Becoming mastery o’er
its wishes wild;
Speech dignified, in which,
united, smiled
All courtesy, with purity
of thought;
Virtue and beauty, that uprooted
aught
Of baser temper had my heart
defiled:
Eyes, in whose glance man
is beatified—
Awful, in pride of virtue,
to restrain
Aspiring hopes that justly
are denied,
Then prompt the drooping spirit
to sustain!
These, beautiful in every
change, supplied
Health to my soul, that else
were sought in vain.
DACRE.
Spirto felice, che si dolcemente.
BEHOLDING IN FANCY THE SHADE OF LAURA, HE TELLS HER THE LOSS THAT THE WORLD SUSTAINED IN HER DEPARTURE.
Blest spirit,
that with beams so sweetly clear
Those eyes didst bend on me,
than stars more bright,
And sighs didst breathe, and
words which could delight
Despair; and which in fancy
still I hear;—
I see thee now, radiant from
thy pure sphere
O’er the soft grass,
and violet’s purple light,
Move, as an angel to my wondering
sight;
More present than earth gave
thee to appear.
Yet to the Cause Supreme thou
art return’d:
And left, here to dissolve,
that beauteous veil
In which indulgent Heaven
invested thee.
Th’ impoverish’d
world at thy departure mourn’d:
For love departed, and the
sun grew pale,
And death then seem’d
our sole felicity.
CAPEL LOFFT.
O blessed Spirit!
who those sun-like eyes
So sweetly didst inform and
brightly fill,
Who the apt words didst frame
and tender sighs
Which in my fond heart have
their echo still.
Erewhile I saw thee, glowing
with chaste flame,
Thy feet ’mid violets
and verdure set,
Moving in angel not in mortal
frame,
Life-like and light, before
me present yet!
Her, when returning with thy
God to dwell,
Thou didst relinquish and
that fair veil given
For purpose high by fortune’s
grace to thee:
Love at thy parting bade the
world farewell;
Courtesy died; the sun abandon’d
heaven,
And Death himself our best
friend ’gan to be.
MACGREGOR.
Deh porgi mano all’ affannato ingegno.
HE BEGS LOVE TO ASSIST HIM, THAT HE MAY WORTHILY CELEBRATE HER.
Ah, Love! some
succour to my weak mind deign,
Lend to my frail and weary
style thine aid,
To sing of her who is immortal
made,
A citizen of the celestial
reign.
And grant, Lord, that my verse
the height may gain
Of her great praises, else
in vain essay’d,
Whose peer in worth or beauty
never stay’d
In this our world, unworthy
to retain.
Love answers: “In
myself and Heaven what lay,
By conversation pure and counsel
wise,
All was in her whom death
has snatch’d away.
Since the first morn when
Adam oped his eyes,
Like form was ne’er—suffice
it this to say,
Write down with tears what
scarce I tell for sighs.”
MACGREGOR.
Vago augelletto che cantando vai.
THE PLAINTIVE SONG OF A BIRD RECALLS TO HIM HIS OWN KEENER SORROW.
Poor solitary
bird, that pour’st thy lay;
Or haply mournest the sweet
season gone:
As chilly night and winter
hurry on,
And day-light fades and summer
flies away;
If as the cares that swell
thy little throat
Thou knew’st alike the
woes that wound my rest.
Ah, thou wouldst house thee
in this kindred breast,
And mix with mine thy melancholy
note.
Yet little know I ours are
kindred ills:
She still may live the object
of thy song:
Not so for me stern death
or Heaven wills!
But the sad season, and less
grateful hour,
And of past joy and sorrow
thoughts that throng
Prompt my full heart this
idle lay to pour.
DACRE.
Sweet bird, that
singest on thy airy way,
Or else bewailest pleasures
that are past;
What time the night draws
nigh, and wintry blast;
Leaving behind each merry
month, and day;
Oh, couldst thou, as thine
own, my state survey,
With the same gloom of misery
o’ercast;
Unto my bosom thou mightst
surely haste
And, by partaking, my sad
griefs allay.
Yet would thy share of woe
not equal mine,
Since the loved mate thou
weep’st doth haply live,
While death, and heaven, me
of my fair deprive:
But hours less gay, the season’s
drear decline;
With thoughts on many a sad,
and pleasant year,
Tempt me to ask thy piteous
presence here.
NOTT.
Vergine bella che di sol vestita.
TO THE VIRGIN MARY.
Beautiful Virgin! clothed
with the sun,
Crown’d with the stars,
who so the Eternal Sun
Well pleasedst that in thine
his light he hid;
Love pricks me on to utter
speech of thee,
And—feeble to commence
without thy aid—
Of Him who on thy bosom rests
in love.
Her I invoke who gracious
Wise Virgin! of that lovely
number one
Of Virgins blest and wise,
Even the first and with the
brightest lamp:
O solid buckler of afflicted
hearts!
’Neath which against
the blows of Fate and Death,
Not mere deliverance but great
victory is;
Relief from the blind ardour
which consumes
Vain mortals here below!
Virgin! those lustrous eyes,
Which tearfully beheld the
cruel prints
In the fair limbs of thy beloved
Son,
Ah! turn on my sad doubt,
Who friendless, helpless thus,
for counsel come to thee!
O Virgin! pure and perfect
in each part,
Maiden or Mother, from thy
honour’d birth,
This life to lighten and the
next adorn;
O bright and lofty gate of
open’d heaven!
By thee, thy Son and His,
the Almighty Sire,
In our worst need to save
us came below:
And, from amid all other earthly
seats,
Thou only wert elect,
Virgin supremely blest!
The tears of Eve who turnedst
into joy;
Make me, thou canst, yet worthy
of his grace,
O happy without end,
Who art in highest heaven
a saint immortal shrined.
O holy Virgin! full of every
good,
Who, in humility most deep
and true,
To heaven art mounted, thence
my prayers to hear,
That fountain thou of pity
didst produce,
That sun of justice light,
which calms and clears
Our age, else clogg’d
with errors dark and foul.
Three sweet and precious names
in thee combine,
Of mother, daughter, wife,
Virgin! with glory crown’d,
Queen of that King who has
unloosed our bonds,
And free and happy made the
world again,
By whose most sacred wounds,
I pray my heart to fix where
true joys only are!
Virgin! of all unparallel’d,
alone,
Who with thy beauties hast
enamour’d Heaven,
Whose like has never been,
nor e’er shall be;
For holy thoughts with chaste
and pious acts
To the true God a sacred living
shrine
In thy fecund virginity have
made:
By thee, dear Mary, yet my
life may be
Happy, if to thy prayers,
O Virgin meek and mild!
Where sin abounded grace shall
more abound!
With bended knee and broken
heart I pray
That thou my guide wouldst
be,
And to such prosperous end
direct my faltering way.
Bright Virgin! and immutable
as bright,
O’er life’s tempestuous
ocean the sure star
Each trusting mariner that
truly guides,
Look down, and see amid this
dreadful storm
How I am tost at random and
Virgin! what tears already
have I shed,
Cherish’d what dreams
and breathed what prayers in vain
But for my own worse penance
and sure loss;
Since first on Arno’s
shore I saw the light
Till now, whate’er I
sought, wherever turn’d,
My life has pass’d in
torment and in tears,
For mortal loveliness in air,
act, speech,
Has seized and soil’d
my soul:
O Virgin! pure and good,
Delay not till I reach my
life’s last year;
Swifter than shaft and shuttle
are, my days
’Mid misery and sin
Have vanish’d all, and
now Death only is behind!
Virgin! She now is dust,
who, living, held
My heart in grief, and plunged
it since in gloom;
She knew not of my many ills
this one,
And had she known, what since
befell me still
Had been the same, for every
other wish
Was death to me and ill renown
for her;
But, Queen of Heaven, our
Goddess—if to thee
Such homage be not sin—
Virgin! of matchless mind,
Thou knowest now the whole;
and that, which else
No other can, is nought to
thy great power:
Deign then my grief to end,
Thus honour shall be thine,
and safe my peace at last!
