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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of
+Petrarch, by Petrarch
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
+
+Author: Petrarch
+
+Editor: Thomas Campbell
+
+Release Date: January 31, 2006 [EBook #17650]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SONNETS, TRIUMPHS, AND ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Ted Garvin, Taavi Kalju and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: PETRARCH.]
+
+
+
+
+THE SONNETS, TRIUMPHS,
+AND OTHER POEMS
+
+OF
+
+PETRARCH.
+
+
+NOW FIRST COMPLETELY TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH VERSE
+
+BY VARIOUS HANDS.
+
+
+WITH A LIFE OF THE POET
+BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.
+
+
+ILLUSTRATED WITH SIXTEEN ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL.
+
+
+LONDON: GEORGE BELL AND SONS, YORK STREET,
+COVENT GARDEN.
+1879.
+
+
+[_Reprinted from Stereotype plates._]
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+LIST OF PLATES.
+
+
+                                                            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
+
+
+
+
+CHRONOLOGICAL SUMMARY OF PETRARCH'S LIFE.
+
+
+ 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 LIFE OF PETRARCH.
+
+
+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 to the principal church, and there, in his
+episcopal robes, blessed the people, and delivered an eloquent
+discourse. Petrarch beheld with admiration the dignified behaviour of
+the youthful prelate. James Colonna, though accustomed to the wealth and
+luxury of Rome, came to the Pyrenean rocks with a pleased countenance.
+"His aspect," says Petrarch, "made it seem as if Italy had been
+transported into Gascony." Nothing is more beautiful than the patient
+endurance of our destiny; yet there are many priests who would suffer
+translation to a well-paid, though mountainous bishopric, with patience
+and piety.
+
+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 became offensive to
+Boniface, who, besides, hated the two Cardinals for having opposed the
+renunciation of Celestine V., which Boniface had fraudulently obtained.
+Boniface procured a crusade against them. They were beaten, expelled
+from their castles, and almost exterminated; they implored peace, but in
+vain; they were driven from Rome, and obliged to seek refuge, some in
+Sicily and others in France. During the time of their exile, Boniface
+proclaimed it a capital crime to give shelter to any of them.
+
+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 of the Roberti family. His name in literature was so considerable
+that Filippo Villani thought it worth while to write his life. Petrarch
+wrote his funeral eulogy, and alludes to Dionisio's power of reading
+futurity by the stars. But Petrarch had not a grain of faith in
+astrology; on the contrary, he has himself recorded that he derided it.
+After having obtained, with some difficulty, the permission of Cardinal
+Colonna, he took leave of his friends at Avignon, and set out for
+Marseilles. Embarking there in a ship that was setting sail for Civita
+Vecchia, he concealed his name, and gave himself out for a pilgrim going
+to worship at Rome. Great was his joy when, from the deck, he could
+discover the coast of his beloved Italy. It was a joy, nevertheless,
+chastened by one indomitable recollection--that of the idol he had left
+behind. On his landing he perceived a laurel tree; its name seemed to
+typify her who dwelt for ever in his heart: he flew to embrace it; but
+in his transports overlooked a brook that was between them, into which
+he fell--and the accident caused him to swoon. Always occupied with
+Laura, he says, "On those shores washed by the Tyrrhene sea, I beheld
+that stately laurel which always warms my imagination, and, through my
+impatience, fell breathless into the intervening stream. I was alone,
+and in the woods, yet I blushed at my own heedlessness; for, to the
+reflecting mind, no witness is necessary to excite the emotion of
+shame."
+
+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 end
+of the garden, and, as I endeavoured to accompany him, he in the kindest
+and gentlest manner waved his hand; but, upon my persevering, he cried
+out in a more peremptory manner, 'Stay! you must not at present attend
+me.' Whilst he spoke these words, I fixed my eyes upon him, and saw the
+paleness of death upon his countenance. Seized with horror, I uttered a
+loud cry, which awoke me. I took notice of the time. I told the
+circumstance to all my friends; and, at the expiration of
+five-and-twenty days, I received accounts of his death, which happened
+in the very same night in winch he had appeared to me."
+
+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
+perils of the road appeared less dreadful to me than those by sea. I
+left my servants and baggage in the ship, which set sail, and I remained
+with only one domestic on shore. By accident, upon the coast of Genoa, I
+found some German horses which were for sale; they were strong and
+serviceable. I bought them; but I was soon afterwards obliged to take
+ship again; for war was renewed between the Pisans and the Milanese.
+Nature has placed limits to these States, the Po on one side, and the
+Apennines on the other. I must have passed between their two armies if I
+had gone by land; this obliged me to re-embark at Lerici. I passed by
+Corvo, that famous rock, the ruins of the city of Luna, and landed at
+Murrona. Thence I went the next day on horseback to Pisa, Siena, and
+Rome. My eagerness to execute your orders has made me a night-traveller,
+contrary to my character and disposition. I would not sleep till I had
+paid my duty to your illustrious father, who is always my hero. I found
+him the same as I left him seven years ago, nay, even as hale and
+sprightly as when I saw him at Avignon, which is now twelve years. What
+a surprising man! What strength of mind and body! How firm his voice!
+How beautiful his face! Had he been a few years younger, I should have
+taken him for Julius Caesar, or Scipio Africanus. Rome grows old; but not
+its hero. He was half undressed, and going to bed; so I stayed only a
+moment, but I passed the whole of the next day with him. He asked me a
+thousand questions about you, and was much pleased that I was going to
+Naples. When I set out from Rome, he insisted on accompanying me beyond
+the walls.
+
+"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 Pontiff, and your just demands. He behaved with
+incredible insolence. Susa, or Damascus, the capital of the Saracens,
+would have received with more respect an envoy from the Holy See. The
+great lords imitate his pride and tyranny. The Bishop of Cavaillon is
+the only one who opposes this torrent; but what can one lamb do in the
+midst of so many wolves? It is the request of a dying king alone that
+makes him endure so wretched a situation. How small are the hopes of my
+negotiation! but I shall wait with patience; though I know beforehand
+the answer they will give me."
+
+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 journey. The principal persons of the town
+took leave of him publicly at his departure, after pointing out to him
+the house in which he was born. "It was a small house," says Petrarch,
+"befitting an exile, as my father was." They told him that the
+proprietors would have made some alterations in it; but the town had
+interposed and prevented them, determined that the place should remain
+the same as when it was first consecrated by his birth. The poet related
+what had been mentioned to a young man who wrote to him expressly to ask
+whether Arezzo could really boast of being his birthplace. Petrarch
+added, that Arezzo had done more for him as a stranger than Florence as
+a citizen. In truth, his family was of Florence; and it was only by
+accident that he was born at Arezzo. He then went to Florence, where he
+made but a short stay. There he found his friends still alarmed about
+the accident which had befallen him in his journey to Rome, the news of
+which he had communicated to Boccaccio.
+
+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, thirty-four of the brethren who had continued with him. He
+paid them every service, received their last sighs, and buried them when
+death had taken off those to whom that office belonged. With only a dog
+left for his companion, Gherardo watched at night to guard the house,
+and took his repose by day. When the summer was over, he went to a
+neighbouring monastery of the Carthusians, who enabled him to restore
+his convent.
+
+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 this
+epistle, that the Florentines wished our poet's acceptance of their
+offer to be as advantageous to themselves as to him. They were
+establishing a University, and they wished to put Petrarch at the head
+of it. Petrarch replied in a letter apparently full of gratitude and
+satisfaction, but in which he by no means pledged himself to be the
+gymnasiarch of their new college; and, agreeably to his original
+intention, he set out from Padua on the 3rd of May, 1351, for Provence.
+
+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, gives a description
+of John, which is neither very flattering to the youth, nor calculated
+to give us a favourable opinion of his father's mode of managing his
+education. By his own account, it appears that he had never brought the
+boy to confide in him. This was a capital fault, for the young are
+naturally ingenuous; so that the acquisition of their confidence is the
+very first step towards their docility; and, for maintaining parental
+authority, there is no need to overawe them. "As far as I can judge of
+my son," says Petrarch, "he has a tolerable understanding; but I am not
+certain of this, for I do not sufficiently know him. When he is with me
+he always keeps silence; whether my presence is irksome and confusing to
+him, or whether shame for his ignorance closes his lips. I suspect it is
+the latter, for I perceive too clearly his antipathy to letters. I
+never saw it stronger in any one; he dreads and detests nothing so much
+as a book; yet he was brought up at Parma, Verona, and Padua. I
+sometimes direct a few sharp pleasantries at this disposition. 'Take
+care,' I say, 'lest you should eclipse your neighbour, Virgil.' When I
+talk in this manner, he looks down and blushes. On this behaviour alone
+I build my hope. He is modest, and has a docility which renders him
+susceptible of every impression." This is a melancholy confession, on
+the part of Petrarch, of his own incompetence to make the most of his
+son's mind, and a confession the more convincing that it is made
+unconsciously.
+
+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
+literary men at his court. He exercised a cunning influence over our
+poet, and detained him. Petrarch, knowing that Milan was a troubled city
+and a stormy court, told the Prince that, being a priest, his vocation
+did not permit him to live in a princely court, and in the midst of
+arms. "For that matter," replied the Archbishop, "I am myself an
+ecclesiastic; I wish to press no employment upon you, but only to
+request you to remain as an ornament of my court." Petrarch, taken by
+surprise, had not fortitude to resist his importunities. All that he
+bargained for was, that he should have a habitation sufficiently distant
+from the city, and that he should not be obliged to make any change in
+his ordinary mode of living. The Archbishop was too happy to possess him
+on these terms.
+
+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 we now give our faith, when Silvanus, who formerly pronounced
+the Visconti a cruel tyrant, has now bowed himself to the yoke which he
+once so boldly condemned? How has the Visconti obtained this truckling,
+which neither King Robert, nor the Pope, nor the Emperor, could ever
+obtain? You will say, perhaps, that you have been ill-used by your
+fellow-citizens, who have withheld from you your paternal property. I
+disapprove not your just indignation; but Heaven forbid I should believe
+that, righteously and honestly, any injury, from whomsoever we may
+receive it, can justify our taking part against our country. It is in
+vain for you to allege that you have not incited him to war against our
+country, nor lent him either your arm or advice. How can you be happy
+with him, whilst you are hearing of the ruins, the conflagrations, the
+imprisonments, the deaths, and the rapines, that he spreads around him?"
+
+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, that if you do not adopt my
+sentiments, you at least approve of my zeal; and that is the greatest
+recompense I could receive." He argues the question with the Emperor
+with great force and eloquence; and, to be sure, there never was a
+fairer opportunity for Charles IV. to enter Italy. The reasons which his
+Imperial Majesty alleges, for waiting a little time to watch the course
+of events, display a timid and wavering mind.
+
+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 them with his accustomed pedantry. He
+pronounces a grand eulogy on the numbers of the fair sex who had
+distinguished themselves by their virtues and their courage. Among these
+he instances Isis, Carmenta, the mother of Evander, Sappho, the Sybils,
+the Amazons, Semiramis, Tomiris, Cleopatra, Zenobia, the Countess
+Matilda, Lucretia, Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi, Martia, Portia,
+and Livia. The Empress Anne was no doubt highly edified by this
+muster-roll of illustrious women; though some of the heroines, such as
+Lucretia, might have bridled up at their chaste names being classed with
+that of Cleopatra.
+
+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 of
+thirty galleys and eight large vessels. Petrarch did not return to
+Venice till the expedition had sailed. He passed the summer in the
+country, having at his house one of his friends, Barthelemi di
+Pappazuori, Bishop of Christi, whom he had known at Avignon, and who had
+come purposely to see him. One day, when they were both at a window
+which overlooked the sea, they beheld one of the long vessels which the
+Italians call a galeazza, entering the harbour. The green branches with
+which it was decked, the air of joy that appeared among the mariners,
+the young men crowned with laurel, who, from the prow, saluted the
+standard of their country--everything betokened that the galeazza
+brought good news. When the vessel came a little nearer, they could
+perceive the captured colours of their enemies suspended from the poop,
+and no doubt could be entertained that a great victory had been won. The
+moment that the sentinel on the tower had made the signal of a vessel
+entering the harbour, the people flocked thither in crowds, and their
+joy was even beyond expectation when they learned that the rebellion had
+been totally crushed, and the island reduced to obedience. The most
+magnificent festivals were given at Venice on this occasion.
+
+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 from my difficulties. My prebend,
+it is true, yields me more bread and wine than I need for my own
+consumption. I can even sell some of it. But my expenses are very
+considerable. I have never less than two horses, usually five or six
+amanuenses. I have only three at this moment. It is because I could find
+no more. Here it is easier to find a painter than an amanuensis. I have
+a venerable priest, who never quits me when I am at church. Sometimes
+when I count upon dining with him alone, behold, a crowd of guests will
+come in. I must give them something to eat, and I must tell them amusing
+stories, or else pass for being proud or avaricious.
+
+"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 the one Cardinal, thought it
+unnecessary to report the pleasantries of the other. But Petrarch, who
+had heard of them from another quarter, relates them himself to Bruni,
+and says:--"I am not astonished. This man loved me formerly, and I was
+equally attached to him. At present he hates me, and I return his
+hatred. Would you know the reason of this double change? It is because
+he is the enemy of truth, and I am the enemy of falsehood; he dreads the
+liberty which inspires me, and I detest the pride with which he is
+swollen. If our fortunes were equal, and if we were together in a free
+place, I should not call myself a phoenix; for that title ill becomes
+me; but he would be an owl. Such people as he imagine, on account of
+riches ill-acquired, and worse employed, that they are at liberty to say
+what they please."
+
+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, I despise all the world, and
+myself most of all. I fear only those whom I love. I desire only a good
+end. I dread a company of valets like a troop of robbers. I should have
+none at all, if my age and weakness permitted me. I am fain to shut
+myself up in concealment, for I cannot endure visits; it is an honour
+which displeases and wears me out. Amidst the Euganean hills I have
+built a small but neat mansion, where I reckon on passing quietly the
+rest of my days, having always before my eyes my dead or absent friends.
