The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch

SONNET LXXXII

Dicemi spesso il mio fidato speglioHE AWAKES TO A CONVICTION OF THE NEAR APPROACH OF DEATHMy faithful mirror oft to me has told—My weary spirit and my shrivell'd skinMy 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 toneOf 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.

SONNET LXXXIII

Volo con l' ali de' pensieri al cieloHE SEEMS TO BE WITH HER IN HEAVENSo often on the wings of thought I flyUp to heaven's blissful seats, that I appearAs one of those whose treasure is lodged there,The rent veil of mortality thrown by.A pleasing chillness thrills my heart, while IListen 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 allowThat 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.

SONNET LXXXIV

Morte ha spento quel Sol ch' abbagliar suolmiWEARY OF LIFE, NOW THAT SHE IS NO LONGER WITH HIM, HE DEVOTES HIMSELF TO GODDeath 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 who can mouldFrom fire to frost, from timorous to bold,In grief to languish or with hope to yearn.Out of his tyrant hands who harms and heals,Erewhile who made in it such havoc sore,My heart the bitter-sweet of freedom feels.And to the Lord whom, thankful, I adore,The heavens who ruleth merely with his brow,I turn life-weary, if not satiate, now.Macgregor.

SONNET LXXXV

Tennemi Amor anni ventuno ardendoHE CONFESSES AND REGRETS HIS SINS, AND PRAYS GOD TO SAVE HIM FROM ETERNAL DEATHLove 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'dThat 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.

SONNET LXXXVI

I' vo piangendo i miei passati tempiHE HUMBLY CONFESSES THE ERRORS OF HIS PAST LIFE, AND PRAYS FOR DIVINE GRACEWeeping, I still revolve the seasons flownIn vain idolatry of mortal things;Not soaring heavenward; though my soul had wingsWhich 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 dayWas 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 lavishèd,Nor e'er to soar my pinions balancèd,Though wing'd perchance no humble height to fly.Thou, Dread Invisible, who from on highLook'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.

SONNET LXXXVII

Dolci durezze e placide repulseHE OWES HIS OWN SALVATION TO THE VIRTUOUS CONDUCT OF LAURAO sweet severity, repulses mild,With chasten'd love, and tender pity fraught;Graceful rebukes, that to mad passion taughtBecoming mastery o'er its wishes wild;Speech dignified, in which, united, smiledAll courtesy, with purity of thought;Virtue and beauty, that uprooted aughtOf baser temper had my heart defiled:Eyes, in whose glance man is beatified—Awful, in pride of virtue, to restrainAspiring hopes that justly are denied,Then prompt the drooping spirit to sustain!These, beautiful in every change, suppliedHealth to my soul, that else were sought in vain.Dacre.

SONNET LXXXVIII

Spirto felice, che sì dolcementeBEHOLDING IN FANCY THE SHADE OF LAURA, HE TELLS HER THE LOSS THAT THE WORLD SUSTAINED IN HER DEPARTUREBlest spirit, that with beams so sweetly clearThose eyes didst bend on me, than stars more bright,And sighs didst breathe, and words which could delightDespair; and which in fancy still I hear;—I see thee now, radiant from thy pure sphereO'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 veilIn 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 eyesSo sweetly didst inform and brightly fill,Who the apt words didst frame and tender sighsWhich 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 givenFor 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.

SONNET LXXXIX

Deh porgi mano all' affannato ingegnoHE BEGS LOVE TO ASSIST HIM, THAT HE MAY WORTHILY CELEBRATE HERAh, 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 gainOf her great praises, else in vain essay'd,Whose peer in worth or beauty never stay'dIn 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.

SONNET XC

Vago augelletto che cantando vaiTHE PLAINTIVE SONG OF A BIRD RECALLS TO HIM HIS OWN KEENER SORROWPoor 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 throatThou 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 throngPrompt 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 hasteAnd, 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.