Virgin! in whom I fix my every
hope,
Who canst and will’st
assist me in great need,
Forsake me not in this my
worst extreme,
Regard not me but Him who
made me thus;
Let his high image stamp’d
on my poor worth
Towards one so low and lost
thy pity move:
Medusa spells have made me
as a rock
Distilling a vain flood;
Virgin! my harass’d
heart
With pure and pious tears
do thou fulfil,
That its last sigh at least
may be devout,
And free from earthly taint,
As was my earliest vow ere
madness fill’d my veins!
Virgin! benevolent, and foe
of pride,
Ah! let the love of our one
Author win,
Some mercy for a contrite
humble heart:
For, if her poor frail mortal
dust I loved
With loyalty so wonderful
and long,
Much more my faith and gratitude
for thee.
From this my present sad and
sunken state
If by thy help I rise,
Virgin! to thy dear name
I consecrate and cleanse my
thoughts, speech, pen,
My mind, and heart with all
its tears and sighs;
Point then that better path,
And with complacence view
my changed desires at last.
The day must come, nor distant
far its date,
Time flies so swift and sure,
O peerless and alone!
When death my heart, now conscience
struck, shall seize:
Commend me, Virgin! then to
thy dear Son,
True God and Very Man,
That my last sigh in peace
may, in his arms, be breathed!
MACGREGOR.
[Illustration: PETRARCH’S HOUSE AT ARQUA.]
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE.
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;
ANNA HUME.
Stanci gia di mirar, non sazio ancora.
Wearied, not satisfied,
with much delight,
Now here, now there, I turn’d
my greedy sight,
And many things I view’d:
to write were long,
The time is short, great store
of passions throng
Within my breast; when lo,
a lovely pair,
Join’d hand in hand,
who kindly talking were,
Drew my attention that way:
ANNA HUME.
Era si pieno il cor di maraviglie.
My heart was fill’d
with wonder and amaze,
As one struck dumb, in silence
stands at gaze
Expecting counsel, when my
friend drew near,
And said: “What
do you look? why stay you here?
What mean you? know you not
that I am one
Of these, and must attend?
pray, let’s be gone.”
“Dear friend,”
said I, “consider what desire
To learn the rest hath set
my heart on fire;
My own haste stops me.”
“I believe ’t,” said he,
“And I will help; ’tis
not forbidden me.
This noble man, on whom the
others wait
(You see) is Pompey, justly
call’d The Great:
Cornelia followeth, weeping
his hard fate,
And Ptolemy’s unworthy
causeless hate.
You see far off the Grecian
general;
His base wife, with AEgisthus
wrought his fall:
Behold them there, and judge
if Love be blind.
But here are lovers of another
kind,
And other faith they kept.
Lynceus was saved
By Hypermnestra: Pyramus
bereaved
Himself of life, thinking
his mistress slain:
Thisbe’s like end shorten’d
her mourning pain.
Leander, swimming often, drown’d
at last;
Hero her fair self from her
window cast.
Courteous Ulysses his long
stay doth mourn;
His chaste wife prayeth for
his safe return;
While Circe’s amorous
charms her prayers control,
And rather vex than please
his virtuous soul.
Hamilcar’s son, who
made great Rome afraid,
By a mean wench of Spain is
captive led.
This Hypsicratea is, the virtuous
fair,
Who for her husband’s
dear love cut her hair,
And served in all his wars:
this is the wife
Of Brutus, Portia, constant
in her life
And death: this Julia
is, who seems to moan,
That Pompey loved best, when
she was gone.
Look here and see the Patriarch
much abused
Who twice seven years for
his fair Rachel choosed
To serve: O powerful
love increased by woe!
His father this: now
see his grandsire go
With Sarah from his home.
This cruel Love
O’ercame good David;
so it had power to move
His righteous heart to that
abhorred crime,
For which he sorrow’d
all his following time;
Just such like error soil’d
his wise son’s fame,
For whose idolatry God’s
anger came:
Here’s he who in one
hour could love and hate:
Here Tamar, full of anguish,
wails her state;
Her brother Absalom attempts
t’ appease
Her grieved soul. Samson
takes care to please
His fancy; and appears more
strong than wise,
Who in a traitress’
bosom sleeping lies.
Amongst those pikes and spears
which guard the place,
Love, wine, and sleep, a beauteous
widow’s face
And pleasing art hath Holophernes
ta’en;
She back again retires, who
hath him slain,
ANNA HUME.
Poscia che mia fortuna in forza altrui.
When once my will
was captive by my fate,
And I had lost the liberty,
which late
Made my life happy; I, who
used before
To flee from Love (as fearful
deer abhor
The following huntsman), suddenly
became
(Like all my fellow-servants)
calm and tame;
And view’d the travails,
wrestlings, and the smart,
The crooked by-paths, and
the cozening art
That guides the amorous flock:
then whilst mine eye
I cast in every corner, to
espy
Some ancient or modern who
had proved
Famous, I saw him, who had
only loved
Eurydice, and found out hell,
to call
Her dear ghost back; he named
her in his fall
For whom he died. Aleaeus
there was known,
Skilful in love and verse:
Anacreon,
Whose muse sung nought but
love: Pindarus, he
Was also there: there
I might Virgil see:
Many brave wits I found, some
looser rhymes,
By others writ, hath pleased
the ancient times:
Ovid was one: after Catullus
came:
Propertius next, his elegies
the name
Of Cynthia bear: Tibullus,
and the young
Greek poetess, who is received
among
The noble troop for her rare
Sapphic muse.
Thus looking here and there
(as oft I use),
I spied much people on a flowery
plain,
Amongst themselves disputes
of love maintain.
Behold Beatrice with Dante;
Selvaggia, she
Brought her Pistoian Cino;
Guitton may be
Offended that he is the latter
named:
Behold both Guidos for their
learning famed:
Th’ honest Bolognian:
the Sicilians first
Wrote love in rhymes, but
wrote their rhymes the worst.
Franceschin and Sennuccio
(whom all know)
Were worthy and humane:
after did go
A squadron of another garb
and phrase,
Of whom Arnaldo Daniel hath
ANNA HUME.
The fatal morning
dawn’d that brought again
The sad memorial of my ancient
pain;
That day, the source of long-protracted
woe,
When I began the plagues of
Love to know,
Hyperion’s throne, along
the azure field,
Between the splendid horns
of Taurus wheel’d;
And from her spouse the Queen
of Morn withdrew
Her sandals, gemm’d
with frost-bespangled dew.
Sad recollection, rising with
the morn,
Of my disastrous love, repaid
with scorn,
Oppressed my sense; till welcome
soft repose
Gave a short respite from
my swelling woes.
Then seem’d I in a vision
borne away,
Where a deep winding vale
sequester’d lay;
Nor long I rested on the flowery
green
Ere a soft radiance dawn’d
along the scene.—
Fallacious sign of hope! for,
close behind,
Dark shades of coming woe
were seen combined.
There, on his car, a conqu’ring
chief I spied,
Like Rome’s proud sons,
that led the living tide
Of vanquished foes, in long
triumphal state,
To Capitolian Jove’s
disclosing gate.
With little joy I saw the
splendid show,
Spent and dejected by my lengthen’d
woe;
Sick of the world, and all
its worthless train,
That world, where all the
hateful passions reign;
And yet intent the mystic
cause to find,
(For knowledge is the banquet
of the mind)
Languid and slow I turn’d
my cheerless eyes
On the proud warrior, and
his uncouth guise.