+To conceal nothing from you, I have been sought after by the Pope, the
+Emperor, and the King of France, who have given me pressing invitations,
+but I have constantly declined them, preferring my liberty to
+everything."
+
+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 and loose manner all that he thought and felt, in
+his correspondence with his intimate friends; that he afterwards reduced
+these narratives, with more order and description, into Latin verse; and
+that he, lastly, perfected them with a greater profusion of imagery and
+more art in his Italian poetry, the composition of which at first served
+only, as he frequently says, to divert and mitigate all his afflictions.
+We may thus understand the perfect concord which prevails in Petrarch's
+poetry between Nature and Art; between the accuracy of fact and the
+magic of invention; between depth and perspicuity; between devouring
+passion and calm meditation. It is precisely because the poetry of
+Petrarch originally sprang from the heart that his passion never seems
+fictitious or cold, notwithstanding the profuse ornament of his style,
+or the metaphysical elevation of his thoughts."
+
+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 mind,
+    Where have so many virtues ever met,
+    E'en though those charms have slain my bosom's weal?
+    He knows not love who has not seen her eyes
+    Turn when she sweetly speaks, or smiles, or sighs,
+    Or how the power of love can hurt or heal.
+
+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
+last discovered and visited so fearfully this hitherto exempted city. On
+the 8th of August, the same year, a servant of mine returning from Milan
+brought me a rumour (which on the 18th of the same fatal month was
+confirmed by a servant of _Dominus Theatinus_) of the death of my
+Socrates, my companion, my best of brothers, at Babylon (Avignon, I
+mean) in the month of May. I have lost my comrade and the solace of my
+life! Receive, Christ Jesus, these two, and the five that remain, into
+thy eternal habitations!]
+
+[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.]
+
+
+
+
+PETRARCH'S SONNETS,
+
+ETC.
+
+
+
+
+TO LAURA IN LIFE.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET I.
+
+_Voi, ch' ascoltate in rime sparse il suono._
+
+HE CONFESSES THE VANITY OF HIS PASSION
+
+
+      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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET III.
+
+_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 victim bare,
+    And through mine eyes transfix'd my throbbing heart;
+    Those eyes, which now with constant sorrows flow:
+    But poor the triumph of his boasted art,
+    Who thus could pierce a naked youth, nor dare
+    To you in armour mail'd even to display his bow!
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET IV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET V.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET VI.
+
+_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 that would subdue.
+    The triumph won, the bridle all its own,
+    Without one curb I stand within its power,
+    And my destruction helplessly presage:
+    It guides me to that laurel, ever known,
+    To all who seek the healing of its flower,
+    To aggravate the wound it should assuage.
+
+    WOLLASTON.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET VII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET VIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET IX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET X.
+
+_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 here,
+    But, in their stead, the fir, the beech, and pine
+    On the green sward, with the fair mountain near
+    Paced to and fro by poet friend of thine;
+    Thus unto heaven the soul from earth is caught;
+    While Philomel, who sweetly to the shade
+    The livelong night her desolate lot complains,
+    Fills the soft heart with many an amorous thought:
+    --Ah! why is so rare good imperfect made
+    While severed from us still my lord remains.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+BALLATA I.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+BALLATA II.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XIII.
+
+_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 in my grief:
+    "Whence comes it that existence thou canst know
+    When from thy spirit thou dost dwell entire?"
+    Love, holy Love, my heart then answers brief:
+    "Such privilege I do on all bestow
+    Who feed my flame with nought of earthly fire!"
+
+    WOLLASTON.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XVII.
+
+_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 am one;
+    For, of this fair the splendour to regard,
+    I am but weak and ill--against late hours
+    And darkness gath'ring round--myself to ward.
+    Wherefore, with tearful eyes of failing powers,
+    My destiny condemns me still to turn
+    Where following faster I but fiercer burn.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XVIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XIX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SESTINA I.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE I.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXI.
+
+_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 grace, for He
+    The soul-prayer of the just will never thwart:
+    And if, returning to the amorous strife,
+    Its fair desire to teach us to deny,
+    Hollows and hillocks in thy path abound,
+    'Tis but to prove to us with thorns how rife
+    The narrow way, the ascent how hard and high,
+    Where with true virtue man at last is crown'd.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXIII.
+
+_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.]
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE II.
+
+_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 wings expand;
+    Which, through the dangers of that dusky way,
+    Where all deplore the first infringed command,
+    Will guide her safe, from primal bondage free,
+    Reckless to stop or stay,
+    To that true East, where she desires to be.
+
+      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 and force
+    To bend eternal justice from its course?
+    But He, heaven's bounteous ruler from on high,
+    On the sad sacred spot, where erst He bled,
+    Will turn his pitying eye,
+    And through the spirit of our new Charles spread
+    Thirst of that vengeance, whose too long delay
+    From general Europe wakes the bitter sigh;
+    To his loved spouse such aid will He convey,
+    That, his dread voice to hear,
+    Proud Babylon shall shrink assail'd with secret fear.
+
+      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,
+    To great Augustus, he, whose brow around
+    Thrice was the laurel green in triumph bound,
+    How Rome was ever lavish of her blood,
+    The right to vindicate, the weak redress;
+    And now, when gratitude,
+    When piety appeal, shall she do less
+    To avenge the injury and end the scorn
+    By blessed Mary's glorious offspring borne?
+    What fear we, while the heathen for success
+    Confide in human powers,
+    If, on the adverse side, be Christ, and his side ours?
+
+      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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE III.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SESTINA II
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXVI.
+
+_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 to grieve,
+    When my fond hope, already at life's last,
+    Came to my heart, not by the wonted way,
+    Where sleep its seal, its dew where sorrow cast--
+    Alas! how changed--and said, or seem'd to say,
+    "Sight of these eyes not yet does Heaven refuse,
+    Then wherefore should thy tost heart courage lose?"
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXVIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXIX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE IV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXX.
+
+_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 so wake,
+    Whatever most that lovely face may pall,
+    As hiding the bright eyes which me enthrall,
+    That veil which bids my heart "Now burn or break,"
+    And, whether by humility or pride,
+    Their glance, extinguishing mine every joy,
+    Conducts me prematurely to my tomb:
+    Also my soul by one fair hand is tried,
+    Cunning and careful ever to annoy,
+    'Gainst my poor eyes a rock that has become.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXXI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXXII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXXIII
+
+_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 no more is seen.
+    Then Mars and Saturn, cruel stars, resume
+    Their hostile rage: Orion arm'd with clouds
+    The helm and sails of storm-tost seamen breaks.
+    To Neptune and to Juno and to us
+    Vext AEolus proves his power, and makes us feel
+    How parts the fair face angels long expect.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXXIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXXV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXXVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXXVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXXVIII.
+
+_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 long years agree;
+    But in that fatal glass most blame I see,
+    That weary with your oft self-liking grows.
+    It on my lord placed silence, when my suit
+    He would have urged, but, seeing your desire
+    End in yourself alone, he soon was mute.
+    'Twas fashion'd in hell's wave and o'er its fire,
+    And tinted in eternal Lethe: thence
+    The spring and secret of my death commence.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXXIX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XL.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XLI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE V.
+
+_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 food,
+    Such as the forest hoar
+    To our first fathers bore,
+    By us disdain'd, yet praised in hall and bower,
+    But, let who will the cup of joyance pour,
+    I never knew, I will not say of mirth,
+    But of repose, an hour,
+    When Phoebus leaves, and stars salute the earth.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XLII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+MADRIGALE I.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE VI.
+
+_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 thou behold,
+    Of others' weal more thoughtful than his own,
+    The chief, by general Italy revered,
+    Tell him from me, to whom he is but known
+    As one to Virtue and by Fame endear'd,
+    Till stamp'd upon his heart the sad truth be,
+    That, day by day to thee,
+    With suppliant attitude and streaming eyes,
+    For justice and relief our seven-hill'd city cries.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+MADRIGALE II.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+BALLATA III.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XLIII.
+
+_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 now I find
+    That felon Love, to aggravate my pain,
+    Mine easy heart hath thus to hope inclined;
+    And now the maxim sage I call to mind,
+    That mortal bliss must doubtful still remain
+    Till death from earthly bonds the soul unbind.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XLIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XLV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+BALLATA IV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XLVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XLVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XLVIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+BALLATA V.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XLIX.
+
+_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 such despite
+    A fitting cause I then might well divine:
+    For gentle plant in arid soil to be
+    Seems little suited: so it better were,
+    And this e'en nature dictates, thence to stir.
+    But since thy destiny prohibits thee
+    Elsewhere to dwell, be this at least thy care
+    Not always to sojourn in hatred there.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET L.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SESTINA III.
+
+_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.]
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LIII.
+
+_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--
+    'Tween Tuscany and Elba as I sail'd
+    On the salt sea, it first my notice caught.
+    I fled from thy broad hands, and, by the way,
+    An unknown wanderer, 'neath the violence
+    Of winds, and waves, and skies, I helpless lay,
+    When, lo! thy ministers, I knew not whence,
+    Who quickly made me by fresh stings to feel
+    Ill who resists his fate, or would conceal.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE VII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE VIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE IX.
+
+_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 fate so blest,
+    And her who bade hope beam
+    Upon my soul; for till then burthensome
+    Was life itself become:
+    But now, elate with touch of self-esteem,
+    High thoughts and sweet within that heart arise,
+    Of which the warders are those beauteous eyes.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE X.
+
+_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 point the way,
+    And in the sweet task modulate my lay:
+    But gently be it, lest th' o'erpowering theme
+    Inflame and sting me, lest my fond heart may
+    Dissolve in too much softness, which I deem,
+    From its sad state, may be:
+    For in me--hence my terror and distress!
+    Not now as erst I see
+    Judgment to keep my mind's great passion less:
+    Nay, rather from mine own thoughts melt I so,
+    As melts before the summer sun the snow.
+
+    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 abides,
+    Moves from their lovely and bewitching smile.
+    So could I gaze, the while
+    Love, at his sweet will, governs them and guides,
+    --E'en though the sun were nigh,
+    Resting above us on his onward wheel--
+    On her, intensely with undazzled eye,
+    Nor of myself nor others think or feel.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LVII.
+
+_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
+    Was thus thy task, from heaven's reality.
+    Yes--thine the portrait heaven alone could wake,
+    This clime, nor earth, such beauty could conceive,
+    Where droops the spirit 'neath its earthly shrine:
+    The soul's reflected grace was thine to take,
+    Which not on earth thy painting could achieve,
+    Where mortal limits all the powers confine.
+
+    WOLLASTON.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LVIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LIX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SESTINA IV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXII.
+
+_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 to ensnare
+    Nor ope my heart, that, from without, he there
+    His poisonous and ruthless shafts may fix.
+    No tears can now find issue from mine eyes,
+    But the way there so well they know to win,
+    That nothing now the pass to them denies.
+    Though the fierce ray rekindle me within,
+    It burns not all: her cruel and severe
+    Form may disturb, not break my slumbers here.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXVIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXIX.
+
+_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 of Love's dreaming?
+    There was nought mortal in her stately tread
+    But grace angelic, and her speech awoke
+    Than human voices a far loftier sound,
+    A spirit of heaven,--a living sun she broke
+    Upon my sight;--what if these charms be fled?--
+    The slackening of the bow heals not the wound.
+
+    WROTTESLEY.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXVI.
+
+_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 bridle start,
+    Thus used to woe, they have no wish to part;
+    Each other mortal work is an offence.
+    No other theme will now my soul content
+    Than she who plants my death, with whose blest name
+    I make the air resound in echoes sweet:
+    Love spurs me to her as his only bent,
+    My hand can trace nought other but her fame,
+    No other spot attracts my willing feet.
+
+    WOLLASTON.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXVIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXIX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXXI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXXII.
+
+_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,
+    With mad rage gnash their teeth and talons whet,
+    And vengeance of past loss on us pursue:
+    While this new grief disheartens and appalls,
+    Replace not in its sheath your honour'd sword,
+    But, boldly following where your fortune calls,
+    E'en to its goal be glory's path explored,
+    Which fame and honour to the world may give
+    That e'en for centuries after death will live.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+[Footnote Q: _Orsa_. A play on the word _Orsim_.]
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXXIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE XI.[R]
+
+_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.]
+
+
+
+
+MADRIGALE III.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXXIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXXV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXXVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXXVII.
+
+_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 on the ground
+    I knew for hers, who--be my judgment sound--
+    Deserves in bliss immortal to abide.
+    I whisper'd to my heart, Nay, wherefore fear?
+    But scarcely did the thought arise within
+    Than the bright rays in which I burn were here.
+    As thunders with the lightning-flash begin,
+    So was I struck at once both blind and mute,
+    By her dear dazzling eyes and sweet salute.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXXVIII.
+
+_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.]
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXXIX.
+
+_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;
+    Here turn'd to look on me, and lingering stood;
+    There first her beauteous eyes my spirit stole:
+    And here she smiled, and there her accents rang,
+    Her speaking face here told another mood.
+    Thus Love, our sovereign, holds me in control.
+
+    WOLLASTON.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XC.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XCI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XCII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XCIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XCIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XCV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE XII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+MADRIGALE IV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XCVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XCVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XCVIII.
+
+_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_.)
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XCIX.
+
+_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: my weak mind at last
+    Is chafed and pines, so many ills and vast
+    Expose its peace to constant strifes unkind.
+    Nor hope I better days shall turn again;
+    But what is left from bad to worse may pass:
+    For ah! already life is on the wane.
+    Not now of adamant, but frail as glass,
+    I see my best hopes fall from me or fade,
+    And low in dust my fond thoughts broken laid.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE XIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE XIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE XV.
+
+_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.]
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE XVI.
+
+_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,
+    Must prove the dubious step, the still unknown,
+    Yet ever beaten way.
+    And through this fatal vale
+    Would you be wafted with some gentle gale?
+    Put off that eager strife and fierce disdain,
+    Clouds that involve our life's serene,
+    And storms that ruffle all the scene;
+    Your precious hours, misspent in others' pain,
+    On nobler deeds, worthy yourselves, bestow;
+    Whether with hand or wit you raise
+    Some monument of peaceful praise,
+    Some happy labour of fair love:
+    'Tis all of heaven that you can find below,
+    And opens into all above.