CANZONE VIII

Vergine bella che di sol vestitaTO THE VIRGIN MARYBeautiful Virgin! clothed with the sun,Crown'd with the stars, who so the Eternal SunWell 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 still repliesTo all who ask in faith,Virgin! if ever yetThe misery of man and mortal thingsTo mercy moved thee, to my prayer incline;Help me in this my strife,Though I am but of dust, and thou heaven's radiant Queen!Wise Virgin! of that lovely number oneOf 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 consumesVain mortals here below!Virgin! those lustrous eyes,Which tearfully beheld the cruel printsIn 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 clearsOur 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 actsTo the true God a sacred living shrineIn thy fecund virginity have made:By thee, dear Mary, yet my life may beHappy, if to thy prayers,O Virgin meek and mild!Where sin abounded grace shall more abound!With bended knee and broken heart I prayThat 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 starEach trusting mariner that truly guides,Look down, and see amid this dreadful stormHow I am tost at random and alone,And how already my last shriek is near,Yet still in thee, sinful although and vile,My soul keeps all her trust;Virgin! I thee imploreLet not thy foe have triumph in my fall;Remember that our sin made God himself,To free us from its chain,Within thy virgin womb our image on Him take!Virgin! what tears already have I shed,Cherish'd what dreams and breathed what prayers in vainBut for my own worse penance and sure loss;Since first on Arno's shore I saw the lightTill 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 sinHave vanish'd all, and now Death only is behind!Virgin! She now is dust, who, living, heldMy 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 stillHad been the same, for every other wishWas death to me and ill renown for her;But, Queen of Heaven, our Goddess—if to theeSuch homage be not sin—Virgin! of matchless mind,Thou knowest now the whole; and that, which elseNo 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 worthTowards one so low and lost thy pity move:Medusa spells have made me as a rockDistilling a vain flood;Virgin! my harass'd heartWith 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 lovedWith loyalty so wonderful and long,Much more my faith and gratitude for thee.From this my present sad and sunken stateIf by thy help I rise,Virgin! to thy dear nameI 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.

PETRARCH'S TRIUMPHS.

THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE

PART INel tempo che rinova i miei sospiriIt was the time when I do sadly payMy 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 Phaëton 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 chargèd 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 showIn 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 yewHis 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 chairWere thousand mortals: some in battle ta'en,Many were hurt with darts, and many slain.Glad to learn news, I rose, and forward press'dSo far, that I was one amongst the rest;As if I had been kill'd with loving painBefore my time; and looking through the trainOf this tear-thirsty king, I would have spiedSome of my old acquaintance, but descriedNo 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 placeThat dulls thy sight, and this hard yoke I bear:Else I a Tuscan am; thy friend, and dearTo thy remembrance." His wonted phraseAnd voice did then discover what he was.So we retired aside, and left the throng,When thus he spake: "I have expected longTo see you here with us; your face did seemTo threaten you no less. I do esteemYour prophesies; but I have seen what careAttends a lover's life; and must beware.""Yet have I oft been beaten in the field,And sometimes hurt," said I, "but scorn'd to yield."He smiled and said: "Alas! thou dost not see,My son, how great a flame's prepared for thee."I knew not then what by his words he meant:But since I find it by the dire event;And in my memory 'tis fix'd so fast,That marble gravings cannot firmer last.Meanwhile my forward youth did thus inquire:"What may these people be? I much desireTo know their names; pray, give me leave to ask.""I think ere long 'twill be a needless task,"Replied my friend; "thou shalt be of the train,And know them all; this captivating chainThy neck must bear, (though thou dost little fear,)And sooner change thy comely form and hair,Than be unfetter'd from the cruel tie,Howe'er thou struggle for thy liberty;Yet to fulfil thy wish, I will relateWhat I have learn'd. The first that keeps such state,By whom our lives and freedoms we forego,The world hath call'd him Love; and he (you know,But shall know better when he comes to beA lord to you, as now he is to me)Is in his childhood mild, fierce in his age;'Tis best believed of those that feel his rage.The truth of this thou in thyself shalt find,I warn thee now, pray keep it in thy mind.Of idle looseness he is oft the child;With pleasant fancies nourish'd, and is styledOr made a god by vain and foolish men:And for a recompense, some meet their bane;Others, a harder slavery must endureThan many thousand chains and bolts procure.That other gallant lord is conquerorOf conquering Rome, led captive by the fairEgyptian queen, with her persuasive art,Who in his honours claims the greatest part;For binding the world's victor with her charms,His trophies are all hers by right of arms.The next is his adoptive son, whose loveMay seem more just, but doth no better prove;For though he did his lovèd Livia wed,She was seducèd from her husband's bed.Nero is third, disdainful, wicked, fierce,And yet a woman found a way to pierceHis angry soul. Behold, Marcus, the graveWise emperor, is fair Faustina's slave.These two are tyrants: Dionysius,And Alexander, both suspicious,And yet both loved: the last a just rewardFound of his causeless fear. I know y' have heardOf him, who for Creüsa on the rockAntandrus mourn'd so long; whose warlike strokeAt once revenged his friend and won his love:And of the youth whom Phædra could not moveT' abuse his father's bed; he left the place,And by his virtue lost his life (for baseUnworthy loves to rage do quickly change).It kill'd her too; perhaps in just revengeOf wrong'd Theseus, slain Hippolytus,And poor forsaken Ariadne: thusIt often proves that they who falsely blameAnother, in one breath themselves condemn:And who have guilty been of treachery,Need not complain, if they deceivèd be.Behold the brave hero a captive madeWith all his fame, and twixt these sisters led:Who, as he joy'd the death of th' one to see,His death did ease the other's misery.The next that followeth, though the world admireHis strength, Love bound him. Th' other full of ireIs great Achilles, he whose pitied fateWas caused by Love. Demophoon did not hateImpatient Phyllis, yet procured her death.This Jason is, he whom Medea hathObliged by mischief; she to her father provedFalse, to her brother cruel; t' him she lovedGrew furious, by her merit over-prized.Hypsipyle comes next, mournful, despised,Wounded to see a stranger's love prevailMore than her own, a Greek. Here is the frailFair Helena, with her the shepherd boy,Whose gazing looks hurt Greece, and ruin'd Troy.'Mongst other weeping souls, you hear the moanŒnone makes, her Paris being gone;And Menelaus, for the woe he hadTo lose his wife. Hermione is sad,And calls her dear Orestes to her aid.And Laodamia, that hapless maid,Bewails Protesilaus. Argia provedTo Polynice more faithful than the loved(But false and covetous) Amphiaraus' wife.The groans and sighs of those who lose their lifeBy this kind lord, in unrelenting flamesYou hear: I cannot tell you half their names.For they appear not only men that love,The gods themselves do fill this myrtle grove:You see fair Venus caught by Vulcan's artWith angry Mars; Proserpina apartFrom Pluto, jealous Juno, yellow-hair'dApollo, who the young god's courage dared:And of his trophies proud, laugh'd at the bowWhich in Thessalia gave him such a blow.What shall I say?