High on his seat an archer
youth was seen,
With loaded quiver, and malicious
mien
Nor plate, nor mail, his cruel
shaft can ward,
Nor polish’d burganet
the temples guard;
His burning chariot seem’d
by coursers drawn;
While, like the snows that
clothe the wintry lawn
His waving wings with rainbow
colour gay
On either naked shoulder seem’d
to play;
And, filing far behind, a
countless train
In sad procession hid the
groaning plain:
Some, captive, seem’d
in long disastrous strife,
Some, in the deadly fray,
bereft of life;
And freshly wounded some.
A viewless hand
Led me to mingle with the
mornful band,
And learn the fortunes of
the sentenced crew,
Who, pierced by Love, had
bid the world adieu.
With keen survey I mark’d
And now, the baleful anthem,
loud and long,
Rose in full chorus from the
passing throng;
And Love’s sad name,
the cause of all their woes,
In execrations seem’d
the dirge to close.—
But who the number and the
names can tell
Of those that seem’d
the deadly strain to swell!—
Not men alone, but gods my
dream display’d—
Celestial wailings fill’d
the myrtle shade:
Soft Venus, with her lover,
mourn’d the snare,
The King of Shades, and Proserpine
the fair;
Juno, whose frown disclosed
her jealous spite;
Nor, less enthrall’d
by Love, the god of light,
Who held in scorn the winged
warrior’s dart
Till in his breast he felt
the fatal smart.—
Each god, whose name the learned
Roman told,
In Cupid’s numerous
levy seem’d enroll’d;
And, bound before his car
in fetters strong,
In sullen state the Thunderer
march’d along.
BOYD.
Thus, as I view’d
th’ interminable host,
The prospect seem’d
at last in dimness lost:
But still the wish remain’d
their doom to know,
As, watchful, I survey’d
the passing show.
As each majestic form emerged
to light,
Thither, intent, I turn’d
my sharpen’d sight;
And soon a noble pair my notice
drew,
That, hand in hand approaching,
met my view.
In gentle parley, and communion
sweet—
With looks of love, they seem’d
mine eyes to meet;
Yet strange was their attire—their
tongue unknown
Spoke them the natives of
a distant zone;
But every doubt my kind assistant
clear’d,
Instant I knew them, when
their names were heard.
To one, encouraged by his
aspect mild,
I spoke—the other
with a frown recoil’d.—
“O Masinissa!”—thus
my speech began,
“By Scipio’s friendship,
and the gentle ban
Of constant love, attend my
warm request.”
Turning around, the solemn
shade address’d
His answer thus:—“With
like desire I glow
Your lineage, name, and character,
BOYD.
Like one by wonder
reft of speech, I stood
Pond’ring the mournful
scene in pensive mood,
As one that waits advice.
My guide in haste
Began:—“You
let the moments run to waste
What objects hold you here?—my
doom you know;
Compell’d to wander
with the sons of woe!”—
“Oh, yet awhile afford
your friendly aid!
You see my inmost soul;”
submiss I said.
“The strong unsated
wish you there can read;
The restless cravings of my
mind to feed
With tidings of the dead.”—In
gentler tone
He said, “Your longings
in your looks are known;
You wish to learn the names
of those behind
Who through the vale in long
procession wind:
I grant your prayer, if fate
allows a space,”
He said, “their fortunes,
as they come, to trace.—
See that majestic shade that
moves along,
And claims obeisance from
the ghostly throng:
’Tis Pompey; with the
partner of his vows,
Who mourns the fortunes of
her slaughter’d spouse,
By Egypt’s servile band.—The
next is he
Whom Love’s tyrannic
spell forbade to see
The danger by his cruel consort
plann’d;
Till Fate surprised him by
her treacherous hand.—
Let constancy and truth exalt
the name
Of her, the lovely candidate
for fame,
Who saved her spouse!—Then
Pyramus is seen,
And Thisbe, through the shade,
with pensive mien;—
Then Hero with Leander moves
along,—
And great Ulysses, towering
in the throng:
His visage wears the signs
of anxious thought
There sad Penelope laments
her lot:
With trickling tears she seems
to chide his stay,
While fond Calypso charms
her love-delay.—
Next he who braved in many
a bloody fight.
For years on years, the whole
collected might
Of Rome, but sunk at length
in Cupid’s snare
The shameful victim of th’
Apulian fair!—
Then she, that, in a servile
dress pursued,
(Reft of her golden locks)
BOYD.
So fickle fortune,
in a luckless hour,
Had close consigned me to
a tyrant’s power,
Who cut the nerves that, with
elastic force,
Had borne me on in Freedom’s
generous course—
So I, in noble independence
bred,
Free as the roebuck in the
sylvan glade,
By passion lured, a voluntary
slave—
My ready name to Cupid’s
muster gave.
And yet I saw their grief
and wild despair;
I saw them blindly seek the
fatal snare
Through winding paths, and
many an artful maze,
Where Cupid’s viewless
spell the band obeys.
Here, as I turn’d my
anxious eyes around,
If any shade I then could
see renown’d
In old or modern times; the
bard I spied
Whose unabated love pursued
his bride
Down to the coast of Hades;
and above
His life resign’d, the
pledge of constant love,
Calling her name in death.—Alcaeus
near,
Who sung the joys of Love
and toils severe,
Was seen with Pindar and the
Teian swain,
A veteran gay among the youthful
train
Of Cupid’s host.—The
Mantuan next I found,
Begirt with bards from age
to age renown’d;
Whether they chose in lofty
themes to soar,
Or sportive try the Muse’s
lighter lore.—
There soft Tibullus walk’d
with Sulmo’s bard;
And there Propertius with
Catullus shared
The meed of lovesome lays:
the Grecian dame
With sweeter numbers woke
the amorous flame
While thus I turn’d
around my wondering eyes,
I saw a noble train with new
surprise,
Who seem’d of Love in
choral notes to sing,
While all around them breathed
Elysian spring.—
Here Alighieri, with his love
I spied,
Selvaggia, Guido, Cino, side
by side—
Guido, who mourn’d the
lot that fix’d his name
The second of his age in lyric
fame.—
Two other minstrels there
I spied that bore
His name, renown’d on
Arno’s tuneful shore.
With them Sicilia’s
bards, in elder days
Match’d with the foremost
in poetic praise,
Though now they rank behind.—Sennuccio
nigh
With gentle Franceschino met
my eye.—
But soon another tribe, of
manners strange
And uncouth dialect, was seen
to range
Along the flowery paths, by
Arnald led;
In Cupid’s lore by all
the Muses bred,
And master of the theme.—Marsilia’s
coast
And Narbonne still his polish’d
numbers boast.—
The next I saw with lighter
step advance;
’Twas he that caught
a flame at every glance
That met his eye, with him
who shared his name.
Join’d with an Arnald
of inferior fame.—
Next either Rambold in procession
trod,
No easy conquest to the winged
god.
The pride of Montferrat (a
peerless dame)
In many a ditty sung, announced
BOYD.
THE TRIUMPH OF CHASTITY.
Quando ad un giogo ed in Un tempo quivi.
When to one yoke
at once I saw the height
Of gods and men subdued by
Cupid’s might,
I took example from their
cruel fate,
And by their sufferings eased
my own hard state;
Since Phoebus and Leander
felt like pain,
The one a god, the other but
a man;
One snare caught Juno and
the Carthage dame
(Her husband’s death
prepared her funeral flame—
’Twas not a cause that
Virgil maketh one);
I need not grieve, that unprepared,
alone,
Unarm’d, and young,
I did receive a wound,
Or that my enemy no hurt hath
found
By Love; or that she clothed
him in my sight,
And took his wings, and marr’d
his winding flight;
No angry lions send more hideous
noise
From their beat breasts, nor
clashing thunder’s voice
Rends heaven, frights earth,
and roareth through the air
With greater force than Love
had raised, to dare
Encounter her of whom I write;
and she
As quick and ready to assail
as he:
Enceladus when Etna most he
shakes,
Nor angry Scylla, nor Charybdis
makes
So great and frightful noise,
as did the shock
Of this (first doubtful) battle:
none could mock
Such earnest war; all drew
them to the height
To see what ’mazed their
hearts and dimm’d their sight.