+
+    BASIL KENNET.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE XVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET C.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CIII.
+
+_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, and thy face a sun,
+    My passion's flame: and these doth Love employ
+    To wound my breast, to dazzle, and destroy.
+    Thy heavenly song, thy speech with which I'm won,
+    All thy sweet breathings of such strong controul,
+    Form the dear gale that bears away my soul.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE XVIII.
+
+_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 fire till now had pass'd,
+    Carelessly left at last
+    Near the cold fair for whom I ceaseless sigh,
+    Was kindled instantly:
+    Like martyrdom, ne'er known by day or night,
+    A heart of marble had to mercy shamed.
+    Which first her charms inflamed
+    Her fair and frozen virtue quenched the light;
+    That thus she crushed and kindled my heart's fire,
+    Well know I who have felt in long and useless ire.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CVIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CIX.
+
+_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 straight to ire.
+    And coward love then to the heart apace
+    Taketh his flight; whereas he lurks, and plains
+    His purpose lost, and dare not show his face.
+    For my lord's guilt thus faultless bide I pains.
+    Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove:
+    Sweet is his death, that takes his end by love.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SESTINA V.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXII.
+
+_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 with her compare!
+    But truth, impartial truth! much more might say.
+    I saw young Cupid, saw his laughing eyes
+    With such bewitching, am'rous sweetness roll,
+    That every human glance I since despise.
+    Believe, dear friend! I saw the wanton boy;
+    Bent was his bow to wound my tender soul;
+    Yet, ah! once more I'd view the dang'rous joy.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXV.
+
+_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,
+    And seeth Love, to punish its misdeeds,
+    Lighten her piercing eyes with worse disdain.
+    Wherefore--as one who fears the impending blow
+    Of angry Jove--it back in haste retires,
+    For great fears ever master great desires;
+    But the cold fire and shrinking hopes which so
+    Lodge in my heart, transparent as a glass,
+    O'er her sweet face at times make gleams of grace to pass.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+BALLATA VI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXVIII.
+
+_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 sight, as does that eye
+    Within whose bright black orb Love's Deity
+    Sharpens each dart, and tips with gold its head.
+    Enthroned in radiance there he sits, not blind,
+    Quiver'd, and naked, or by shame just veil'd,
+    A live, not fabled boy, with changeful wing;
+    Thence unto me he lends instruction kind,
+    And arts of verse from meaner bards conceal'd,
+    Thus am I taught whate'er of love I write or sing.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXIX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXXI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXXII.
+
+_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 me to the brim,
+    Thrilling my very marrow and my bones.
+    Love show'd to me, nay, sculptured on my heart,
+    That sweet and sparkling tear, and those soft words
+    Wrote with a diamond on its inmost core,
+    Where with his constant and ingenious keys
+    He still returneth often, to draw thence
+    True tears of mine and long and heavy sighs.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXXIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXXIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXXV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXXVI.
+
+_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,
+    Upon the breeze such golden tresses threw?
+    When did such virtues one sole breast imbue?
+    Though with my death her chief perfection's fraught.
+    For heavenly beauty he in vain inquires,
+    Who ne'er beheld her eyes' celestial stain,
+    Where'er she turns around their brilliant fires:
+    He knows not how Love wounds, and heals again,
+    Who knows not how she sweetly smiles, respires
+    The sweetest sighs, and speaks in sweetest strain!
+
+    ANON.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXXVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXXVIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXXIX.
+
+_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 towers!
+    O pleasant country! O translucent stream,
+    Bathing her lovely face, her eyes so clear,
+    And catching of their living light the beam!
+    I envy ye her actions chaste and dear:
+    No rock shall stud thy waters, but shall learn
+    Henceforth with passion strong as mine to burn.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXXX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXXXI.
+
+_Or che 'l ciel e la terra e 'l vento tace._
+
+NIGHT BRINGS PEACE TO ALL SAVE HIM.
+
+
+      O'er earth and sky her lone watch silence keeps,
+    And bird and beast in stirless slumber lie,
+    Her starry chariot Night conducts on high,
+    And in its bed the waveless ocean sleeps.
+    I wake, muse, burn, and weep; of all my pain
+    The one sweet cause appears before me still;
+    War is my lot, which grief and anger fill,
+    And thinking but of her some rest I gain.
+    Thus from one bright and living fountain flows
+    The bitter and the sweet on which I feed;
+    One hand alone can harm me or can heal:
+    And thus my martyrdom no limit knows,
+    A thousand deaths and lives each day I feel,
+    So distant are the paths to peace which lead.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+      'Tis now the hour when midnight silence reigns
+    O'er earth and sea, and whispering Zephyr dies
+    Within his rocky cell; and Morpheus chains
+    Each beast that roams the wood, and bird that wings the skies.
+    More blest those rangers of the earth and air,
+    Whom night awhile relieves from toil and pain;
+    Condemn'd to tears and sighs, and wasting care.
+    To me the circling sun descends in vain!
+    Ah me! that mingling miseries and joys,
+    Too near allied, from one sad fountain flow!
+    The magic hand that comforts and annoys
+    Can hope, and fell despair, and life, and death bestow!
+    Too great the bliss to find in death relief:
+    Fate has not yet fill'd up the measure of my grief.
+
+    WOODHOUSELEE.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXXXII.
+
+_Come 'l candido 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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXXXIII.
+
+_S' io fossi stato fermo alla spelunca._
+
+TO ONE WHO DESIRED LATIN VERSE OF HIM.
+
+
+      Still had I sojourn'd in that Delphic cave
+    Where young Apollo prophet first became,
+    Verona, Mantua were not sole in fame,
+    But Florence, too, her poet now might have:
+    But since the waters of that spring no more
+    Enrich my land, needs must that I pursue
+    Some other planet, and, with sickle new,
+    Reap from my field of sticks and thorns its store.
+    Dried is the olive: elsewhere turn'd the stream
+    Whose source from famed Parnassus was derived.
+    Whereby of yore it throve in best esteem.
+    Me fortune thus, or fault perchance, deprived
+    Of all good fruit--unless eternal Jove
+    Shower on my head some favour from above.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXXXIV.
+
+_Quando Amor i begli occhi a terra inchina._
+
+LAURA SINGS.
+
+
+      If Love her beauteous eyes to earth incline,
+    And all her soul concentring in a sigh,
+    Then breathe it in her voice of melody,
+    Floating clear, soft, angelical, divine;
+    My heart, forth-stolen so gently, I resign,
+    And, all my hopes and wishes changed, I cry,--
+    "Oh, may my last breath pass thus blissfully,
+    If Heaven so sweet a death for me design!"
+    But the rapt sense, by such enchantment bound,
+    And the strong will, thus listening to possess
+    Heaven's joys on earth, my spirit's flight delay.
+    And thus I live; and thus drawn out and wound
+    Is my life's thread, in dreamy blessedness,
+    By this sole syren from the realms of day.
+
+    DACRE.
+
+
+      Her bright and love-lit eyes on earth she bends--
+    Concentres her rich breath in one full sigh--
+    A brief pause--a fond hush--her voice on high,
+    Clear, soft, angelical, divine, ascends.
+    Such rapine sweet through all my heart extends,
+    New thoughts and wishes so within me vie,
+    Perforce I say,--"Thus be it mine to die,
+    If Heaven to me so fair a doom intends!"
+    But, ah! those sounds whose sweetness laps my sense,
+    The strong desire of more that in me yearns,
+    Restrain my spirit in its parting hence.
+    Thus at her will I live; thus winds and turns
+    The yarn of life which to my lot is given,
+    Earth's single siren, sent to us from heaven.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXXXV.
+
+_Amor mi manda quel dolce pensero._
+
+LIFE WILL FAIL HIM BEFORE HOPE.
+
+
+      Love to my mind recalling that sweet thought,
+    The ancient confidant our lives between,
+    Well comforts me, and says I ne'er have been
+    So near as now to what I hoped and sought.
+    I, who at times with dangerous falsehood fraught,
+    At times with partial truth, his words have seen,
+    Live in suspense, still missing the just mean,
+    'Twixt yea and nay a constant battle fought.
+    Meanwhile the years pass on: and I behold
+    In my true glass the adverse time draw near
+    Her promise and my hope which limits here.
+    So let it be: alone I grow not old;
+    Changes not e'en with age my loving troth;
+    My fear is this--the short life left us both.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXXXVI.
+
+_Pien d' un vago pensier, che me desvia._
+
+HIS TONGUE IS TIED BY EXCESS OF PASSION.
+
+
+      Such vain thought as wonted to mislead me
+    In desert hope, by well-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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXXXVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXXXVIII.
+
+_Giunto m' ha Amor fra belle e crude braccia._
+
+HE CANNOT END HER CRUELTY, NOR SHE HIS HOPE.
+
+
+      Me Love has left in fair cold arms to lie,
+    Which kill me wrongfully: if I complain,
+    My martyrdom is doubled, worse my pain:
+    Better in silence love, and loving die!
+    For she the frozen Rhine with burning eye
+    Can melt at will, the hard rock break in twain,
+    So equal to her beauty her disdain
+    That others' pleasure wakes her angry sigh.
+    A breathing moving marble all the rest,
+    Of very adamant is made her heart,
+    So hard, to move it baffles all my art.
+    Despite her lowering brow and haughty breast,
+    One thing she cannot, my fond heart deter
+    From tender hopes and passionate sighs for her.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXXXIX.
+
+_O Invidia, nemica di virtute._
+
+ENVY MAY DISTURB, BUT CANNOT DESTROY HIS HOPE.
+
+
+      O deadly Envy, virtue's constant foe,
+    With good and lovely eager to contest!
+    Stealthily, by what way, in that fair breast
+    Hast entrance found? by what arts changed it so?
+    Thence by the roots my weal hast thou uptorn,
+    Too blest in love hast shown me to that fair
+    Who welcomed once my chaste and humble prayer,
+    But seems to treat me now with hate and scorn.
+    But though you may by acts severe and ill
+    Sigh at my good and smile at my distress,
+    You cannot change for me a single thought.
+    Not though a thousand times each day she kill
+    Can I or hope in her or love her less.
+    For though she scare, Love confidence has taught.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXL.
+
+_Mirando 'l sol de' begli occhi sereno._
+
+THE SWEETS AND BITTERS OF LOVE.
+
+
+      Marking of those bright eyes the sun serene
+    Where reigneth Love, who mine obscures and grieves,
+    My hopeless heart the weary spirit leaves
+    Once more to gain its paradise terrene;
+    Then, finding full of bitter-sweet the scene,
+    And in the world how vast the web it weaves.
+    A secret sigh for baffled love it heaves,
+    Whose spurs so sharp, whose curb so hard have been.
+    By these two contrary and mix'd extremes,
+    With frozen or with fiery wishes fraught,
+    To stand 'tween misery and bliss she seems:
+    Seldom in glad and oft in gloomy thought,
+    But mostly contrite for its bold emprize,
+    For of like seed like fruit must ever rise!
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXLI.
+
+_Fera stella (se 'l cielo ha forza in noi)._
+
+TO PINE FOR HER IS BETTER THAN TO ENJOY HAPPINESS WITH ANY OTHER.
+
+
+      Ill-omen'd was that star's malignant gleam
+    That ruled my hapless birth; and dim the morn
+    That darted on my infant eyes the beam;
+    And harsh the wail, that told a man was born;
+    And hard the sterile earth, which first was worn
+    Beneath my infant feet; but harder far,
+    And harsher still, the tyrant maid, whose scorn,
+    In league with savage Love, inflamed the war
+    Of all my passions.--Love himself more tame,
+    With pity soothes my ills; while that cold heart,
+    Insensible to the devouring flame
+    Which wastes my vitals, triumphs in my smart.
+    One thought is comfort--that her scorn to bear,
+    Excels e'er prosperous love, with other earthly fair.
+
+    WOODHOUSELEE.
+
+
+      An evil star usher'd my natal morn
+    (If heaven have o'er us power, as some have said),
+    Hard was the cradle where I lay when born,
+    And hard the earth where first my young feet play'd;
+    Cruel the lady who, with eyes of scorn
+    And fatal bow, whose mark I still was made,
+    Dealt me the wound, O Love, which since I mourn
+    Whose cure thou only, with those arms, canst aid.
+    But, ah! to thee my torments pleasure bring:
+    She, too, severer would have wished the blow,
+    A spear-head thrust, and not an arrow-sting.
+    One comfort rests--better to suffer so
+    For her, than others to enjoy: and I,
+    Sworn on thy golden dart, on this for death rely.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXLII.
+
+_Quando mi vene innanzi il tempo e 'l loco._
+
+RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY LOVE.
+
+
+      The time and scene where I a slave became
+    When I remember, and the knot so dear
+    Which Love's own hand so firmly fasten'd here,
+    Which made my bitter sweet, my grief a game;
+    My heart, with fuel stored, is, as a flame
+    Of those soft sighs familiar to mine ear,
+    So lit within, its very sufferings cheer;
+    On these I live, and other aid disclaim.
+    That sun, alone which beameth for my sight,
+    With his strong rays my ruin'd bosom burns
+    Now in the eve of life as in its prime,
+    And from afar so gives me warmth and light,
+    Fresh and entire, at every hour, returns
+    On memory the knot, the scene, the time.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXLIII.
+
+_Per mezzo i boschi inospiti e selvaggi._
+
+EVER THINKING ON HER, HE PASSES FEARLESS AND SAFE THROUGH THE FOREST OF
+ARDENNES.
+
+
+      Through woods inhospitable, wild, I rove,
+    Where 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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXLIV
+
+_Mille piagge in un giorno e mille rivi._
+
+TO BE NEAR HER RECOMPENSES HIM FOR ALL THE PERILS OF THE WAY.
+
+
+      Love, who his votary wings in heart and feet,
+    To the third heaven that lightly he may soar,
+    In one short day has many a stream and shore
+    Given to me, in famed Ardennes, to meet.