—here, in a word, are allThe gods that Varro mentions, great and small;Each with innumerable bonds detain'd,And Jupiter before the chariot chain'd."Anna Hume.PART IIStanci già di mirar, non sazio ancoraWearied, 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 throngWithin my breast; when lo, a lovely pair,Join'd hand in hand, who kindly talking were,Drew my attention that way: their attireAnd foreign language quicken'd my desireOf further knowledge, which I soon might gain.My kind interpreter did all explain.When both I knew, I boldly then drew near;He loved our country, though she made it fear."O Masinissa! I adjure thee byGreat Scipio, and her who from thine eyeDrew manly tears," said I; "let it not beA trouble, what I must demand of thee."He look'd, and said: "I first desire to knowYour name and quality; for well you showY' have heard the combat in my wounded soul,When Love did Friendship, Friendship Love control.""I am not worth your knowledge, my poor flameGives little light," said I: "your royal fameSets hearts on fire, that never see your face:But, pray you, say; are you two led in peaceBy him?"—(I show'd their guide)—"Your historyDeserves record: it seemeth strange to me,That faith and cruelty should come so near."He said: "Thine own expressions witness bear,Thou know'st enough, yet I will all relateTo thee; 't will somewhat ease my heavy state.On that brave man my heart was fix'd so much,That Lælius' love to him could be but such;Where'er his colours marchèd, I was nigh,And Fortune did attend with victory:Yet still his merit call'd for more than sheCould give, or any else deserve but he.When to the West the Roman eagles cameMyself was also there, and caught a flame,A purer never burnt in lover's breast:But such a joy could not be long possess'd!Our nuptial knot, alas! he soon untied,Who had more power than all the world beside.He cared not for our sighs; and though 't be trueThat he divided us, his worth I knew:He must be blind that cannot see the sun,But by strict justice Love is quite undone:Counsel from such a friend gave such a strokeTo love, it almost split, as on a rock:For as my father I his wrath did fear,And as a son he in my love was dear;Brothers in age we were, him I obey'd,But with a troubled soul and look dismay'd:Thus my dear half had an untimely death,She prized her freedom far above her breath;And I th' unhappy instrument was made;Such force th' intreaty and intreater had!I rather chose myself than him t' offend,And sent the poison brought her to her end:With what sad thoughts I know, and she'll confessAnd you, if you have sense of love, may guess;No heir she left me, but my tedious moan;And though in her my hopes and joys were gone,She was of lower value than my faith!But now farewell, and try if this troop hathAnother wonder; for the time is lessThan is the task." I pitied their distress,Whose short joy ended in so sharp a woe:My soft heart melted. As they onward go,"This youth for his part, I perhaps could love,"She said; "but nothing can my mind removeFrom hatred of the nation." He replied,"Good Sophonisba, you may leave this pride;Your city hath by us been three times beat,The last of which, you know, we laid it flat.""Pray use these words t' another, not to me,"Said she; "if Africk mournèd, ItalyNeeds not rejoice; search your records, and thereSee what you gainèd by the Punic war."He that was friend to both, without replyA little smiling, vanish'd from mine eyeAmongst the crowd. As one in doubtful wayAt every step looks round, and fears to stray(Care stops his journey), so the varied storeOf lovers stay'd me, to examine more,And try what kind of fire burnt every breast:When on my left hand strayèd from the restWas one, whose look express'd a ready mindIn seeking what he joy'd, yet shamed to find;He freely gave away his dearest wife(A new-found way to save a lover's life);She, though she joy'd, yet blushèd at the change.As they recounted their affections strange,And for their Syria mourn'd; I took the wayOf these three ghosts, who seem'd their course to stayAnd take another path: the first I heldAnd bid him turn; he started, and beheldMe with a troubled look, hearing my tongueWas Roman, such a pause he made as sprungFrom some deep thought; then spake as if inspired,For to my wish, he told what I desiredTo know: "Seleucus is," said he, "my name,This is Antiochus my son, whose fameHath reach'd your ear; he warrèd much with Rome,But reason oft by power is overcome.This woman, once my wife, doth now belongTo him; I gave her, and it was no wrongIn our religion; it stay'd his death,Threaten'd by Love; Stratonica she hathTo name: so now we may enjoy one state,And our fast friendship shall outlast all date.She from her height was willing to descend;I quit my joy; he rather chose his endThan our offence; and in his prime had died,Had not the wise Physician been our guide;Silence in love o'ercame his vital part;His love was force, his silence virtuous art.A father's tender care made me agreeTo this strange change." This said, he turn'd from me,As changing his design, with such a pace,Ere