Victorious Love a threatening
dart did show
His right hand held; the other
bore a bow,
The string of which he drew
just by his ear;
No leopard could chase a frighted
deer
(Free, or broke loose) with
quicker speed than he
Made haste to wound; fire
sparkled from his eye.
I burn’d, and had a
combat in my breast,
Glad t’ have her company,
yet ’twas not best
(Methought) to see her lost,
but ’tis in vain
T’ abandon goodness,
and of fate complain;
Virtue her servants never
will forsake,
As now ’twas seen, she
could resistance make:
No fencer ever better warded
blow,
Nor pilot did to shore more
wisely row
To shun a shelf, than with
undaunted power
She waved the stroke of this
sharp conqueror.
Mine eyes and heart were watchful
to attend,
In hope the victory would
that way bend
It ever did; and that I might
no more
Be barr’d from her;
as one whose thoughts before
His tongue hath utter’d
them you well may see
Writ in his looks; “Oh!
if you victor be
Great sir,” said I,
“let her and me be bound
Both with one yoke; I may
be worthy found,
ANNA HUME.
When gods and
men I saw in Cupid’s chain
Promiscuous led, a long uncounted
train,
By sad example taught, I learn’d
at last
Wisdom’s best rule—to
profit from the past
Some solace in the numbers
too I found,
Of those that mourn’d,
like me, the common wound
That Phoebus felt, a mortal
beauty’s slave,
That urged Leander through
the wintry wave;
That jealous Juno with Eliza
shared,
Whose more than pious hands
the flame prepared;
That mix’d her ashes
with her murder’d spouse.
A dire completion of her nuptial
vows.
(For not the Trojan’s
love, as poets sing,
In her wan bosom fix’d
the secret string.)
And why should I of common
ills complain,
Shot by a random shaft, a
thoughtless swain?
Unarm’d and unprepared
to meet the foe,
My naked bosom seem’d
to court the blow.
One cause, at least, to soothe
my grief ensued;
When I beheld the ruthless
power subdued;
And all unable now to twang
the string,
Or mount the breeze on many-colour’d
wing.
But never tawny monarch of
the wood
His raging rival meets, athirst
for blood;
Nor thunder-clouds, when winds
the signal blow,
With louder shock astound
the world below;
When the red flash, insufferably
bright,
Heaven, earth, and sea displays
in dismal light;
Could match the furious speed
and fell intent
With which the winged son
of Venus bent
His fatal yew against the
dauntless fair
Who seem’d with heart
of proof to meet the war;
Nor Etna sends abroad the
blast of death
When, wrapp’d in flames,
the giant moves beneath;
Nor Scylla, roaring, nor the
loud reply
Of mad Charybdis, when her
waters fly
And seem to lave the moon,
could match the rage
Of those fierce rivals burning
to engage.
Aloof the many drew with sudden
fright,
And clamber’d up the
hills to see the fight;
And when the tempest of the
battle grew,
Each face display’d
a wan and earthy hue.
The assailant now prepared
his shaft to wing,
And fixed his fatal arrow
on the string:
The fatal string already reach’d
his ear;
Nor from the leopard flies
the trembling deer
With half the haste that his
ferocious wrath
Bore him impetuous on to deeds
of death;
And in his stern regard the
scorching fire
Was seen, that burns the breast
with fierce desire;
To me a fatal flame! but hope
to see
My lovely tyrant forced to
love like me,
And, bound in equal chain,
assuaged my woe,
As, with an eager eye, I watch’d
the coming blow
But virtue, as it ne’er
forsakes the soul
That yields obedience to her
blest control,
Proves how of her unjustly
BOYD.
THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH.
Questa leggiadra e gloriosa Donna.
The glorious Maid,
whose soul to heaven is gone
And left the rest cold earth,
she who was grown
A pillar of true valour, and
had gain’d
Much honour by her victory,
and chain’d
That god which doth the world
with terror bind,
Using no armour but her own
chaste mind;
A fair aspect, coy thoughts,
and words well weigh’d,
Sweet modesty to these gave
friendly aid.
It was a miracle on earth
to see
The bow and arrows of the
deity,
And all his armour broke,
who erst had slain
Such numbers, and so many
captive ta’en;
The fair dame from the noble
sight withdrew
With her choice company,—they
were but few.
And made a little troop, true
virtue’s rare,—
Yet each of them did by herself
appear
A theme for poems, and might
well incite
The best historian: they
bore a white
Unspotted ermine, in a field
of green,
About whose neck a topaz chain
was seen
Set in pure gold; their heavenly
words and gait,
Express’d them blest
were born for such a fate.
Bright stars they seem’d,
she did a sun appear,
Who darken’d not the
rest, but made more clear
Their splendour; honour in
brave minds is found:
This troop, with violets and
roses crown’d,
Cheerfully march’d,
when lo, I might espy
Another ensign dreadful to
mine eye—
A lady clothed in black, whose
stern looks were
With horror fill’d,
and did like hell appear,
Advanced, and said, “You
who are proud to be
So fair and young, yet have
no eyes to see
How near you are your end;
behold, I am
She, whom they, fierce, and
blind, and cruel name,
Who meet untimely deaths;
’twas I did make
Greece subject, and the Roman
Empire shake;
My piercing sword sack’d
Troy, how many rude
And barbarous people are by
me subdued?
Many ambitious, vain, and
amorous thought
My unwish’d presence
hath to nothing brought;
ANNA HUME.
[LINES 103 TO END.]
And now closed
in the last hour’s narrow span
Of that so glorious and so
brief career,
Ere the dark pass so terrible
to man!
And a fair troop of ladies
gather’d there,
Still of this earth, with
grace and honour crown’d,
To mark if ever Death remorseful
were.
This gentle company thus throng’d
around,
In her contemplating the awful
end
All once must make, by law
of nature bound;
Each was a neighbour, each
a sorrowing friend.
Then Death stretch’d
forth his hand, in that dread hour,
From her bright head a golden
hair to rend,
Thus culling of this earth
the fairest flower;
Nor hate impell’d the
deed, but pride, to dare
Assert o’er highest
excellence his power.
What tearful lamentations
fill the air
The while those beauteous
eyes alone are dry,
Whose sway my burning thoughts
and lays declare!
And while in grief dissolved
all weep and sigh,
She, in meek silence, joyous
sits secure,
Gathering already virtue’s
guerdon high.
“Depart in peace, O
mortal goddess pure!”
They said; and such she was:
although it nought
’Gainst mightier Death
avail’d, so stern—so sure!
Alas for others! if a few
nights wrought
In her each change of suffering
dust below!
Oh! Hope, how false!
how blind all human thought!
Whether in earth sank deep
the dews of woe
For the bright spirit that
had pass’d away,
Think, ye who listen! they
who witness’d know.
’Twas the first hour,
of April the sixth day,
That bound me, and, alas!
now sets me free:
How Fortune doth her fickleness
display!
None ever grieved for loss
of liberty
Or doom of death as I for
freedom grieve,
And life prolong’d,
who only ask to die.
Due to the world it had been
her to leave,
And me, of earlier birth,
to have laid low,
Nor of its pride and boast
the age bereave.
How great the grief it is
not mine to show,
Scarce dare I think, still
less by numbers try,
Or by vain speech to ease
my weight of woe.
Virtue is dead, beauty and
courtesy!
The sorrowing dames her honour’d
couch around
“For what are we reserved?”
in anguish cry;
“Where now in woman
will all grace be found?
Who with her wise and gentle
words be blest,
And drink of her sweet song
th’ angelic sound?”