+    Unarm'd and single to have pass'd is sweet
+    Where war in earnest strikes, nor tells before--
+    A helmless, sail-less ship 'mid ocean's roar--
+    My breast with dark and fearful thoughts replete;
+    But reach'd my dangerous journey's far extreme,
+    Remembering whence I came, and with whose wings,
+    From too great courage conscious terror springs.
+    But this fair country and beloved stream
+    With smiling welcome reassures my heart,
+    Where dwells its sole light ready to depart.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXLV.
+
+_Amor mi sprona in un tempo ed affrena._
+
+HE HEARS THE VOICE OF REASON, BUT CANNOT OBEY.
+
+
+      Love in one instant spurs me and restrains,
+    Assures and frightens, freezes me and burns,
+    Smiles now and scowls, now summons me and spurns,
+    In hope now holds me, plunges now in pains:
+    Now high, now low, my weary heart he hurls,
+    Until fond passion loses quite the path,
+    And highest pleasure seems to stir but wrath--
+    My harass'd mind on such strange errors feeds!
+    A friendly thought there points the proper track,
+    Not of such grief as from the full eye breaks,
+    To go where soon it hopes to be at ease,
+    But, as if greater power thence turn'd it back,
+    Despite itself, another way it takes,
+    And to its own slow death and mine agrees.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXLVI.
+
+_Geri, quando talor meco s' adira._
+
+HE APPEASES HER BY HUMILITY, AND EXHORTS A FRIEND TO DO LIKEWISE.
+
+
+      When my sweet foe, so haughty oft and high,
+    Moved my brief ire no more my sight can thole,
+    One comfort is vouchsafed me lest I die,
+    Through whose sole strength survives my harass'd soul;
+    Where'er her eyes--all light which would deny
+    To my sad life--in scorn or anger roll,
+    Mine with such true humility reply,
+    Soon their meek glances all her rage control,
+    Were it not so, methinks I less could brook
+    To gaze on hers than on Medusa's mien,
+    Which turn'd to marble all who met her look.
+    My friend, act thus with thine, for closed I ween
+    All other aid, and nothing flight avails
+    Against the wings on which our master sails.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXLVII.
+
+_Po, ben puo' tu portartene la scorza._
+
+TO THE RIVER PO, ON QUITTING LAURA.
+
+
+      Thou Po to distant realms this frame mayst bear,
+    On thy all-powerful, thy impetuous tide;
+    But the free spirit that within doth bide
+    Nor for thy might, nor any might doth care:
+    Not varying here its course, nor shifting there,
+    Upon the favouring gale it joys to glide;
+    Plying its wings toward the laurel's pride,
+    In spite of sails or oars, of sea or air.
+    Monarch of floods, magnificent and strong,
+    That meet'st the sun as he leads on the day,
+    But in the west dost quit a fairer light;
+    Thy 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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXLVIII.
+
+_Amor fra l' orbe una leggiadra rete._
+
+HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A BIRD CAUGHT IN A NET.
+
+
+      Love 'mid the grass beneath a laurel green--
+    The plant divine which long my flame has fed,
+    Whose shade for me less bright than sad is seen--
+    A cunning net of gold and pearls had spread:
+    Its bait the seed he sows and reaps, I ween
+    Bitter and sweet, which I desire, yet dread:
+    Gentle and soft his call, as ne'er has been
+    Since first on Adam's eyes the day was shed:
+    And the bright light which disenthrones the sun
+    Was flashing round, and in her hand, more fair
+    Than snow or ivory, was the master rope.
+    So fell I in the snare; their slave so won
+    Her speech angelical and winning air,
+    Pleasure, and fond desire, and sanguine hope.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXLIX.
+
+_Amor che 'ncende 'l cor d' ardente zelo._
+
+LOVE AND JEALOUSY.
+
+
+      'Tis Love's caprice to freeze the bosom now
+    With bolts of ice, with shafts of flame now burn;
+    And which his lighter pang, I scarce discern--
+    Or hope or fear, or whelming fire or snow.
+    In heat I shiver, and in cold I glow,
+    Now thrill'd with love, with jealousy now torn:
+    As if her thin robe by a rival worn,
+    Or veil, had screen'd him from my vengeful blow
+    But more 'tis mine to burn by night, by day;
+    And how I love the death by which I die,
+    Nor thought can grasp, nor tongue of bard can sing:
+    Not so my freezing fire--impartially
+    She shines to all; and who would speed his way
+    To that high beam, in vain expands his fluttering wing.
+
+    WRANGHAM.
+
+
+      Love with hot zeal now burns the heart within,
+    Now holds it fetter'd with a frozen fear,
+    Leaving it doubtful to our judgment here
+    If hope or dread, if flame or frost, shall win.
+    In June I shiver, burn December in,
+    Full of desires, from jealousy ne'er clear;
+    E'en as a lady who her loving fee
+    Hides 'neath a little veil of texture thin.
+    Of the two ills the first is all mine own,
+    By day, by night to burn; how sweet that pain
+    Dwells not in thought, nor ever poet sings:
+    Not so the other, my fair flame, is shown,
+    She levels all: who hopes the crest to gain
+    Of that proud light expands in vain his wings.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CL.
+
+_Se 'l dolce sguardo di costei m' ancide._
+
+HE IS CONTINUALLY IN FEAR OF DISPLEASING HER.
+
+
+      If thus the dear glance of my lady slay,
+    On her sweet sprightly speech if dangers wait,
+    If o'er me Love usurp a power so great,
+    Oft as she speaks, or when her sun-smiles play;
+    Alas! what were it if she put away,
+    Or for my fault, or by my luckless fate,
+    Her eyes from pity, and to death's full hate,
+    Which now she keeps aloof, should then betray.
+    Thus if at heart with terror I am cold,
+    When o'er her fair face doubtful shadows spring,
+    The feeling has its source in sufferings old.
+    Woman by nature is a fickle thing,
+    And female hearts--time makes the proverb sure--
+    Can never long one state of love endure.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+      If the soft glance, the speech, both kind and wise,
+    Of that beloved one can wound me so,
+    And if, whene'er she lets her accents flow,
+    Or even smiles, Love gains such victories;
+    Alas! what should I do, were those dear eyes,
+    Which now secure my life through weal and woe,
+    From fault of mine, or evil fortune, slow
+    To shed on me their light in pity's guise?
+    And if my trembling spirit groweth cold
+    Whene'er I see change to her aspect spring,
+    This fear is only born of trials old;
+    (Woman by nature is a fickle thing,)
+    And hence I know her heart hath power to hold
+    But a brief space Love's sweet imagining!
+
+    WROTTESLEY.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLI.
+
+_Amor, Natura, e la bell' alma umile._
+
+DURING A SERIOUS ILLNESS OF LAURA.
+
+
+      Love, Nature, Laura's gentle self combines,
+    She where each lofty virtue dwells and reigns,
+    Against my peace: To pierce with mortal pains
+    Love toils--such ever are his stern designs.
+    Nature by bonds so slight to earth confines
+    Her slender form, a breath may break its chains;
+    And she, so much her heart the world disdains,
+    Longer to tread life's wearying round repines.
+    Hence still in her sweet frame we view decay
+    All that to earth can joy and radiance lend,
+    Or serve as mirror to this laggard age;
+    And Death's dread purpose should not Pity stay,
+    Too well I see where all those hopes must end,
+    With which I fondly soothed my lingering pilgrimage.
+
+    WRANGHAM.
+
+
+      Love, Nature, and that gentle soul as bright,
+    Where every lofty virtue dwells and reigns,
+    Are sworn against my peace. As wont, Love strains
+    His every power that I may perish quite.
+    Nature her delicate form by bonds so slight
+    Holds in existence, that no help sustains;
+    She is so modest that she now disdains
+    Longer to brook this vile life's painful fight.
+    Thus fades and fails the spirit day by day,
+    Which on those dear and lovely limbs should wait,
+    Our mirror of true grace which wont to give:
+    And soon, if Mercy turn not Death away,
+    Alas! too well I see in what sad state
+    Are those vain hopes wherein I loved to live.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLVI.
+
+_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 and the tomb;
+    A moist eternal wind the sails consume,
+    Of sighs, of hopes, and of desire besides.
+    A shower of tears, a fog of chill disdain
+    Bathes and relaxes the o'er-wearied cords,
+    With error and with ignorance entwined;
+    My two loved lights their wonted aid restrain;
+    Reason or Art, storm-quell'd, no help affords,
+    Nor hope remains the wish'd-for port to find.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLVIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLIX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXI.
+
+_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 beams again,
+    Which then so dazzle me that flight is vain:
+    I ask for my escape not arms, but wings:
+    Heaven by this light condemns me sure to die,
+    Which from afar consumes, and burns when nigh.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXVIII.
+
+_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 aching breast.
+    With slighted love and self-shame boiling o'er;
+    That on my precious prize in time of need
+    I kept not hold, nor made a firmer stand
+    'Gainst what at best was merely angel force,
+    That my feet were not wings their flight to speed,
+    And so at last take vengeance on the hand,
+    Make my poor eyes of tears the too oft source.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXIX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXXI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXXII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE XIX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE XX.
+
+_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.]
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXXIII.
+
+_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.]
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXXIV.
+
+_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 by hunter's dart,
+    Whose poison'd iron rankles in his breast,
+    Flies and more grieves the more the chase is press'd,
+    So I, with Love's keen arrow in my heart,
+    Endure at once my death and my delight,
+    Rack'd with long grief, and weary with vain flight.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXXV.
+
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXXVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXXVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXXVIII.
+
+_Grazie ch' a pochi 'l ciel largo destina._
+
+THE ENCHANTMENTS THAT ENTHRALL HIM
+
+
+      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 and rare;
+    A voice whose music sinks into the mind;
+    An angel gait; wit glowing and refined,
+    The hard to break, the high and haughty tear,
+    And brilliant eyes which turn the heart to stone,
+    Strong to enlighten hell and night, and take
+    Souls from our bodies and their own to make;
+    A speech where genius high yet gentle shone,
+    Evermore broken by the balmiest sighs
+    --Such magic spells transform'd me in this wise.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXXIX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXXX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXXXI.
+
+_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,
+    Broke at the first breath of mine ardent word
+    Or low'ring still she others' blame incurr'd
+    Her bright and killing eyes who thus withdrew
+    No ruth for self I crave, for her no hate;
+    I wish not this--_that_ passes power of mine:
+    Such was mine evil star and cruel fate.
+    But I shall ever sing her charms divine,
+    That, when I have resign'd this mortal breath,
+    The world may know how sweet to me was death.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXXXII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXXXIII.
+
+_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,
+    And its succeeding sun, with one more bright,
+    Still dazzling, as in early youth, my sight:
+    Both suns I've seen at once uplift their ray;
+    This drives the radiance of the stars away,
+    But that which gilds my life eclipses e'en his light.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXXXIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXXXV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXXXVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXXXVII.
+
+_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 I urge in vain
+    To heedless beings all those pangs I bear;
+    Of the false world, of an unpitying fair,
+    Of Love, and fickle fortune I complain!
+    From eve's last glance, till morning's earliest ray,
+    Sleep shuns my couch; rest quits my tearful eye;
+    And my rack'd breast heaves many a plaintive sigh.
+    Then bright Aurora cheers the rising day,
+    But cheers not me--for to my sorrowing heart
+    One sun alone can cheering light impart!
+
+    ANON. 1777.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXXVIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CLXXXIX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXC
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXCI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXCII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXCIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXCIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXCV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXCVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXCVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXCVIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CXCIX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CC.
+
+_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,
+    Her fair calm face that I might ne'er disturb:
+    I can no more; falls from my hand the curb,
+    And my despairing soul is bold again;
+    Wherefore if higher than her wont she aim,
+    The act is thine, who firest and spur'st her so,
+    No way too rough or steep for her to go:
+    But the rare heavenly gifts are most to blame
+    Shrined in herself: let her at least feel this,
+    Lest of my faults her pardon I should miss.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SESTINA VII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SESTINA VIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCVI.
+
+_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 worthless prove
+    Offer'd by thee--herein Love leads to err
+    Who often makes the sound eye to see wrong--
+    My counsel this, instant on Heaven above
+    Thy soul to elevate, thy heart to spur,
+    For though the time be short, the way is long.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCVIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCIX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCXI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCXII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCXIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCXIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCXV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCXVI.
+
+_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:
+    What if her God have call'd her hence, to dwell
+    Where virtue finds a more congenial state?
+    If so, she will illuminate that sphere
+    Even as a sun: but I--'tis done with me!
+    I then am nothing, have no business here!
+    O cruel absence! why not let me see
+    The worst? my little tale is told, I fear,
+    My scene is closed ere it accomplish'd be.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCXVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCXVIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCXIX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCXX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCXXI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCXXII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCXXIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCXXIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCXXV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE XXI.
+
+_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,
+    Freed from its mortal coil, to bliss on high;
+    But nothing, to this hour, prayer, tear, or sigh,
+    Whatever man could do, my hopes sustain:
+    And so indeed in justice should it be;
+    Able to stay, who went and fell, that he
+    Should prostrate, in his own despite, remain.
+    But, lo! the tender arms
+    In which I trust are open to me still,
+    Though fears my bosom fill
+    Of others' fate, and my own heart alarms,
+    Which worldly feelings spur, haply, to utmost ill.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCXXVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET CCXXVII.
+
+_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.]
+
+
+
+
+TO LAURA IN DEATH.
+
+
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE I.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET II.
+
+_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:
+    My step exulting, and my joy avow'd,
+    Death now hath quench'd with ye, my heart's twin store;
+    Nor earth's high rule, nor gems, nor gold's bright ore,
+    Can e'er bring back what once my heart endow'd
+    But if this grief my destiny hath will'd,
+    What else can I oppose but tearful eyes,
+    A sorrowing bosom, and a spirit quell'd?
+    O life! whose vista seems so brightly fill'd,
+    A sunny breath, and that exhaling, dies
+    The hope, oft, many watchful years have swell'd.
+
+    WOLLASTON.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE II.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET III.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET IV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET V.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET VI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET VII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET VIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET IX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET X.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XI.
+
+_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 thy days, inglorious, hide?