I could take my leave, he had quit the placeAfter the ghost was carried from mine eye,Amazedly I walk'd; nor could untieMy mind from his sad story; till my friendAdmonish'd me, and said, "You must not lendAttention thus to everything you meet;You know the number's great, and time is fleet."More naked prisoners this triumph hadThan Xerxes soldiers in his army led:And stretchèd further than my sight could reach;Of several countries, and of differing speech.One of a thousand were not known to me,Yet might those few make a large history.Perseus was one; and well you know the wayHow he was catchèd by Andromeda:She was a lovely brownet, black her hairAnd eyes. Narcissus, too, the foolish fair,Who for his own love did himself destroy;He had so much, he nothing could enjoy.And she, who for his loss, deep sorrow's slave.Changed to a voice, dwells in a hollow cave.Iphis was there, who hasted his own fate,He loved another, but himself did hate;And many more condemn'd like woes to prove,Whose life was made a curse by hapless love.Some modern lovers in my mind remain,But those to reckon here were needless pain:The two, whose constant loves for ever last,On whom the winds wait while they build their nest;For halcyon days poor labouring sailors please.And in rough winter calm the boisterous seas.Far off the thoughtful Æsacus, in questOf his Hesperia, finds a rocky rest,Then diveth in the floods, then mounts i' th' air;And she who stole old Nisus' purple hairHis cruel daughter, I observed to fly:Swift Atalanta ran for victory,But three gold apples, and a lovely face,Slack'd her quick paces, till she lost the race;She brought Hippomanes along, and joy'dThat he, as others, had not been destroyed,But of the victory could singly boast.I saw amidst the vain and fabulous host,Fair Galatea lean'd on Acis' breast;Rude Polyphemus' noise disturbs their rest.Glaucus alone swims through the dangerous seas,And missing her who should his fancy please,Curseth the cruel's Love transform'd her shape.Canens laments that Picus could not 'scapeThe dire enchantress; he in ItalyWas once a king, now a pied bird; for sheWho made him such, changed not his clothes nor name,His princely habit still appears the same.Egeria, while she wept, became a well:Scylla (a horrid rock by Circe's spell)Hath made infamous the Sicilian strand.Next, she who holdeth in her trembling handA guilty knife, her right hand writ her name.Pygmalion next, with his live mistress came.Sweet Aganippe, and Castalia haveA thousand more; all there sung by the braveAnd deathless poets, on their fair banks placed;Cydippe by an apple fool'd at last.Anna Hume.PART IIIEra sì pieno il cor di maraviglieMy heart was fill'd with wonder and amaze,As one struck dumb, in silence stands at gazeExpecting 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 oneOf these, and must attend? pray, let's be gone.""Dear friend," said I, "consider what desireTo 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 Ægisthus 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 savedBy Hypermnestra: Pyramus bereavedHimself 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 wifeOf Brutus, Portia, constant in her lifeAnd death: this Julia is, who seems to moan,That Pompey lovèd best, when she was gone.Look here and see the Patriarch much abusedWho twice seven years for his fair Rachel choosedTo serve: O powerful love increased by woe!His father this: now see his grandsire goWith Sarah from his home. This cruel LoveO'ercame good David; so it had power to moveHis righteous heart to that abhorrèd 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' appeaseHer grievèd soul. Samson takes care to pleaseHis 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 faceAnd pleasing art hath Holophernes ta'en;She back again retires, who hath him slain,With her one maid, bearing the horrid headIn haste, and thanks God that so well she sped.The next is Sichem, he who found his deathIn circumcision; his father hathLike mischief felt; the city all did proveThe same effect of his rash violent love.You see Ahasuerus how well he bearsHis loss; a new love soon expels his cares;This cure in this disease doth seldom fail,One nail best driveth out another nail.If you would see love mingled oft with hate,Bitter with sweet, behold fierce Herod's state,Beset with love and cruelty at once:Enraged at first, then late his fault bemoans,And Mariamne calls; those three fair dames(Who in the list of captives write their names)Procris, Deidamia, Artemisia wereAll good, the other three as wicked are—Semiramis, Byblis, and Myrrha named,Who of their crooked ways are now ashamedHere be the erring knights in ancient scrolls,Lancelot, Tristram, and the vulgar soulsThat wait on these; Guenever, and the fairIsond, with other lovers; and the pairWho, as they walk together, seem to plain,Their just, but cruel fate, by one hand slain."Thus he discoursed: and as a man that fearsApproaching harm, when he a trumpet hears,Starts at the blow ere touch'd, my frighted bloodRetired: as one raised from his tomb I stood;When by my side I spied a lovely maid,(No turtle ever purer whiteness had!)And straight was caught (who lately swore I wouldDefend me from a man at arms), nor couldResist the wounds of words with motion graced:The image yet is in my fancy placed.My friend was willing to