The spirit parting from that
beauteous breast,
In its meek virtues wrapt,
and best prepared,
Had with serenity the heavens
imprest:
No power of darkness, with
DACRE.
La notte che segui l’ orribil caso.
The night—that
follow’d the disastrous blow
Which my spent sun removed
in heaven to glow,
And left me here a blind and
desolate man—
Now far advanced, to spread
o’er earth began
The sweet spring dew which
harbingers the dawn,
When slumber’s veil
and visions are withdrawn;
When, crown’d with oriental
gems, and bright
As newborn day, upon my tranced
sight
My Lady lighted from her starry
sphere:
With kind speech and soft
sigh, her hand so dear.
So long desired in vain, to
mine she press’d,
While heavenly sweetness instant
warm’d my breast:
“Remember her, who,
from the world apart,
Kept all your course since
known to that young heart.”
Pensive she spoke, with mild
and modest air
Seating me by her, on a soft
bank, where,
In greenest shade, the beech
and laurel met.
“Remember? ah! how should
I e’er forget?
Yet tell me, idol mine,”
in tears I said,
“Live you?—or
dreamt I—is, is Laura dead?”
“Live I? I only
live, but you indeed
Are dead, and must be, till
the last best hour
Shall free you from the flesh
and vile world’s power.
But, our brief leisure lest
desire exceed,
Turn we, ere breaks the day
already nigh,
To themes of greater interest,
pure and high.”
Then I: “When ended
the brief dream and vain
That men call life, by you
now safely pass’d,
Is death indeed such punishment
and pain?”
Replied she: “While
on earth your lot is cast,
Slave to the world’s
opinions blind and hard,
True happiness shall ne’er
your search reward;
Death to the good a dreary
prison opes,
But to the vile and base,
who all their hopes
And cares below have fix’d,
is full of fear;
And this my loss, now mourn’d
MACGREGOR.
Da poi che Morte trionfo nel volto.
When cruel Death
his paly ensign spread
Over that face, which oft
in triumph led
My subject thoughts; and beauty’s
sovereign light,
Retiring, left the world immersed
in night;
The Phantom, with a frown
that chill’d the heart,
Seem’d with his gloomy
pageant to depart,
Exulting in his formidable
arms,
And proud of conquest o’er
seraphic charms.
When, turning round, I saw
the Power advance
That breaks the gloomy grave’s
eternal trance,
And bids the disembodied spirit
claim
The glorious guerdon of immortal
Fame.
Like Phosphor, in the sullen
BOYD.
Pien d’ infinita e nobil maraviglia.
Full of ecstatic
wonder at the sight,
I view’d Bellona’s
minions, famed in fight;
A brotherhood, to whom the
circling sun
No rivals yet beheld, since
time begun.—
But ah! the Muse despairs
to mount their fame
Above the plaudits of historic
Fame.
But now a foreign band the
strain recalls—
Stern Hannibal, that shook
the Roman walls;
Achilles, famed in Homer’s
lasting lay,
The Trojan pair that kept
their foes at bay;
Susa’s proud rulers,
a distinguish’d pair,
And he that pour’d the
living storm of war
On the fallen thrones of Asia,
till the main,
With awful voice, repell’d
the conquering train.
Another chief appear’d,
alike in name,
But short was his career of
martial fame;
For generous valour oft to
fortune yields,
Too oft the arbitress of fighting
fields.
The three illustrious Thebans
join’d the train,
Whose noble names adorn a
former strain;
Great Ajax with Tydides next
appear’d,
And he that o’er the
sea’s broad bosom steer’d
In search of shores unknown
with daring prow,
And ancient Nestor, with his
looks of snow,
Who thrice beheld the race
of man decline,
And hail’d as oft a
new heroic line:
Then Agamemnon, with the Spartan’s
shade,
One by his spouse forsaken,
one betray’d:
And now another Spartan met
my view,
Who, cheerly, call’d
his self-devoted crew
To banquet with the ghostly
train below,
And with unfading laurels
deck’d the brow;
Though from a bounded stage
a softer strain
Was his, who next appear’d
to cross the plain:
Famed Alcibiades, whose siren
spell
Could raise the tide of passion,
or repel
With more than magic sounds,
when Athens stood
By his superior eloquence
subdued.
The Marathonian chief, with
conquest crown’d,
With Cimon came, for filial
love renown’d;
Who chose the dungeon’s
gloom and galling chain
His captive father’s
liberty to gain;
Themistocles and Theseus met
my eye;
And he that with the first
of Rome could vie
In self-denial; yet their
native soil,
Insensate to their long illustrious
toil,
To each denied the honours
of a tomb,
But deathless fame reversed
the rigid doom,
And show’d their worth
in more conspicuous light
Through the surrounding shades
of envious night.
Great Phocion next, who mourn’d
an equal fate,
Expell’d and exiled
from his parent state;
A foul reward! by party rage
decreed,
For acts that well might claim
a nobler meed:
There Pyrrhus, with Numidia’s
king behind,
Ever in faithful league with
Rome combined,
The bulwark of his state.
Another nigh,
Of Syracuse, I saw, a firm
ally
To Italy, like him. But
deadly hate,
Repulsive frowns, and love
BOYD.
Io non sapea da tal vista levarme.
Still on the warrior
band I fix’d my view,
But now a different troop
my notice drew:
The sage Palladian tribe,
a nobler train,
Whose toils deserve a more
exalted strain.
Plato majestic in the front
appear’d,
Where wisdom’s sacred
hand her ensign rear’d.
Celestial blazonry! by heaven
bestow’d,
Which, waving high, before
the vaward glow’d:
Then came the Stagyrite, whose
mental ray
Pierced through all nature
like the shafts of day;
And he that, by the unambitious
name,
Lover of wisdom, chose to
bound his fame.
Then Socrates and Xenophon
were seen;
With them a bard of more than
earthly mien,
Whom every muse of Jove’s
immortal choir
Bless’d with a portion
of celestial fire:
From ancient Argos to the
Phrygian bound
His never-dying strains were
borne around
On inspiration’s wing,
and hill and dale
Echoed the notes of Ilion’s
BOYD.
Dell’ aureo albergo con l’ Aurora innanzi.
Behind Aurora’s
wheels the rising sun
His voyage from his golden
shrine begun,
With such ethereal speed,
as if the Hours
Had caught him slumb’ring
in her rosy bowers.
With lordly eye, that reach’d
the world’s extreme,
Methought he look’d,
when, gliding on his beam,
That winged power approach’d
that wheels his car
In its wide annual range from
star to star,
Measuring vicissitude; till,
now more near,
Methought these thrilling
accents met my ear:—
“New laws must be observed
if mortals claim,
Spite of the lapse of time,
eternal fame.
Those laws have lost their
force that Heaven decreed,
And I my circle run with fruitless
speed;
If fame’s loud breath
the slumb’ring dust inspire,
And bid to live with never-dying
fire,
My power, that measures mortal
things, is cross’d,
And my long glories in oblivion
lost.
If mortals on yon planet’s
shadowy face,
Can match the tenor of my
heavenly race,
I strive with fruitless speed
from year to year
To keep precedence o’er
a lower sphere.
In vain yon flaming coursers
I prepare,
In vain the watery world and
ambient air
Their vigour feeds, if thus,
with angels’ flight
A mortal can o’ertake
the race of light!
Were you a lesser planet,
doom’d to run
A shorter journey round a
nobler sun;
Ranging among yon dusky orbs
below,
A more degrading doom I could
not know:
Now spread your swiftest wings,
my steeds of flame,
We must not yield to man’s
ambitious aim.
With emulation’s noblest
fires I glow,
And soon that reptile race
that boast below
Bright Fame’s conducting
lamp, that seems to vie
With my incessant journeys
round the sky,
And gains, or seems to gain,
increasing light,
Yet shall its glories sink
in gradual night.