+    Ah! dost thou murmur, that my span of time
+    Has join'd eternity's unchanging tide?
+    Yes, though I seem'd to shut mine eyes in night,
+    They only closed to wake in everlasting light!"
+
+    ANNE BANNERMAN.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XV.
+
+_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,
+    Nor sight nor sound from weariness can screen:
+    Yet doth my lady, by compassion led,
+    Return to solace my unfailing woe;
+    Earth yields no other balm:--oh! could I tell
+    How bright she seems, and how her accents flow,
+    Not unto man alone Love's flames would spread,
+    But even bears and tigers share the spell.
+
+    WROTTESLEY.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XVIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XIX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXII.
+
+_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 met its seal,
+    Had she but hearken'd to my love's appeal,
+    Who, throned in heaven, hath fled this world's alloy.
+    My blinded love, and yet more stubborn mind,
+    Resistless urged me to my bosom's shame,
+    And where my soul's destruction I had met:
+    But blessed she who bade life's current find
+    A holier course, who still'd my spirit's flame
+    With gentle hope that soul might triumph yet.
+
+    WOLLASTON.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXV.
+
+_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 soft and clear.
+    And certes, my sole study and desire
+    Was but--I knew not how--in those long years
+    To unburthen my sad heart, not fame acquire.
+    I wept, but wish'd no honour in my tears.
+    Fain would I now taste joy; but that high fair,
+    Silent and weary, calls me to her there.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXVIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXIX.
+
+_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,
+    Whence stings of love once issued far and wide.
+    That winning air, that rare discourse and meek,
+    Surely from heaven inspired, that gentle glance
+    Which wounded my poor heart, and wins it still,
+    Are gone; if I am slow her road to seek,
+    I hope her fair and graceful name perchance
+    To consecrate with this worn weary quill.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXXI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXXII.
+
+_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 to its place,
+    Amidst those joys, which few can hope to share;
+    What envy of the blest in heaven above,
+    With whom she dwells in sympathies divine
+    Denied to me on earth, though sought in sighs;
+    And oh! what envy of stern Death I prove,
+    That with her life has ta'en the light of mine,
+    Yet calls me not,--though fixed and cold those eyes.
+
+    WROTTESLEY.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXXIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXXIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXXV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXXVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXXVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXXVIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XXXIX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XL.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XLI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XLII.
+
+_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:
+    But nought, alas! for me the season brings,
+    Save heavier sighs, from my sad bosom drawn
+    By her who can from heaven unlock its springs;
+    And warbling birds and flower-bespangled lawn,
+    And fairest acts of ladies fair and mild,
+    A desert seem, and its brute tenants wild.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XLIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XLIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XLV.
+
+_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 my heart it smote
+    ('Twas then my own) which straight, divided, sought
+    Her, who had wrapp'd it in her robe of clay.
+    Part shares her tomb, part to her heaven is sped;
+    Where now, with laurel wreathed, in triumph's car
+    She reaps the meed of matchless holiness:
+    So might I, of this flesh discumbered,
+    Which holds me prisoner here, from sorrow far
+    With her expatiate free 'midst realms of endless bliss!
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XLVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XLVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XLVIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XLIX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET L.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LI.
+
+_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 and sorrow bred,
+    Who hope in thee, are blind as I have been;
+    I hoped in thee, and thus my heart's loved queen
+    Hath borne it mid her nerveless, kindred dead.
+    Her form decay'd--its beauty still survives,
+    For in high heaven that soul will ever bloom,
+    With which each day I more enamour'd grow:
+    Thus though my locks are blanch'd, my hope revives
+    In thinking on her home--her soul's high doom:
+    Alas! how changed the shrine she left below!
+
+    WOLLASTON.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE III.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+BALLATA I.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE IV.
+
+_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 high humility whose chosen shrine
+    Was that fair prison whence she now is free?
+    Which held, erewhile, her gentle spirit, when
+    So in my conscious heart her power began.
+    That, instantly, I ran,
+    --Alike o' th' year and me 'twas April then--
+    From these gay meadows round sweet flowers to bind,
+    Hoping rich pleasure at her eyes to find.
+
+    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;
+    The air and earth rejoiced; the waves had rest
+    By lake and river, and o'er ocean green:
+    'Mid the enchanting scene
+    One distant cloud alone my thought distress'd,
+    Lest sometime it might be of tears the source
+    Unless kind Heaven should elsewhere turn its course.
+
+    "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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LV.
+
+_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,
+    And, glorying in its brightness, brighter glows,
+    While memory still records the great and good.
+    O thou, in thine high triumph, angel blest!
+    Let thy heart yield to pity of my woes,
+    E'en as thy beauty here my soul subdued.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LVIII.
+
+_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,
+    To quench for ever my life's genial light,
+    And in her sad sweet face 'twas written so.
+    Surely a veil was placed around mine eyes,
+    That blinded me to all before my sight,
+    And sank at once my life in deepest woe.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LIX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE V.
+
+_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 grief, for I
+    To see my future fate was ill supplied;
+    This Love reveal'd within her beauteous eye
+    Elsewhere my hopes to guide:
+    Too late he dies, disconsolate and sad,
+    Whom death a little earlier had made glad.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SESTINA I.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXI.
+
+_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.
+    She fear'd me once--now heavenly confidence
+    Reveals my heart's first hope's unchanging stay;
+    A word, a look, could this alone convey,
+    My heart she reads now, stripp'd of earth's defence.
+    And thus I hope, she for my heavy sighs
+    To heaven complains, to me she pity shows
+    By sympathetic visits in my dream:
+    And when this mortal temple breathless lies,
+    Oh! may she greet my soul, enclosed by those
+    Whom heaven and virtue love--our friends supreme.
+
+    WOLLASTON.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXIII.
+
+_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.
+    She now replies, and now doth mute appear,
+    Like one whose tottering mind regains its power;
+    I speak my heart: "Thou must this cheat resign;
+    The thirteen hundred, eight and fortieth year,
+    The sixth of April's suns, his first bright hour,
+    Thou know'st that soul celestial fled its shrine!"
+
+    WOLLASTON.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXVIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXIX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXII.
+
+_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 loss to weep,
+    If that pure spirit, pitying my woe,
+    Had not appear'd to bless my troubled sleep,
+    Ere memory broke upon the world below?
+    What pure, what gentle greetings then were mine!
+    In what attention wrapt she paused to hear
+    My life's sad course, of which she bade me speak!
+    But as the dawn from forth the East did shine
+    Back to that heaven to which her way was clear,
+    She fled,--while falling tears bedew'd each cheek.
+
+    WROTTESLEY.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXIV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXV.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXVIII.
+
+_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;
+    All my old usual life is put away--
+    Could I but know how long I have to stay!
+    Grant, Heaven, the long-wish'd summons may be near!
+    Oh, blest the day when from this earthly gaol
+    I shall be freed, when burst and broken lies
+    This mortal guise, so heavy yet so frail,
+    When from this black night my saved spirit flies,
+    Soaring up, up, above the bright serene,
+    Where with my Lord my Lady shall be seen.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXIX.
+
+_L' aura mia sacra al mio stanco riposo._
+
+HE TELLS HER IN SLEEP OF HIS SUFFERINGS, AND, OVERCOME BY HER SYMPATHY,
+AWAKES.
+
+
+      On my oft-troubled sleep my sacred air
+    So softly breathes, at last I courage take,
+    To tell her of my past and present ache,
+    Which never in her life my heart did dare.
+    I first that glance so full of love declare
+    Which served my lifelong torment to awake,
+    Next, how, content and wretched for her sake,
+    Love day by day my tost heart knew to tear.
+    She speaks not, but, with pity's dewy trace,
+    Intently looks on me, and gently sighs,
+    While pure and 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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXXI.
+
+_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:
+    Then welcome, death! thy impress I would wear.
+    And linger not! 'tis time that I had fled;
+    Alas! my stay hath little here avail'd,
+    Since she, my Laura blest, resign'd her breath:
+    Life's spring in me hath since that hour lain dead,
+    In her I lived, my life in hers exhaled,
+    The hour she died I felt within me death!
+
+    WOLLASTON.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE VI.
+
+_Quando il suave mio fido conforto._
+
+SHE APPEARS TO HIM, AND, WITH MORE THAN WONTED AFFECTION, ENDEAVOURS TO
+CONSOLE HIM.
+
+
+      When she, the faithful soother of my pain,
+    This life's long weary pilgrimage to cheer,
+    Vouchsafes beside my nightly couch to appear,
+    With her sweet speech attempering reason's strain;
+    O'ercome by tenderness, and terror vain,
+    I cry, "Whence comest thou, O spirit blest?"
+    She from her beauteous breast
+    A branch of laurel and of palm displays,
+    And, answering, thus she says.
+    "From th' empyrean seat of holy love
+    Alone thy sorrows to console I move."
+
+    In actions, and in words, in humble guise
+    I speak my thanks, and ask, "How may it be
+    That thou shouldst know my wretched state?" and she
+    "Thy floods of tears perpetual, and thy sighs
+    Breathed forth unceasing, to high heaven arise.
+    And there disturb thy blissful state serene;
+    So grievous hath it been,
+    That freed from this poor being, I at last
+    To a better life have 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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE VII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXXII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXXIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXXIV.
+
+_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 who can mould
+    From 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 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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXXVI.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXXVII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXXVIII.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET LXXXIX.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET XC.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+CANZONE VIII.
+
+_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 still replies
+    To all who ask in faith,
+    Virgin! if ever yet
+    The misery of man and mortal things
+    To 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 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 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 implore
+    Let 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 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.]
+
+
+
+
+PETRARCH'S TRIUMPHS.
+
+
+
+
+THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE.
+
+PART I.
+
+_Nel tempo che rinova i miei sospiri._
+
+
+      It was the time when I do sadly pay
+    My sighs, in tribute to that sweet-sour day,
+    Which first gave being to my tedious woes;
+    The sun now o'er the Bull's horns proudly goes,
+    And Phaeton had renew'd his wonted race;
+    When Love, the season, and my own ill case,
+    Drew me that solitary place to find,
+    In which I oft unload my charged mind:
+    There, tired with raving thoughts and helpless moan,
+    Sleep seal'd my eyes up, and, my senses gone,
+    My waking fancy spied a shining light,
+    In which appear'd long pain, and short delight.
+    A mighty General I then did see,
+    Like one, who, for some glorious victory,
+    Should to the Capitol in triumph go:
+    I (who had not been used to such a show
+    In this soft age, where we no valour have,
+    But pride) admired his habit, strange and brave,
+    And having raised mine eyes, which wearied were,
+    To understand this sight was all my care.
+    Four snowy steeds a fiery chariot drew;
+    There sat the cruel boy; a threatening yew
+    His right hand bore, his quiver arrows held,
+    Against whose force no helm or shield prevail'd.
+    Two party-colour'd wings his shoulders ware;
+    All naked else; and round about his chair
+    Were thousand mortals: some in battle ta'en,
+    Many were hurt with darts, and many slain.
+    Glad to learn news, I rose, and forward press'd
+    So far, that I was one amongst the rest;
+    As if I had been kill'd with loving pain
+    Before my time; and looking through the train
+    Of this tear-thirsty king, I would have spied
+    Some of my old acquaintance, but descried
+    No face I knew: if any such there were,
+    They were transform'd with prison, death, and care.
+    At last one ghost, less sad than th' others, came,
+    Who, near approaching, call'd me by my name,
+    And said: "This comes of Love." "What may you be,"
+    I answer'd, wondering much, "that thus know me?
+    For I remember not t' have seen your face."
+    He thus replied: "It is the dusky place
+    That dulls thy sight, and this hard yoke I bear:
+    Else I a Tuscan am; thy friend, and dear
+    To thy remembrance." His wonted phrase
+    And voice did then discover what he was.
+    So we retired aside, and left the throng,
+    When thus he spake: "I have expected long
+    To see you here with us; your face did seem
+    To threaten you no less. I do esteem
+    Your prophesies; but I have seen what care
+    Attends a lover's life; 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 desire
+    To 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 chain
+    Thy 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 relate
+    What 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 be
+    A 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 styled
+    Or made a god by vain and foolish men:
+    And for a recompense, some meet their bane;
+    Others, a harder slavery must endure
+    Than many thousand chains and bolts procure.
+    That other gallant lord is conqueror
+    Of conquering Rome, led captive by the fair
+    Egyptian 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 love
+    May seem more just, but doth no better prove;
+    For though he did his loved Livia wed,
+    She was seduced from her husband's bed.
+    Nero is third, disdainful, wicked, fierce,
+    And yet a woman found a way to pierce
+    His angry soul. Behold, Marcus, the grave
+    Wise emperor, is fair Faustina's slave.
+    These two are tyrants: Dionysius,
+    And Alexander, both suspicious,
+    And yet both loved: the last a just reward
+    Found of his causeless fear. I know y' have heard
+    Of him, who for Creuesa on the rock
+    Antandrus mourn'd so long; whose warlike stroke
+    At once revenged his friend and won his love:
+    And of the youth whom Phaedra could not move
+    T' abuse his father's bed; he left the place,
+    And by his virtue lost his life (for base
+    Unworthy loves to rage do quickly change).
+    It kill'd her too; perhaps in just revenge
+    Of wrong'd Theseus, slain Hippolytus,
+    And poor forsaken Ariadne: thus
+    It often proves that they who falsely blame
+    Another, in one breath themselves condemn:
+    And who have guilty been of treachery,
+    Need not complain, if they deceived be.
+    Behold the brave hero a captive made
+    With 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 admire
+    His strength, Love bound him. Th' other full of ire
+    Is great Achilles, he whose pitied fate
+    Was caused by Love. Demophoon did not hate
+    Impatient Phyllis, yet procured her death.
+    This Jason is, he whom Medea hath
+    Obliged by mischief; she to her father proved
+    False, to her brother cruel; t' him she loved
+    Grew furious, by her merit over-prized.
+    Hypsipyle comes next, mournful, despised,
+    Wounded to see a stranger's love prevail
+    More than her own, a Greek. Here is the frail
+    Fair Helena, with her the shepherd boy,
+    Whose gazing looks hurt Greece, and ruin'd Troy.