increase my woe,And smiling whisper'd,—"You alone may goConfer with whom you please, for now we areAll stained with one crime." My sullen careWas like to theirs, who are more grieved to knowAnother's happiness than their own woe;For seeing her, who had enthrall'd my mind,Live free in peace, and no disturbance find:And seeing that I knew my hurt too late.And that her beauty was my dying fate:Love, jealousy, and envy held my sightSo fix'd on that fair face, no other lightI could behold; like one who in the rageOf sickness greedily his thirst would 'suageWith hurtful drink, which doth his palate please,Thus (blind and deaf t' all other joys are ease)So many doubtful ways I follow'd her,The memory still shakes my soul with fear.Since when mine eyes are moist, and view the ground,My heart is heavy, and my steps have foundA solitary dwelling 'mongst the woods,I stray o'er rocks and fountains, hills and floods:Since when such store my scatter'd papers holdOf thoughts, of tears, of ink; which oft I fold,Unfold, and tear: since when I know the scopeOf Love, and what they fear, and what they hope;And how they live that in his cloister dwell,The skilful in their face may read it well.Meanwhile I see, how fierce and gallant sheCares not for me, nor for my misery,Proud of her virtue, and my overthrow:And on the other side (if aught I know),This lord, who hath the world in triumph led,She keeps in fear; thus all my hopes are dead,No strength nor courage left, nor can I beRevenged, as I expected once; for he,Who tortures me and others, is abusedBy her; she'll not be caught, and long hath used(Rebellious as she is!) to shun his wars,And is a sun amidst the lesser stars.Her grace, smiles, slights, her words in order set;Her hair dispersed or in a golden net;Her eyes inflaming with a light divineSo burn my heart, I dare no more repine.Ah, who is able fully to expressHer pleasing ways, her merit? No excess,No bold hyperboles I need to fear,My humble style cannot enough come nearThe truth; my words are like a little streamCompared with th' ocean, so large a themeIs that high praise; new worth, not seen before,Is seen in her, and can be seen no more;Therefore all tongues are silenced; and I,Her prisoner now, see her at liberty:And night and day implore (O unjust fate!)She neither hears nor pities my estate:Hard laws of Love! But though a partial lotI plainly see in this, yet must I notRefuse to serve: the gods, as well as men,With like reward of old have felt like pain.Now know I how the mind itself doth part(Now making peace, now war, now truce)—what artPoor lovers use to hide their stinging woe:And how their blood now comes, and now doth goBetwixt their heart and cheeks, by shame or fear:How they be eloquent, yet speechless are;And how they both ways lean, they watch and sleep,Languish to death, yet life and vigour keep:I trod the paths made happy by her feet,And search the foe I am afraid to meet.I know how lovers metamorphosed areTo that they love: I know what tedious careI feel; how vain my joy, how oft I changeDesign and countenance; and (which is strange)I live without a soul: I know the wayTo cheat myself a thousand times a day:I know to follow while I flee my fireI freeze when present; absent, my desireIs hot: I know what cruel rigour LovePractiseth on the mind, and doth removeAll reason thence, and how he racks the heart:And how a soul hath neither strength nor artWithout a helper to resist his blows:And how he flees, and how his darts he throws:And how his threats the fearful lover feels:And how he robs by force, and how he steals:How oft his wheels turn round (now high, now low)With how uncertain hope, how certain woe:How all his promises be void of faith,And how a fire hid in our bones he hath:How in our veins he makes a secret wound,Whence open flames and death do soon abound.In sum, I know how giddy and how vainBe lovers' lives; what fear and boldness reignIn all their ways; how every sweet is paid.And with a double weight of sour allay'd:I also know their customs, sighs, and songs;Their sudden muteness, and their stammering tongues:How short their joy, how long their pain doth last,How wormwood spoileth all their honey's taste.Anna Hume.PART IVPoscia che mia fortuna in forza altruiWhen once my will was captive by my fate,And I had lost the liberty, which lateMade my life happy; I, who used beforeTo flee from Love (as fearful deer abhorThe 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 artThat guides the amorous flock: then whilst mine eyeI cast in every corner, to espySome ancient or modern who had provedFamous, I saw him, who had only lovedEurydice, and found out hell, to callHer dear ghost back; he named her in his fallFor whom he died. Aleæus there was known,Skilful in love and verse: Anacreon,Whose muse sung nought but love: Pindarus, heWas 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 nameOf Cynthia bear: Tibullus, and the youngGreek poetess, who is received amongThe 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, sheBrought her Pistoian Cino; Guitton may beOffended that he is the latter named:Behold both Guidos for their learning famed:Th' honest Bolognian: the Sicilians firstWrote love in rhymes, but wrote their rhymes the worst.Franceschin and Sennuccio (whom all know)Were worthy and humane: after did goA squadron of