But I am still the same; my
course began
Before that dusky orb, the
seat of man,
Was built in ambient air:
with constant sway
I lead the grateful change
of night and day,
To one ethereal track for
ever bound,
And ever treading one eternal
round.”—
And now, methought, with more
than mortal ire,
He seem’d to lash along
his steeds of fire;
And shot along the air with
BOYD.
Da poi che sotto ’l ciel cosa non vidi.
When all beneath
the ample cope of heaven
I saw, like clouds before
the tempest driven,
In sad vicissitude’s
eternal round,
Awhile I stood in holy horror
bound;
And thus at last with self-exploring
These pageants five the world
and I beheld,
The sixth and last, I hope,
in heaven reveal’d
(If Heaven so will), when
Time with speedy hand
The scene despoils, and Death’s
funereal wand
The triumph leads. But
soon they both shall fall
Under that mighty hand that
governs all,
While they who toil for true
renown below,
Whom envious Time and Death,
a mightier foe,
Relentless plunged in dark
oblivion’s womb,
When virtue seem’d to
seek the silent tomb,
Spoil’d of her heavenly
charms once more shall rise,
Regain their beauty, and assert
the skies;
Leaving the dark sojourn of
time beneath,
And the wide desolated realms
of Death.
But she will early seek these
glorious bounds,
Whose long-lamented fall the
world resounds
In unison with me. And
heaven will view
That awful day her heavenly
charms renew,
When soul with body joins.
Gebenna’s strand
Saw me enroll’d in Love’s
devoted band,
And mark’d my toils
through many hard campaigns
And wounds, whose scars my
memory yet retains.
Blest is the pile that marks
the hallow’d dust!—
There, at the resurrection
of the just,
When the last trumpet with
earth-shaking sound
Shall wake her sleepers from
their couch profound;
Then, when that spotless and
immortal mind
In a material mould once more
enshrined,
With wonted charms shall wake
seraphic love,
How will the beatific sight
improve
Her heavenly beauties in the
climes above!
BOYD.
[LINES 82-99.]
Happy those souls
who now are on their way,
Or shall hereafter, to attain
that end,
Theme of my argument, come
when it will;
And, ’midst the other
fair, and fraught with grace,
Most happy she whom Death
has snatch’d away,
On this side far the natural
bound of life.
The angel manners then will
clearly shine,
The meet and pure discourse,
the chasten’d thought,
Which nature planted in her
youthful breast.
Unnumber’d beauties,
worn by time and death,
Shall then return to their
best state of bloom;
And how thou hast bound me,
love, will then be seen,
Whence I by every finger shall
be shown!—
Behold who ever wept, and
in his tears
Was happier far than others
in their smiles!
And she, of whom I yet lamenting
sing,
Shall wonder at her own transcendant
charms,
Seeing herself far above all
admired.
CHARLEMONT.
Qui reposan quei caste e felice ossa.
Here peaceful
sleeps the chaste, the happy shade
Of that pure spirit, which
adorn’d this earth:
Pure fame, true beauty, and
transcendent worth,
Rude stone! beneath thy rugged
breast are laid.
Death sudden snatch’d
the dear lamented maid!
Who first to all my tender
woes gave birth,
Woes! that estranged my sorrowing
soul to mirth,
While full four lustres time
completely made.
Sweet plant! that nursed on
Avignon’s sweet soil,
There bloom’d, there
died; when soon the weeping Muse
Threw by the lute, forsook
her wonted toil.
Bright spark of beauty, that
still fires my breast!
What pitying mortal shall
a prayer refuse,
That Heaven may number thee
amid the blest?
ANON. 1777.
Here rest the
chaste, the dear, the blest remains
Of her most lovely; peerless
while on earth:
What late was beauty, spotless
honour, worth,
Stern marble, here thy chill
embrace retains.
The freshness of the laurel
Death disdains;
And hath its root thus wither’d.—Such
the dearth
O’ertakes me. Here
I bury ease and mirth,
And hope from twenty years
of cares and pains.
This happy plant Avignon lonely
fed
With Life, and saw it die.—And
with it lies
My pen, my verse, my reason;—useless,
dead.
O graceful form!—Fire,
which consuming flies
Through all my frame!—For
blessings on thy head
Oh, may continual prayers
to heaven rise!
CAPEL LOFFT.
Here now repose
those chaste, those blest remains
Of that most gentle spirit,
sole in earth!
Harsh monumental stone, that
here confinest
True honour, fame, and beauty,
all o’erthrown!
Death has destroy’d
that Laurel green, and torn
Its tender roots; and all
the noble meed
Of my long warfare, passing
(if aright
My melancholy reckoning holds)
four lustres.
O happy plant! Avignon’s
favour’d soil
Has seen thee spring and die;—and
here with thee
Thy poet’s pen, and
muse, and genius lies.
O lovely, beauteous limbs!
O vivid fire,
That even in death hast power
to melt the soul!
Heaven be thy portion, peace
with God on high!
WOODHOUSELEE.
SONNETS, CANZONI, &c.
PAGE
Ahi bella liberta, come tu m’ hai 93
Al cader d’ una pianta che si svelse 273
Alla dolce ombra de le belle frondi 140
Alma felice, che sovente torni 246
Almo Sol, quella fronde ch’ io sola amo 171
Amor che meco al buon tempo ti stavi 262
Amor che ’ncende ‘l cor d’ ardente zelo 167
Amor che nel pensier mio vive e regna 138
Amor, che vedi ogni pensiero aperto 155
Amor con la man destra il lato manco 203
Amor con sue promesse lusingando 79
Amor ed io si pien di maraviglia 153
Amor, Fortuna, e la mia mente schiva 113
Amor fra l’ erbe una leggiadra rete 166
Amor, io fallo e veggio il mio fallire 207
Amor m’ ha posto come segno a strale 131
Amor mi manda quel dolce pensero 159
Amor mi sprona in un tempo ed affrena 165
Amor, Natura, e la bell’ alma umile 168
Amor piangeva, ed io con lui talvolta 25
Amor, quando fioria 279
Amor, se vuoi ch’ i’ torni al giogo antico 236
Anima bella, da quel nodo sciolta 263
Anima, che diverse cose tante 182
Anzi tre di creata era alma in parte 193
A pie de’ colli ove la bella vesta 7
Apollo, s’ ancor vive il bel desio 37
A qualunque animale alberga in terra 18
Arbor vittoriosa e trionfale 226
Aspro core e selvaggio, e cruda voglia 230
Aura, che quelle chiome bionde e crespe 202
Avventuroso piu d’ altro terreno 102
Benedetto sia ’l giorno e ‘l mese e l’ anno 61
Ben mi credea passar mio tempo omai 186
Ben sapev’ io che natural consiglio 66
Cara la vita, e dopo lei mi pare 225
Cereato ho sempre selitaria vita 223
Cesare, poi che ‘l traditor d’ Egitto 97
Che debb’ io far? che mi consigli, Amore 233
Che fai, alma? che pensi? avrem mai pace 146
Che fai? che pensi? che pur dietro guardi 240