+    'Mongst other weeping souls, you hear the moan
+    Oenone makes, her Paris being gone;
+    And Menelaus, for the woe he had
+    To lose his wife. Hermione is sad,
+    And calls her dear Orestes to her aid.
+    And Laodamia, that hapless maid,
+    Bewails Protesilaus. Argia proved
+    To Polynice more faithful than the loved
+    (But false and covetous) Amphiaraus' wife.
+    The groans and sighs of those who lose their life
+    By this kind lord, in unrelenting flames
+    You 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 art
+    With angry Mars; Proserpina apart
+    From Pluto, jealous Juno, yellow-hair'd
+    Apollo, who the young god's courage dared:
+    And of his trophies proud, laugh'd at the bow
+    Which in Thessalia gave him such a blow.
+    What shall I say?--here, in a word, are all
+    The gods that Varro mentions, great and small;
+    Each with innumerable bonds detain'd,
+    And Jupiter before the chariot chain'd."
+
+    ANNA HUME.
+
+
+PART II.
+
+_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: their attire
+    And foreign language quicken'd my desire
+    Of 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 by
+    Great Scipio, and her who from thine eye
+    Drew manly tears," said I; "let it not be
+    A trouble, what I must demand of thee."
+    He look'd, and said: "I first desire to know
+    Your name and quality; for well you show
+    Y' have heard the combat in my wounded soul,
+    When Love did Friendship, Friendship Love control."
+    "I am not worth your knowledge, my poor flame
+    Gives little light," said I: "your royal fame
+    Sets hearts on fire, that never see your face:
+    But, pray you, say; are you two led in peace
+    By him?"--(I show'd their guide)--"Your history
+    Deserves 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 relate
+    To thee; 't will somewhat ease my heavy state.
+    On that brave man my heart was fix'd so much,
+    That Laelius' love to him could be but such;
+    Where'er his colours marched, I was nigh,
+    And Fortune did attend with victory:
+    Yet still his merit call'd for more than she
+    Could give, or any else deserve but he.
+    When to the West the Roman eagles came
+    Myself 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 true
+    That 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 stroke
+    To 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 confess
+    And 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 hath
+    Another wonder; for the time is less
+    Than 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 remove
+    From 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 mourned, Italy
+    Needs not rejoice; search your records, and there
+    See what you gained by the Punic war."
+    He that was friend to both, without reply
+    A little smiling, vanish'd from mine eye
+    Amongst the crowd. As one in doubtful way
+    At every step looks round, and fears to stray
+    (Care stops his journey), so the varied store
+    Of lovers stay'd me, to examine more,
+    And try what kind of fire burnt every breast:
+    When on my left hand strayed from the rest
+    Was one, whose look express'd a ready mind
+    In 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 blushed at the change.
+    As they recounted their affections strange,
+    And for their Syria mourn'd; I took the way
+    Of these three ghosts, who seem'd their course to stay
+    And take another path: the first I held
+    And bid him turn; he started, and beheld
+    Me with a troubled look, hearing my tongue
+    Was Roman, such a pause he made as sprung
+    From some deep thought; then spake as if inspired,
+    For to my wish, he told what I desired
+    To know: "Seleucus is," said he, "my name,
+    This is Antiochus my son, whose fame
+    Hath reach'd your ear; he warred much with Rome,
+    But reason oft by power is overcome.
+    This woman, once my wife, doth now belong
+    To him; I gave her, and it was no wrong
+    In our religion; it stay'd his death,
+    Threaten'd by Love; Stratonica she hath
+    To 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 end
+    Than 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 agree
+    To 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 place
+    After the ghost was carried from mine eye,
+    Amazedly I walk'd; nor could untie
+    My mind from his sad story; till my friend
+    Admonish'd me, and said, "You must not lend
+    Attention thus to everything you meet;
+    You know the number's great, and time is fleet."
+    More naked prisoners this triumph had
+    Than Xerxes soldiers in his army led:
+    And stretched 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 way
+    How he was catched by Andromeda:
+    She was a lovely brownet, black her hair
+    And 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 AEsacus, in quest
+    Of his Hesperia, finds a rocky rest,
+    Then diveth in the floods, then mounts i' th' air;
+    And she who stole old Nisus' purple hair
+    His 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'd
+    That 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 'scape
+    The dire enchantress; he in Italy
+    Was once a king, now a pied bird; for she
+    Who 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 hand
+    A guilty knife, her right hand writ her name.
+    Pygmalion next, with his live mistress came.
+    Sweet Aganippe, and Castalia have
+    A thousand more; all there sung by the brave
+    And deathless poets, on their fair banks placed;
+    Cydippe by an apple fool'd at last.
+
+    ANNA HUME.
+
+
+PART III
+
+_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,
+    With her one maid, bearing the horrid head
+    In haste, and thanks God that so well she sped.
+    The next is Sichem, he who found his death
+    In circumcision; his father hath
+    Like mischief felt; the city all did prove
+    The same effect of his rash violent love.
+    You see Ahasuerus how well he bears
+    His 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 were
+    All good, the other three as wicked are--
+    Semiramis, Byblis, and Myrrha named,
+    Who of their crooked ways are now ashamed
+    Here be the erring knights in ancient scrolls,
+    Lancelot, Tristram, and the vulgar souls
+    That wait on these; Guenever, and the fair
+    Isond, with other lovers; and the pair
+    Who, as they walk together, seem to plain,
+    Their just, but cruel fate, by one hand slain."
+    Thus he discoursed: and as a man that fears
+    Approaching harm, when he a trumpet hears,
+    Starts at the blow ere touch'd, my frighted blood
+    Retired: 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 would
+    Defend me from a man at arms), nor could
+    Resist 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 go
+    Confer with whom you please, for now we are
+    All stained with one crime." My sullen care
+    Was like to theirs, who are more grieved to know
+    Another'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 sight
+    So fix'd on that fair face, no other light
+    I could behold; like one who in the rage
+    Of sickness greedily his thirst would 'suage
+    With 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 found
+    A solitary dwelling 'mongst the woods,
+    I stray o'er rocks and fountains, hills and floods:
+    Since when such store my scatter'd papers hold
+    Of thoughts, of tears, of ink; which oft I fold,
+    Unfold, and tear: since when I know the scope
+    Of 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 she
+    Cares 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 be
+    Revenged, as I expected once; for he,
+    Who tortures me and others, is abused
+    By 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 divine
+    So burn my heart, I dare no more repine.
+    Ah, who is able fully to express
+    Her pleasing ways, her merit? No excess,
+    No bold hyperboles I need to fear,
+    My humble style cannot enough come near
+    The truth; my words are like a little stream
+    Compared with th' ocean, so large a theme
+    Is 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 lot
+    I plainly see in this, yet must I not
+    Refuse 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 art
+    Poor lovers use to hide their stinging woe:
+    And how their blood now comes, and now doth go
+    Betwixt 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 are
+    To that they love: I know what tedious care
+    I feel; how vain my joy, how oft I change
+    Design and countenance; and (which is strange)
+    I live without a soul: I know the way
+    To cheat myself a thousand times a day:
+    I know to follow while I flee my fire
+    I freeze when present; absent, my desire
+    Is hot: I know what cruel rigour Love
+    Practiseth on the mind, and doth remove
+    All reason thence, and how he racks the heart:
+    And how a soul hath neither strength nor art
+    Without 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 vain
+    Be lovers' lives; what fear and boldness reign
+    In 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 IV.
+
+_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 most praise,
+    Great master in Love's art, his style, as new
+    As sweet, honours his country: next, a few
+    Whom Love did lightly wound: both Peters made
+    Two: one, the less Arnaldo: some have had
+    A harder war; both the Rimbaldos, th' one
+    Sung Beatrice, though her quality was known
+    Too much above his reach in Montferrat.
+    Alvernia's old Piero, and Girault:
+    Folchetto, who from Genoa was estranged
+    And call'd Marsilian, he wisely changed
+    His name, his state, his country, and did gain
+    In all: Jeffray made haste to catch his bane
+    With sails and oars: Guilliam, too, sweetly sung
+    That pleasing art, was cause he died so young.
+    Amarig, Bernard, Hugo, and Anselm
+    Were 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 know
+    The good Tomasso, who did once adorn
+    Bologna, 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 power
+    To 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;
+    Laelius and Socrates, with whom I may
+    A longer progress take: Oh, what a pair
+    Of dear esteemed friends to me they were!
+    'Tis not my verse, nor prose, may reach thieir praise;
+    Neither of these can naked virtue raise
+    Above her own true place: with them I have
+    Reach'd many heights; one yoke of learning gave
+    Laws to our steps, to them my fester'd wound
+    I oft have show'd; no time or place I found
+    To part from them; and hope, and wish we may
+    Be undivided till my breath decay:
+    With them I used (too early) to adorn
+    My head with th' honour'd branches, only worn
+    For 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 rage
+    Of 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 care
+    Nor could discern in what strange world they were.
+    Beyond the place, where old AEgeus mourns,
+    An island lies, Phoebus none sweeter burns,
+    Nor Neptune ever bathed a better shore:
+    About the midst a beauteous hill, with store
+    Of shades and pleasing smells, so fresh a spring
+    As drowns all manly thoughts: this place doth bring
+    Venus much joy; 't was given her deity,
+    Ere blind man knew a truer god than she:
+    Of which original it yet retains
+    Too 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 all
+    Tied 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 rung
+    Of 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 cheer
+    Enthrall low minds. Now th' equinox hath made
+    The day t' equal the night; and Progne had
+    With 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 hour
+    When humble tears should earthly joys devour,
+    It pleased him, whom th' vulgar honour so,
+    To triumph over me; and now I know
+    What 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 stair
+    Are 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, annoy
+    Are 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 desire
+    My soul made apt to hope), and did admire
+    Those gallant minds, enslaved to such a woe
+    (My heart within my breast dissolved like snow
+    Before the sun), as one would side-ways cast
+    His eye on pictures, which his feet hath pass'd.
+
+    ANNA HUME.
+
+
+
+
+THE SAME.
+
+
+PART I.
+
+
+      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 the ghostly show,
+    To find a shade among the sons of woe
+    To memory known: but every trace was lost
+    In the dim features of the moving host:
+    Oblivion's hand had drawn a dark disguise
+    O'er their wan lineaments and beamless eyes.
+    At length, a pallid face I seem'd to know;
+    Which wore, methought, a lighter mask of woe;
+    He call'd me by my name.--"Behold!" he cried,
+    "What plagues the hapless thralls of Love abide!"--
+    "How am I known by thee?" with new surprise
+    I cried; "no mark recalls thee to my eyes."--
+    "Oh, heavy is my load!" he seem'd to say;
+    "Through this dark medium no detecting ray
+    Assists thy sight; but I, like thee, can boast
+    My birth on famed Etruria's ancient coast."--
+    The secret which his murky mask conceal'd,
+    His well-known voice and Tuscan tongue reveal'd;
+    Thence to a lighter station we repair'd,
+    And thus the phantom spoke, with mild regard:--
+    "We thought to see thy name with ours enroll'd
+    Long since; for oft thy looks this fate foretold."--
+    "True," I replied; "but I survived the strife:
+    His arrows reach'd me, but were short of life."--
+    Pausing, he spoke:--"A spark to flame will rise,
+    And bear thy name in glory to the skies."--
+    His meaning was obscure, but in my breast
+    I felt the substance of his words impress'd,
+    As sculptured stone, or monumental brass,
+    Keeps the firm record, or heroic face.
+    With youthful ardour new, and hope inspired,
+    Quick from my grave companion I required
+    The name and fortunes of the passing train.
+    And why in mournful pomp they trod the plain--
+    "Time," he return'd, "the secret then will show,
+    When thou shalt join the retinue of woe:
+    But years shall sprinkle o'er thy locks with gray,
+    And alter'd looks the signs of age betray,
+    Ere at his powerful touch the fetters fall,
+    Which many a moon thy captive limbs shall gall:
+    Yet will I grant thy suit, and give to view
+    The various fortunes of the captive crew:
+    But mark their leader first, that chief renown'd--
+    The Power of Love! by every nation own'd.
+    His sway thou soon, as well as we, shalt know,
+    Stung to the heart by goads of dulcet woe.
+    In him unthinking youth's misgovern'd rage,
+    Join'd with the cool malignity of age,
+    Is known to mingle with insidious guile,
+    Deep, deep conceal'd beneath an infant's smile.
+    The child of slothful ease, and sensual heat--
+    By sweet delirious thoughts, in dark retreat,
+    Mature in mischief grown--he springs away,
+    A winged god, and thousands own his sway.
+    Some, as thou seest, are number'd with the dead,
+    And some the bitter drops of sorrow shed
+    Through lingering life, by viewless tangles bound,
+    That link the soul, and chain it to the ground.
+    There Caesar walks! of Celtic laurels proud.
+    Nor feels himself in sensual bondage bow'd:
+    He treads the flowery path, nor sees the snare
+    Laid for his honour by the Egyptian fair.
+    Here Love his triumph shows, and leads along
+    The world's great owner in the captive throng;
+    And o'er the master of unscepter'd kings
+    Exulting soars, and claps his purple wings.
+    See his adopted son! he knew her guile,
+    And nobly scorn'd the siren of the Nile;
+    Yet fell by Roman charms and from her spouse
+    The pregnant consort bore, regardless of her vows
+    There, cruel Nero feels his iron heart
+    Lanced by imperious Love's resistless dart;
+    Replete with rage, and scorning human ties,
+    He falls the victim of two conquering eyes;
+    Deep ambush'd there in philosophic spoils,
+    The little tyrant tries his artful wiles:
+    E'en in that hallow'd breast, where, deep enshrined,
+    Lay all the varied treasures of the mind,
+    He lodged his venom'd shaft. The hoary sage,
+    Like meaner mortals, felt the passion rage
+    In boundless fury for a strumpet's charms,
+    And clasp'd the shining mischief in his arms.--
+    See Dionysius link'd with Pherae's lord,
+    Pale doubt and dread on either front abhorr'd.