another garb and phrase,Of whom Arnaldo Daniel hath most praise,Great master in Love's art, his style, as newAs sweet, honours his country: next, a fewWhom Love did lightly wound: both Peters madeTwo: one, the less Arnaldo: some have hadA harder war; both the Rimbaldos, th' oneSung Beatrice, though her quality was knownToo much above his reach in Montferrat.Alvernia's old Piero, and Girault:Folchetto, who from Genoa was estrangedAnd call'd Marsilian, he wisely changedHis name, his state, his country, and did gainIn all: Jeffray made haste to catch his baneWith sails and oars: Guilliam, too, sweetly sungThat pleasing art, was cause he died so young.Amarig, Bernard, Hugo, and AnselmWere there, with thousands more, whose tongues were helm,Shield, sword, and spear, all their offensive arms,And their defensive to prevent their harms.From those I turn'd, comparing my own woe,To view my country-folks; and there might knowThe good Tomasso, who did once adornBologna, now Messina holds his urn.Ah, vanish'd joys! Ah, life too full of bane!How wert thou from mine eyes so quickly ta'en!Since without thee nothing is in my powerTo do, where art thou from me at this hour?What is our life? If aught it bring of ease,A sick man's dream, a fable told to please.Some few there from the common road did stray;Lælius and Socrates, with whom I mayA longer progress take: Oh, what a pairOf dear esteemèd friends to me they were!'Tis not my verse, nor prose, may reach thieir praise;Neither of these can naked virtue raiseAbove her own true place: with them I haveReach'd many heights; one yoke of learning gaveLaws to our steps, to them my fester'd woundI oft have show'd; no time or place I foundTo part from them; and hope, and wish we mayBe undivided till my breath decay:With them I used (too early) to adornMy head with th' honour'd branches, only wornFor her dear sake I did so deeply love,Who fill'd my thoughts; but ah! I daily prove,No fruit nor leaves from thence can gather'd be:The root hath sharp and bitter been to me.For this I was accustomed much to vex,But I have seen that which my anger checks:(A theme for buskins, not a comic stage)She took the God, adored by the rageOf such dull fools as he had captive led:But first, I'll tell you what of us he made;Then, from her hand what was his own sad fate,Which Orpheus or Homer might relate.His winged coursers o'er the ditches leapt,And we their way as desperately kept,Till he had reached where his mother reigns,Nor would he ever pull or turn the reins;But scour'd o'er woods and mountains; none did careNor could discern in what strange world they were.Beyond the place, where old Ægeus mourns,An island lies, Phœbus none sweeter burns,Nor Neptune ever bathed a better shore:About the midst a beauteous hill, with storeOf shades and pleasing smells, so fresh a springAs drowns all manly thoughts: this place doth bringVenus much joy; 't was given her deity,Ere blind man knew a truer god than she:Of which original it yet retainsToo much, so little goodness there remains,That it the vicious doth only please,Is by the virtuous shunn'd as a disease.Here this fine Lord insulteth o'er us allTied in a chain, from Thule to Ganges' fall.Griefs in our breasts, vanity in our arms;Fleeting delights are there, and weighty harms:Repentance swiftly following to annoy:(Such Tarquin found it, and the bane of Troy)All that whole valley with the echoes rungOf running brooks, and birds that gently sung:The banks were clothed in yellow, purple, green,Scarlet and white, their pleasing springs were seen;And gliding streams amongst the tender grass,Thickets and soft winds to refresh the place.After when winter maketh sharp the air,Warm leaves, and leisure, sports, and gallant cheerEnthrall low minds. Now th' equinox hath madeThe day t' equal the night; and Progne hadWith her sweet sister, each their old task ta'en:(Ah! how the faith in fortune placed is vain!)Just in the time, and place, and in the hourWhen humble tears should earthly joys devour,It pleased him, whom th' vulgar honour so,To triumph over me; and now I knowWhat miserable servitude they prove,What ruin, and what death, that fall in love.Errors, dreams, paleness waiteth on his chair,False fancies o'er the door, and on the stairAre slippery hopes, unprofitable gain,And gainful loss; such steps it doth contain,As who descend, may boast their fortune best;Who most ascend, most fall: a wearied rest,And resting trouble, glorious disgrace;A duskish and obscure illustriousness;Unfaithful loyalty, and cozening faith,That nimble fury, lazy reason hath:A prison, whose wide ways do all receive,Whose narrow paths a hard retiring leave:A steep descent, by which we slide with ease,But find no hold our crawling steps to raise:Within confusion, turbulence, annoyAre mix'd; undoubted woe, and doubtful joy:Vulcano, where the sooty Cyclops dwell;Liparis, Stromboli, nor Mongibel,Nor Ischia, have more horrid noise and smoke:He hates himself that stoops to such a yoke.Thus were we all throng'd in so strait a cage,I changed my looks and hair, before my age,Dreaming on liberty (by strong desireMy soul made apt to hope), and did admireThose gallant minds, enslaved to such a woe(My heart within my breast dissolved like snowBefore the sun), as one would side-ways castHis eye on pictures, which his feet hath pass'd.Anna Hume.