Chiare, fresche e dolci acque 116
Chi e fermato di menar sua vita 82
Chi vuol veder quantunque puo Natura 216
Come ‘l candido pie per l’ erba fresca 157
Come talora al caldo tempo suole 139
Come va ’l mondo! or mi diletta e piace 251
Conobbi, quanto il ciel gli occhi m’ aperse 296
Cosi potess’ io ben chiuder in versi 92
Datemi pace, o duri mici pensieri 240
Deh porgi mano all’ affannato ingeguo 317
Deh qual pieta, qual angel fu si presto 297
Del cibo onde ’l signor mio sempre abbonda 298
Dell’ empia Babilonia, ond’ e fuggita 105
Del mar Tirreno alla sinistra riva 65
Dicemi spesso il mio fidato speglio 312
Dicesett’ anni ha gia rivolto il cielo 112
Di di in di vo cangiando il viso e ’l pelo 176
Di pensier in pensier, di monte in monte 127
Discolorato hai, Morte, il piu bel volto 246
Di tempo in tempo mi si fa men dura 145
Dodici donne onestamente lasse 201
Dolce mio, caro e prezioso pegno 297
Dolci durezze e placide repulse 315
Dolci ire, dolci sdegni e dolci paci 182
Donna che lieta col Principio nostro 302
Due gran nemiche insieme erano aggiunte 257
Due rose fresehe, e colte in paradiso 215
D’ un bel, chiaro, polito e vivo ghiaccio 181
E questo ’l nido in che la mia Fenice 275
Era ‘l giorno ch’ al sol si scoloraro 3
Erano i capei d’ oro all’ aura sparsi 88
Fera stella (se ’l cielo ha forza in noi) 162
Fiamma dal ciel su le tue treccie piova 135
Fontana di dolore, albergo d’ ira 137
Fresco, ombroso, fiorito e verde colle 213
Fu forse un tempo dolce cosa amore 299
Fuggendo la prigione ov’ Amor m’ ebbe 88
Geri, quando talor meco s’ adira 165
Gia desiai con si giusta querela 195
Gia fiammeggiava l’ amorosa stella 36
Giovane donna sott’un verde lauro 34
Giunto Alessandro alla famosa tomba 170
Giunto m’ ha Amor fra belle e crude braccia 161
Gli angeli eletti e l’ anime beate 301
Gli occhi di ch’ io parlai si caldamente 253
Gloriosa Colonna, in cui s’ appoggia 9
Grazie ch’ a pochi ’l ciel largo destina 192
I di miei piu leggier che nessun cervo 274
I dolci colli ov’ io lasciai me stesso 190
I’ ho pien di sospir quest’ aer tutto 250
I’ ho pregato Amor, e nel riprego 212
Il cantar novo e ’l pianger degli augelli 197
Il figliuol di Latona avea gia nove 45
Il mal mi preme, e mi spaventa il peggio 214
Il mio avversario, in cui veder solete 46
Il successor di Carlo, che la chioma 26
I’ mi soglio accusare, ed or mi scuso 257
I’ mi vivea di mia sorte contento 204
In dubbio di mio stato, or piango, or canto 219
In mezzo di duo amanti onesta altera 106
In nobil sangue vita umile e queta 194
In qual parte del cielo, in quale idea 153
In quel bel viso, ch’ i’ sospiro e bramo 222
In quella parte dov’ Amor mi sprona 121
In tale stella duo begli occhi vidi 224
Io amai sempre, ed amo forte ancora 86
Io avro sempre in odio la fenestra 86
Io canterei d’ Amor si novamente 130
Io mi rivolgo indietro a ciascun passo 12
Io non fu’ d’ amar voi lassato unquanco 84
Io pensava assai destro esser sull’ ale 265
Io sentia dentr’ al cor gia venir meno 48
Io son dell’ aspettar omai si vinto 93
Io son gia stanco di pensar siccome 78
Io son si stanco sotto ’l fascio antico 83
Io temo si de’ begli occhi l’ assalto 43
I’ piansi, or canto; che ’l celeste lume 204
I’ pur ascolto, e non odo novella 221
Italia mia, benche ’l parlar sia indarno 124
Ite, caldi sospiri, al freddo core 148
Ite, rime dolenti, al duro sasso 290
I’ vidi in terra angelici costumi 150
I’ vo pensando, e nel pensier m’ assale 226
I’ vo piangendo i miei passati tempi 314
La donna che ’l mio cor nel viso porta 104
L’ aere gravato, e l’ importuna nebbia 64
La gola, e ‘l sonno, e l’ oziose piume 6
La guancia che fu gia piangendo stanca 59
L’ alma mia fiamma oltra le belle bella 250
L’ alto e novo miracol ch’ a di nostri 266
L’ alto signor, dinanzi a cui non vale 212
L’ arbor gentil ohe forte amai molt’ anni 61
L’ ardente nodo ov’ io fui, d’ ora in ora 239
Lasciato hai, Morte, senza sole il mondo 295
La sera desiar, odiar l’ aurora 221
L’ aspettata virtu che ’n voi fioriva 98
L’ aspetto sacro della terra vostra 66
Lassare il velo o per sole, o per ombra 9
Lasso! Amor mi trasporta ov’ io non voglio 206
Lasso! ben so, che dolorose prede 96
Lasso, che mal accorto fui da prima 64
Lasso, ch’ i’ ardo, ed altri non mel crede 181
Lasso me, ch’ i’ non so in qual parte pieghi 67
Lasso! quante fiate Amor m’ assale 103
L’ aura celeste che ’n quel verde Lauro 178
L’ aura, che ‘l verde Lauro e l’ aureo crine 215
L’ aura e l’ odore e ‘l refrigerio e l’ ombra 284
L’ aura gentil che rasserena i poggi 175
L’ aura mia sacra al mio stanco riposo 304
L’ aura serena che fra verdi fronde 177
L’ aura soave ch’ al sol spiega e vibra 178
L’ avara Babilonia ha colmo ’l sacco 136
La ver l’ aurora, che si dolce l’ aura 210
La vita fugge, e non s’ arresta un’ ora 239
Le stelle e ’l cielo e gli elementi a prova 149
Levommi il mio pensier in parte ov’ era 261
Liete e pensose, accompagnate e sole 199
Lieti fiori e felici, e ben nate erbe 154
L’ oro e le perle, e i fior vermigli, e i bianchi 47
L’ ultimo, lasso! de’ miei giorni allegri 284
Mai non vedranno le mie luci asciutte 276
Mai non vo’ pin cantar, com’ io soleva 99
Ma poi che ’l dolce riso umile e piano 45
Mente mia che presaga de’ tuoi danni 270
Mentre che ’l cor dagli amorosi vermi 263
Mia benigna fortuna e ’l viver licto 288
Mia ventura ed Amor m’ avean si adorno 180
Mie venture al venir son tarde e pigre 58
Mille fiate, o dolce mia guerrera 17
Mille piagge in un giorno e mille rivi 164
Mirando ‘l sol de’ begli occhi sereno 162
Mira quel colle, o stanco mio cor vago 213
Morte ha spento quel Sol eh’ abbagliar suolmi 313
Movesi ’l vecohierel canuto e bianco 13
Nel dolce tempo della prima etade 20
Nella stagion che ’l ciel rapido inchina 50
Nell’ eta sua piu bella e piu fiorita 243
Ne mai pietosa madre al caro figlio 248
Ne per sereno cielo ir vaghe stelle 269
Non al suo amante piu Diana piacque 54
Non dall’ Ispano Ibero all’ Indo Idaspe 190
Non d’ atra e tempestosa onda marina 147
Non fur mai Giove e Cesare si mossi 150
Non ha tanti animali il mar fra l’ onde 207
Non puo far morte il dolce viso amaro 305
Non pur quell’ una bella ignuda mano 180
Non Tesin, Po, Varo, Arno, Adige e Tebro 145
Non veggio ove scampar mi possa omai 102
Nova angeletta sovra l’ ale accorta 101
O bella man, che mi distringi ’l core 179
O cameretta che gia fosti un porto 206
Occhi miei lassi, mentre ch’ io vi giro 12
Occhi miei, oscurato e ’l nostro sole 241
Occhi, piangete; accompagnate il core 85
O d’ ardente virtute ornata e calda 143