+    Scowl terrible! yet Love assign'd their doom;
+    A wife and mistress mark'd them for the tomb!--
+    The next is he that on Antandros' coast
+    His fair Creusa mourn'd, for ever lost;
+    Yet cut the bonds of Love on Tyber's shore,
+    And bought a bride with young Evander's gore.
+    Here droop'd the victim of a lawless flame:
+    The amorous frenzy of the Cretan dame
+    He fled abhorrent, and contemn'd her tears,
+    And to the dire suggestion closed his ears.
+    But nought, alas! his purity avail'd--
+    Fate in his flight the hapless youth assail'd,
+    By interdicted Love to Vengeance fired;
+    And by his father's curse the son expired.
+    The stepdame shared his fate, and dearly paid
+    A spouse, a sister, and a son betray'd:
+    Her conscience, by the false impeachment stung,
+    Upon herself return'd the deadly wrong;
+    And he, that broke before his plighted vows,
+    Met his deserts in an adulterous spouse.
+    See! where he droops between the sister dames,
+    And fondly melts--the other scorns his flames,--
+    The mighty slave of Omphale behind
+    Is seen, and he whom Love and fraud combined
+    Sent to the shades of everlasting night;
+    And still he seems to weep his wretched plight.--
+    There, Phyllis mourns Demophoon's broken vows,
+    And fell Medea there pursues her spouse;
+    With impious boast, and shrill upbraiding cries,
+    She tells him how she broke the holy ties
+    Of kindred for his sake; the guilty shore
+    That from her poignard drank a brother's gore;
+    The deep affliction of her royal sire.
+    Who heard her flight with imprecations dire.--
+    See! beauteous Helen, with her Trojan swain--
+    The royal youth that fed his amorous pain,
+    With ardent gaze, on those destructive charms
+    That waken'd half the warring world to arms--
+    Yonder, behold Oenone's wild despair,
+    Who mourns the triumphs of the Spartan fair!
+    The injured husband answers groan for groan,
+    And young Hermione with piteous moan
+    Orestes calls; while Laodamia near
+    Bewails her valiant consort's fate severe.--
+    Adrastus' daughter there laments her spouse
+    Sincere and constant to her nuptial vows;
+    Yet, lured by her, with gold's seductive aid,
+    Her lord, Eriphile, to death betray'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.
+
+
+PART II.
+
+
+      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, to know,
+    Since you have learnt my name." With soft reply
+    I said, "A name like mine can nought supply
+    The notice of renown like yours to claim.
+    No smother'd spark like mine emits a flame
+    To catch the public eye, as you can boast--
+    A leading name in Cupid's numerous host!
+    Alike his future victims and the past
+    Shall own the common tie, while time itself shall last.
+    But tell me (if your guide allow a space
+    The semblance of those tendant shades to trace)
+    The names and fortunes of the following pair
+    Who seem the noblest gifts of mind to share."--
+    "My name," he said, "you seem to know so well
+    That faithful Memory all the rest can tell;
+    But as the sad detail may soothe my woes,
+    Listen, while I my mournful doom disclose:--
+    To Rome and Scipio's cause my faith was bound,
+    E'en Laelius scarce a warmer friendship own'd:
+    Where'er their ensigns fann'd the summer sky,
+    I led my Libyans on, a firm ally;
+    Propitious Fortune still advanced his name,
+    Yet more than she bestow'd, his worth might claim.
+    Still we advanced, and still our glory grew
+    While westward far the Roman eagle flew
+    With conquest wing'd; but my unlucky star
+    Led me, unconscious, to the fatal snare
+    Which Love had laid. I saw the regal dame--
+    Our hearts at once confess'd a mutual flame.
+    Caught by the lure of interdicted joys,
+    Proudly I scorn'd the stern forbidding voice
+    Of Roman policy; and hoped the vows
+    At Hymen's altar sworn, might save my spouse.
+    But, oh! that wondrous man, who ne'er would yield
+    To passion's call, the cruel sentence seal'd,
+    That tore my consort from my fond embrace,
+    And left me sunk in anguish and disgrace.
+    Unmoved he saw my briny sorrows flow,
+    Unmoved he listen'd to my tale of woe!
+    But friendship, waked at last, with reverent awe,
+    Obsequious, own'd his mind's superior law;
+    And to that holy and unclouded light,
+    That led him on through passion's dubious night,
+    Submiss I bow'd; for, oh! the beam of day
+    Is dark to him that wants her guiding ray!--
+    Love, hardly conquer'd, long repined in vain,
+    When Justice link'd the adamantine chain;
+    And cruel Friendship o'er the conquer'd ground
+    Raised with strong hand th' insuperable mound.
+    To him I owed my laurels nobly won--
+    I loved him as a brother, sire, and son,
+    For in an equal race our lives had run;
+    Yet the sad price I paid with burning tears;--
+    Dire was the cause that woke my gloomy fears!
+    Too well the sad result my soul divined,
+    Too well I knew the unsubmitting mind
+    Of Sophonisba would prefer the tomb
+    To stern captivity's ignoble doom.
+    I, too, sad victim of celestial wrath,
+    Was forced to aid the tardy stroke of death:
+    With pangs I yielded to her piercing cries,
+    To speed her passage to the nether skies;
+    And worse than death endured, her mind to save
+    From shame, more hateful than the yawning grave.--
+    What was my anguish, when she seized the bowl,
+    She knows! and you, whose sympathising soul
+    Has felt the fiery shaft, may guess my pains--
+    Now tears and anguish are her sole remains.
+    That treasure, to preserve my faith to Rome,
+    Those hands committed to th' untimely tomb;
+    And every hope and joy of life resign'd
+    To keep the stain of falsehood from my mind.
+    But hasten, and the moving pomp survey,
+    (The light-wing'd moments brook no long delay),
+    To try if any form your notice claims
+    Among those love-lorn youths and amorous dames."--
+    With poignant grief I heard his tale of woe,
+    That seem'd to melt my heart like vernal snow,
+    When a low voice these sullen accents sung:--
+    "Not for himself, but those from whom he sprung,
+    He merits fate; for I detest them all
+    To whose fell rage I owe my country's fall."
+    "Oh, calm your rage, unhappy Queen!" I cried;
+    "Twice was the land and sea in slaughter dyed
+    By cruel Carthage, till the sentence pass'd
+    That laid her glories in the dust at last."--
+    "Yet mournful wreaths no less the victors crown'd;
+    In deep despair our valour oft they own'd.
+    Your own impartial annals yet proclaim
+    The Punic glory and the Roman shame."
+    She spoke--and with a smile of hostile spite
+    Join'd the deep train, and darken'd to my sight.
+    Then, as a traveller through lands unknown
+    With care and keen observance journeys on;
+    Whose dubious thoughts his eager steps retard,
+    Thus through the files I pass'd with fix'd regard;
+    Still singling some amid the moving show,
+    Intent the story of their loves to know.
+    A spectre now within my notice came,
+    Though dubious marks of joy, commix'd with shame,
+    His features wore, like one who gains a boon
+    With secret glee, which shame forbids to own,
+    O dire example of the Demon's power!
+    The father leaves the hymeneal bower
+    For his incestuous son; the guilty spouse
+    With transport mix'd with honour, meets his vows!
+    In mournful converse now, amidst the host,
+    Their compact they bewail'd, and Syria lost!
+    Instant, with eager step, I turn'd aside,
+    And met the double husband, and the bride,
+    And with an earnest voice the first address'd:--
+    A look of dread the spectre's face express'd,
+    When first the accents of victorious Rome
+    Brought to his mind his kingdom's ancient doom.
+    At length, with many a doleful sigh, he said,
+    "You here behold Seleucus' royal shade.
+    Antiochus is next; his life to save,
+    My ready hand my beauteous consort gave,
+    (From me, whose will was law, a legal prize,)
+    That bound our souls in everlasting ties
+    Indissolubly strong. The royal fair
+    Forsook a throne to cure the deep despair
+    Of him, who would have dared the stroke of Death,
+    To keep, without a stain, his filial faith.
+    A skilful leech the deadly symptoms guess'd;
+    His throbbing veins the secret soon confess'd
+    Of Love with honour match'd, in dire debate,
+    Whenever he beheld my lovely mate;
+    Else gentle Love, subdued by filial dread,
+    Had sent him down among th' untimely dead."--
+    Then, like a man that feels a sudden thought
+    His purpose change, the mingling crowd he sought,
+    And left the question, which a moment hung
+    Scarce half suppress'd upon my faltering tongue.
+    Suspended for a moment, still I stood,
+    With various thoughts oppress'd in musing mood.
+    At length a voice was heard, "The passing day
+    Is yours, but it permits not long delay."--
+    I turn'd in haste, and saw a fleeting train
+    Outnumbering those who pass'd the surging main
+    By Xerxes led--a naked wailing crew,
+    Whose wretched plight the drops of sorrow drew
+    From my full eyes.--Of many a clime and tongue
+    Commix'd the mournful pageant moved along
+    While scarce the fortunes or the name of one
+    Among a thousand passing forms was known.
+    I spied that Ethiopian's dusky charms,
+    Which woke in Perseus' bosom Love's alarms;
+    And next was he who for a shadow burn'd,
+    Which the deceitful watery glass return'd;
+    Enamour'd of himself, in sad decay--
+    Amid abundance, poor--he look'd his life away;
+    And now transform'd through passion's baneful power,
+    He o'er the margin hangs, a drooping flower;
+    While, by her hopeless love congeal'd to stone,
+    His mistress seems to look in silence on;
+    Then he that loved, by too severe a fate,
+    The cruel maid who met his love with hate,
+    Pass'd by; with many more who met their doom
+    By female pride, and fill'd an early tomb.--
+    There too, the victim of her plighted vows,
+    Halcyone for ever mourns her spouse;
+    Who now, in feathers clad, as poets feign,
+    Makes a short summer on the wintry main.--
+    Then he that to the cliffs the maid pursued,
+    And seem'd by turns to soar, and swim the flood;--
+    And she, who, snared by Love, her father sold,
+    With her, who fondly snared the rolling gold;
+    And her young paramour, who made his boast
+    That he had gain'd the prize his rival lost.--
+    Acis and Galatea next were seen,
+    And Polyphemus with infuriate mien;--
+    And Glaucus there, by rival arts assail'd,
+    Fell Circe's hate and Scylla's doom bewail'd.--
+    Then sad Carmenta, with her royal lord,
+    Whom the fell sorceress clad, by arts abhorr'd,
+    With plumes; but still the regal stamp impress'd
+    On his imperial wings and lofty crest.--
+    Then she, whose tears the springing fount supplied;--
+    And she whose form above the rolling tide
+    Hangs a portentous cliff--the royal fair,
+    Who wrote the dictates of her last despair
+    To him whose ships had left the friendly strand.
+    With the keen steel in her determined hand.--
+    There, too, Pygmalion, with his new-made spouse,
+    With many more, I spied, whose amorous vows
+    And fates in never-dying song resound
+    Where Aganippe laves the sacred ground:--
+    And, last of all, I saw the lovely maid
+    Of Love unconscious, by an oath betray'd.
+
+    BOYD.
+
+
+PART III.
+
+
+      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) o'er field and flood,
+    With peerless faith, her exiled spouse unknown,
+    With whom of old she fill'd a lofty throne.--
+    Then Portia comes, who fire and steel defied,
+    And Julia, grieved to see a second bride
+    Engage her consort's love.--The Hebrew swain
+    Appears, who sold himself his love to gain
+    For seven long summers--a vivacious flame,
+    Which neither years nor constant toil could tame!--
+    Then Isaac, with his father, joins the band,
+    Who, with his consort, left at God's command,
+    Led by the lamp of faith, his native land.--
+    David is next, by lawless passion sway'd;
+    And, adding crime to crime, at last betray'd
+    To deeds of blood, till solitude and tears
+    Wash'd his dire guilt away, and calm'd his fears.
+    The sensual vapour, with Circean fume,
+    Involved his royal son in deeper gloom,
+    And dimm'd his glory, till, immersed in vice,
+    His heart renounced the Ruler of the Skies,
+    Adopting Stygian gods.--The changeful hue
+    Of his incestuous brother meets your view,
+    Who lurks behind: observe the sudden turn
+    Of love and hatred blanch his cheek, and burn!
+    His ruin'd sister there, with frantic speed,
+    To Absalom recounts the direful deed.--
+    Samson behold, a prey to female fraud!
+    Strong, but unwise, he laid the pledge of God
+    In her fallacious lap, who basely sold
+    Her husband's honour for Philistian gold.--
+    Judith is nigh, who, mid a host in arms,
+    With gentle accents and alluring charms
+    Their chief o'ercame, and, at the noon of night,
+    From his pavilion sped her venturous flight
+    With one attendant slave, who bore along
+    The tyrant's head amid the hostile throng;
+    Adoring Him who arms the feeble hand.
+    And bids the weak a mighty foe withstand.--
+    Unhappy Sichem next is seen, who paid
+    A bloody ransom for an injured maid:
+    His guiltless sire and all his slaughter'd race,
+    With many a life, attend the foul disgrace.
+    Such was the ruin by a sudden gust
+    Of passion caused, when murder follow'd lust!--
+    That other, like a wise physician, cured
+    An abject passion, long with pain endured:
+    To Vashti for an easy boon he sued;
+    She scorn'd his suit, and rage his love subdued:
+    Soon to its aid a softer passion came,
+    And from his breast expell'd the former flame:
+    Like wedge by wedge displaced, the nuptial ties
+    He breaks, and soon another bride supplies.--
+    But if you wish to see the bosom (war
+    Of Jealousy and Love) in deadly jar,
+    Behold that royal Jew! the dire control
+    Of Love and Hate by turns besiege his soul.
+    Now Vengeance wins the day--the deed is done!