O dolci sguardi, o parolette accorte 220
O giorno, o ora, o ultimo momento 285
Ogni giorno mi par piu di mill’ anni 304
Oime il bel viso! oime il soave sguardo 232
O invidia, nemica di virtute 161
O misera ed orribil visione 219
Onde tolse Amor l’ oro e di qual vena 198
O passi sparsi, o pensier vaghi e pronti 154
Or che ’l ciel e la terra e ’l vento tace 156
Or hai fatto ’l estremo di tua possa 283
Orso, al vostro destrier si puo ben porre 94
Orso, e’ non furon mai fiumi ne stagni 43
Or vedi, Amor, che giovinetta donna 111
O tempo, o ciel volubil che fuggendo 294
Ove ch’ i’ posi gli occhi lassi o giri 152
Ov’ e la fronte che con picciol cenno 259
Padre del ciel, dopo i perduti giorni 62
Parra forse ad alcun, che ’n lodar quella 216
Pasco la mente d’ un si nobil cibo 175
Passa la nave mia colma d’ oblio 172
Passato e ’l tempo omai, lasso! che tanto 270
Passer mai solitario in alcun tetto 201
Perche al viso d’ Amor portava insegna 57
Perche la vita e breve 68
Perche quel che mi trasse ad amar prima 60
Perch’ io t’ abbia guardato di menzogna 49
Per far una leggiadra sua vendetta 2
Per mezzo i boschi inospiti e selvaggi 163
Per mirar Policleto a prova fiso 80
Perseguendomi Amor al luogo usato 103
Piangete, donne, e con voi pianga Amore 90
Pien di quella ineffabile dolcezza 107
Pien d’ un vago pensier, che me desvia 159
Piovonmi amare lagrime dal viso 14
Piu di me lieta non si vede a terra 25
Piu volte Amor m’ avea gia detto: scrivi 91
Piu volte gia dal bel sembiante umano 160
Po, ben puo’ tu portartene la scorza 166
Poco era ad appressarsi agli occhi miei 53
Poiche la vista angelica serena 242
Poi che ‘l cammin m’ e chiuso di mercede 129
Poi che mia speme e lunga a venir troppo 87
Poiche per mio destino 76
Poi che voi ed io piu volte abbiam provato 94
Pommi ove ‘l sol occide i fiori e l’ erba 142
Qual mio destin, qual forza o qual inganno 198
Qual paura ho, quando mi torna a mente 217
Qual piu diversa e nova 133
Qual ventura mi fu, quando dall’ uno 205
Quand’ io mi volgo indietro a mirar gli anni 258
Quand’ io movo i sospiri a chiamar voi 5
Quand’ io son tutto volto in quella parte 15
Quand’ io veggio dal ciel scender l’ Aurora 252
Quand’ io v’ odo parlar si dolcemente 141
Quando Amor i begli occhi a terra inchina 158
Quando dal proprio sito si rimove 44
Quando fra l’ altre donne ad ora ad ora 11
Quando giugne per gli occhi al cor profondo 92
Quando giunse a Simon l’ alto concetto 81
Quando il soave mio fido conforto 305
Quando ‘l pianeta che distingue l’ ore 8
Quando ‘l sol bagna in mar l’ aurato carro 199
Quando ’l voler, che con duo sproni ardenti 144
Quando mi vene innanzi il tempo e ’l loco 163
Quanta invidia ti porto, avara terra 259
Quante fiate al mio dolce ricetto 245
Quanto piu disiose l’ ali spando 138
Quanto piu m’ avvicino al giorno estremo 35
Quel, che d’ odore e di color vincea 295
Quel ch’ infinita providenza ed arte 4
Quel che ’n Tessaglia ebbe le man si pronte 46
Quel foco, ch’ io pensai che fosse spento 57
Quella fenestra, ove l’ un sol si vede 95
Quell’ antiquo mio dolce empio signore 307
Quella per cui con Sorga ho cangiat’ Arno 265
Quelle pietose rime, in ch’ io m’ accorsi 111
Quel rosignuol che si soave piagne 268
Quel sempre acerbo ed onorato giorno 151
Quel sol che mi mostrava il cammin destro 264
Quel vago, dolce, caro, onesto sguardo 286
Quel vago impallidir che ’l dolce riso 113
Questa Fenice dell’ aurata piuma 169
Quest’ anima gentil che si diparte 35
Questa umil fera, un cor di tigre o d’ orsa 148
Questro nostro caduco e fragil bene 293
Qui dove mezzo son, Sennuccio mio 105
Real natura, angelico intelletto 211
Rimansi addietro il sestodecim’ anno 108
Ripensando a quel ch’ oggi il ciel onora 298
Rotta e l’ alta Colonna e ’l verde Lauro 235
S’ Amor non e, che dunque e quel ch’ i’ sento 130
S’ Amor novo consiglio non n’ apporta 242
Se al principio risponde il fine e ’l mezzo 81
Se bianche non son prima ambe le tempie 85
Se col cieco desir che ’l cor distrugge 57
Se lamentar angelli, o verdi fronde 243
Se la mia vita dall’ aspro tormento 10
Se ‘l dolce sguardo di costei m’ ancide 168
Se ’l onorata fronde, che prescrive 24
Se ’l pensier che mi strugge 114
Se ‘l sasso ond’ e piu chiusa questa valle 107
Se mai foco per foco non si spense 49
Sennuccio, i’ vo’ che sappi in qual maniera 104
Sennuccio mio, benche doglioso e solo 249
Sento l’ aura mia antica, e i dolci colli 274
Se quell’ aura soave de’ sospiri 249
Se Virgilio ed Omero avessin visto 170
Se voi poteste per turbati segni 63
Si breve e ’l tempo e ’l pensier si veloce 247
Siccome eterna vita e veder Dio 173
Si e debile il filo a cui s’ attene 40
Signor mio caro, ogni pensier mi tira 231
S’ il dissi mai, ch’ i’ venga in odio a quella 183
S’ io avessi pensato che si care 254
S’ io credessi per morte essere scarce 39
S’ io fossi stato fermo alia spelunca 157
Si tosto come avvien che l’ arco scocchi 87
Si traviato e ’l folle mio desio 5
Solea dalla fontana di mia vita 287
Solea lontana in sonno consolarme 218
Soleano i miei pensier soavemente 250
Soleasi nel mio cor star bella e viva 255
Solo e pensoso i piu deserti campi 38
Son animali al mondo di si altera 16
S’ onesto amor puo meritar mercede 291
Spinse amor e dolor ore ir non debbe 300
Spirto felice, che si dolcemente 316
Spirto gentil che quelle membra reggi 54
Standomi un giorno solo alia finestra 277
Stiamo, Amor, a veder la gloria nostra 174
S’ una fede amorosa, un cor non finto 200
Tempo era omai da trovar pace o tregua 272
Tennemi Amor anni ventuno ardendo 314
Tornami a mente, anzi v’ e dentro quella 293
Tranquillo porto avea mostrato Amore 273
Tra quantunque leggiadre donne e belle 196
Tutta la mia fiorita e verde etade 271
Tutto ’l di piango; e poi la notte, quando 195
Una donna piu bella assai che ’l sole 108
Vago augelletto che cantando vai 317
Valle che de’ lamenti miei se’ piena 260
Verdi panni, sanguigni, oscuri o persi 32
Vergine bella che di sol vestita 318
Vergognando talor ch’ ancor si taccia 16
Vidi fra mille donne una gia tale 292
Vincitore Alessandro l’ ira vinse 205
Vinse Annibal, e non seppe usar poi 98
Vive faville uscian de’ duo bei lumi 223
Voglia mi sprona; Amor mi guida e scorge 191
Voi, ch’ ascoltate in rime sparse il suono 1
Volgendo gli occhi al mio novo colore 63
Volo con l’ ali de’ pensieri al cielo 313
TRIUMPHS.
Triumph of Chastity 361
—— Death 371
—— Eternity 400
—— Fame 381
—— Love 322
—— Time 394
* * * * *
LONDON: PRINTED BY WM. CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.