+    And now, in fell remorse, he hates the sun,
+    And calls his consort from the realms of night,
+    To which his fatal hand had sped her flight--
+    Behold yon hapless three, by passion lost,
+    Procris, and Artemisia's royal ghost;
+    And her, whose son (his mother's grief and joy)
+    Razed with paternal rage the walls of Troy,--
+    Another triple sisterhood is seen;
+    This characters of Hades. Mark their mien
+    With sin distain'd: their downcast looks disclose
+    A conscience of their crimes, and dread of coming woes.--
+    Semiramis, and Byblis (famed of old)
+    Her mother's rival there you next behold;
+    With many a warrior, many a lovely dame
+    Of old, ennobled by romantic fame.--
+    There Lancelot and Tristram (famed in fight)
+    Are seen, with many a dame and errant knight;--
+    Genevra, Belle Isonde, and hundreds more;
+    With those who mingled their incestuous gore
+    Shed by paternal rage; and chant beneath,
+    In baneful symphony, the Song of Death."
+    He scarce had spoken, when a chill presage
+    (What warriors feel before the battle's rage,
+    When in the angry trump's sonorous breath
+    They hear, before it comes, the sound of Death)
+    My heart possess'd; and, tinged with deadly pale,
+    I seem'd escaped from Death's eternal jail;
+    When, fleeting to my side with looks of Love,
+    A phantom brighter than the Cyprian dove
+    My fingers clasp'd; which, though of power to wield
+    The temper'd sabre in the bloody field
+    Against an armed foe, a touch subdued;
+    And gentle words, and looks that fired the blood,
+    My friend addressed me (I remember well),
+    And from his lips these dubious accents fell:--
+    "Converse with whom you please, for all the train
+    Are mark'd alike the slaves of Cupid's reign."--
+    Thus, in security and peace trepann'd,
+    I was enlisted in that wayward band,
+    Who short-lived joys by anguish long obtain,
+    And whom the pleasures of a rival pain
+    More than their proper joys. Remembrance shows
+    Too clear at last the source of all my woes,
+    When Jealousy, and Love, and Envy drew
+    That nurture from my heart by which they grew.
+    As feverish eyes on air-drawn features dwell,
+    My fascinated eyes, by magic spell,
+    Dwell'd on the heavenly form with ardent look,
+    And at a glance the dire contagion took
+    That tinged my days to come; and each delight,
+    But those that bore her stamp, consign'd to night.
+    I blush with shame when to my inward view
+    The devious paths return where Cupid drew
+    His willing slave, with all my hopes and fears--
+    When Phoebus seem'd to rise and set in tears
+    For many a spring--and when I used to dwell
+    A lonely hermit in a silent cell.
+    How upwards oft I traced the purling rills
+    To their pure fountains in the misty hills!
+    The rocks I used to climb, the solemn woods,
+    Where oft I wander'd by the winding floods!
+    And often spent, whene'er I chanced to stray,
+    In amorous ditties all the livelong day!
+    What mournful rhymes I wrote and 'rased again,
+    Spending the precious hours of youth in vain!
+    'Twas in this school I learn'd the mystic things
+    Of the blind god, and all the secret springs
+    From which his hopes and fears alternate rise:
+    'Graved on his frontlet, the detection lies,
+    Which all may read, for I have oped their eyes.
+    And she, the cause of all my lengthen'd toils,
+    Disdains my passion, though she boasts my spoils.
+    Of rigid honour proud, she smiles to see
+    The fatal triumph of her charms in me.
+    Not Love himself can aid, for Love retires,
+    And in her sacred presence veils his fires:
+    He feels his genius by her looks subdued,
+    And all his spells by stronger spells withstood.
+    Hence my despair; for neither force nor art
+    Can wound her bosom, nor extract the dart
+    That rankles here, while proudly she defies
+    The power that makes a captive world his prize.
+    She is not one that dallies with the foe,
+    But with unconquer'd soul defies the blow;
+    And, like the Lord of Light, displays afar
+    A splendour which obscures each lesser star.
+    Her port is all divine; her radiant smile,
+    And e'en her scorn, the captive heart beguile;
+    Her accents breathe of heaven; her auburn hair
+    (Whether it wanton with the sportive air,
+    Or bound in shining wreaths adorns her face,)
+    Secures her conquests with resistless grace;
+    Her eyes, that sparkle with celestial fire,
+    Have render'd me the slave of fond desire.
+    But who can raise his style to match her charms?
+    What mortal bard can sing the soft alarms
+    That flutter in the breast, and fire the veins?
+    Alas! the theme surmounts the loftiest strains.
+    Far as the ocean in its ample bed
+    Exceeds the purling stream that warbles through the mead,
+    Such charms are hers--as never were reveal'd
+    On earth, since Phoebus first the world beheld!
+    And voices, tuned her peerless form to praise,
+    Suffer a solemn pause with mute amaze.
+    Thus was I manacled for life; while she,
+    Proud of my bonds, enjoy'd her liberty.
+    With ceaseless suit I pray'd, but all in vain;
+    One prayer among a thousand scarce could gain
+    A slight regard--so hopeless was my state,
+    And such the laws of Love imposed by fate!
+    For stedfast is the rule by Nature given,
+    Which all the ranks of life, from earth to heaven.
+    With reverent awe and homage due obey,
+    And every age and climate owns its sway.
+    I know the cruel pangs by lovers borne,
+    When from the breast the bleeding heart is torn
+    By Love's relentless gripe; the deadly harms
+    Of Cupid, when he wields resistless arms;
+    Or when, in dubious truce, he drops his dart,
+    And gives short respite to the tortured heart.
+    The vital current's ebb and flood I know,
+    When shame or anger bids the features glow,
+    Or terror pales the cheek; the deadly snake
+    I know that nestles in the flowery brake,
+    And, watchful, seems to sleep, and languor feigns,
+    When health-inspiring vigour fills the veins.
+    I know what hope and fear assail the mind
+    When I pursue my love, yet dread to find.
+    I know the strange and sympathetic tie,
+    When, soul in soul transfused, a fond ally
+    For ever seems another and the same,
+    Or change with mutual love their mortal frame.
+    From transient smiles to long protracted woe
+    The various turns and dark degrees I know;
+    And hot and cold, and that unequall'd smart
+    When souls survive, though sever'd from the heart.
+    I know, I cherish, and detect the cheat
+    Of every hour; but still, with eager feet
+    And fervent hope, pursue the flying fair,
+    And still for promised rapture meet despair.
+    When absent, I consume in raging fire;
+    But, in her presence check'd, the flames expire,
+    Repress'd by sacred awe. The boundless sway
+    Of cruel Love I feel, that makes a prey
+    Of all those energies that lift the soul
+    To her congenial climes above the pole
+    I know the various pangs that rend the heart;
+    I know that noblest souls receive the dart
+    Without defence, when Reason drops the shield
+    And, recreant, to her foe resigns the field.--
+    I saw the archer in his airy flight,
+    I saw him when he check'd his arrow's flight:
+    And when it reach'd the mark, I watched the god,
+    And saw him win his way by force or fraud,
+    As best befits his ends. His whirling throne
+    Turns short at will, or runs directly on.
+    The rapid follies which his axle bear,
+    Are short fallacious hope and certain fear;
+    And many a promise given of Halcyon days,
+    Whose faint and dubious gleam the heart betrays.
+    I know what secret flame the marrow fries,
+    How in the veins a dormant fever lies;
+    Till, fann'd to fury by contagious breath,
+    It gains tremendous head, and ends in death.
+    I know too well what long and doubtful strife
+    Forms the dire tissue of a lover's life;
+    The transient taste of sweet commix'd with gall,
+    What changes dire the hapless crew befall.
+    Their strange fantastic habitudes I know,
+    Their measured groans in lamentable flow;
+    When rhyming-fits the faltering tongue employ,
+    And love sick spasms the mournful Muse annoy;
+    The smile that like the lightning fleets away,
+    The sorrows that for half a life delay;
+    Like drops of honey in a wormwood bowl,
+    Drain'd to the dregs in bitterness of soul.
+
+    BOYD.
+
+
+PART IV.
+
+
+      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 his flame;
+    And Genoa's bard, who left his native coast,
+    And on Marsilia's towers the memory lost
+    Of his first time, when Salem's sacred flame
+    Taught him a nobler heritage to claim,--
+    Gerard and Peter, both of Gallic blood,
+    And tuneful Rudel, who, in moonstruck mood,
+    O'er ocean by a flying image led,
+    In the fantastic chase his canvas spread;
+    And, where he thought his amorous vows to breathe,
+    From Cupid's bow received the shaft of Death.--
+    There was Cabestaing, whose unequall'd lays
+    From all his rivals won superior praise.--
+    Hugo was there, with Almeric renown'd;--
+    Bernard and Anselm by the Muses crown'd.--
+    Those and a thousand others o'er the field
+    Advanced; nor javelin did they want, or shield;
+    The Muses form'd their guard, and march'd before.
+    Spreading their long renown from shore to shore.--
+    The Latian band, with sympathising woe,
+    At last I spied amid the moving show:
+    Bologna's poet first, whose honour'd grave
+    His relics hold beside Messina's wave.
+    O fickle joys, that fleet upon the wind,
+    And leave the lassitude of life behind!
+    The youth, that every thought and movement sway'd
+    Of this sad heart, is now an empty shade!
+    What world contains thee now, my tuneful guide,
+    Whom nought of old could sever from my side?
+    What is this life?--what none but fools esteem;
+    A fleeting shadow, a romantic dream!--
+    Not far I wander'd o'er the peopled field,
+    Till Socrates and Laelius I beheld.
+    Oh, may their holy influence never cease
+    That soothed my heart-corroding pangs to peace!
+    Unequall'd friends! no bard's ecstatic lays
+    Nor polish'd prose your deathless name can raise
+    To match your genuine worth! O'er hill and dale
+    We pass'd, and oft I told my doleful tale,
+    Disclosing all my wounds, end not in vain:
+    Their sacred presence seem'd to soothe my pain.
+    Oh, may that glorious privilege be mine,
+    Till dust to dust the final stroke resign!
+    My courage they inspired to claim the wreath--
+    Immortal emblem of my constant faith
+    To her whose name the poet's garland bears!
+    Yet nought from her, for long devoted years,
+    I reap'd but cold disdain, and fruitless tears.--
+    But soon a sight ensued, that, like a spell,
+    Restrain'd at once my passion's stormy swell:
+    But this a loftier muse demands to sing,
+    The hallow'd power that pruned the daring wing
+    Of that blind force, by folly canonized
+    And in the garb of deity disguised.
+    Yet first the conscious muse designs to tell
+    How I endured and 'scaped his witching spell;
+    A subject that demands a muse of fire,
+    A glorious theme, that Phoebus might inspire--
+    Worthy of Homer and the Orphean lyre!
+    Still, as along the whirling chariot flew,
+    I kept the wafture of his wings in view:
+    Onward his snow-white steeds were seen to bound
+    O'er many a steepy hill and dale profound:
+    And, victims of his rage, the captive throng.
+    Chain'd to the flying wheels, were dragg'd along,
+    All torn and bleeding, through the thorny waste;
+    Nor knew I how the land and sea he pass'd,
+    Till to his mother's realm he came at last.
+    Far eastward, where the vext AEgean roars,
+    A little isle projects its verdant shores:
+    Soft is the clime, and fruitful is the ground,
+    No fairer spot old ocean clips around;
+    Nor Sol himself surveys from east to west
+    A sweeter scene in summer livery drest.
+    Full in the midst ascends a shady hill,
+    Where down its bowery slopes a streaming rill
+    In dulcet murmurs flows, and soft perfume
+    The senses court from many a vernal bloom,
+    Mingled with magic; which the senses steep
+    In sloth, and drug the mind in Lethe's deep,
+    Quenching the spark divine--the genuine boast
+    Of man, in Circe's wave immersed and lost.
+    This favour'd region of the Cyprian queen
+    Received its freight--a heaven-abandon'd scene.
+    Where Falsehood fills the throne, while Truth retires,
+    And vainly mourns her half-extinguish'd fires.
+    Vile in its origin, and viler still
+    By all incentives that seduce the will,
+    It seems Elysium to the sons of Lust,
+    But a foul dungeon to the good and just.
+    Exulting o'er his slaves, the winged God
+    Here in a theatre his triumphs show'd,
+    Ample to hold within its mighty round
+    His captive train, from Thule's northern bound
+    To far Taprobane, a countless crowd,
+    Who, to the archer boy, adoring, bow'd.
+    Sad fantoms shook above their Gorgon wings--
+    Fantastic longings for unreal things,
+    And fugitive delights, and lasting woes;
+    The summer's biting frost, and winter's rose;
+    And penitence and grief, that dragg'd along
+    The royal lawless pair, that poets sung.
+    One, by his Spartan plunder, seal'd the doom
+    Of hapless Troy--the other rescued Rome.
+    Beneath, as if in mockery of their woe,
+    The tumbling flood, with murmurs deep and low,
+    Return'd their wailings; while the birds above
+    With sweet aerial descant fill'd the grove.
+    And all beside the river's winding bed
+    Fresh flowers in gay confusion deck'd the mead,
+    Painting the sod with every scent and hue
+    That Flora's breath affords, or drinks the morning dew,
+    And many a solemn bower, with welcome shade,
+    Over the dusky stream a shelter made.
+    And when the sun withdrew his slanting ray,
+    And winter cool'd the fervours of the day,
+    Then came the genial hours, the frequent feast
+    And circling times of joy and balmy rest.
+    New day and night were poised in even scale,
+    And spring awoke her equinoctial gale,
+    And Progne now and Philomel begun
+    With genial toils to greet the vernal sun.
+    Just then--O hapless mortals! that rely
+    On fickle fortune's ever-changing sky--
+    E'en in that season, when, with sacred fire,
+    Dan Cupid seem'd his subjects to inspire,
+    That warms the heart, and kindles in the look,
+    And all beneath the moon obey his yoke--
+    I saw the sad reverse that lovers own,
+    I heard the slaves beneath their bondage groan;
+    I saw them sink beneath the deadly weight
+    And the long tortures that forerun their fate.
+    Sad disappointments there in meagre forms
+    Were seen, and feverish dreams, and fancied harms;
+    And fantoms rising from the yawning tomb
+    Were seen to muster in the gathering gloom
+    Around the car; and some were seen to climb,
+    While cruel fate reversed their steps sublime.
+    And empty notions in the port were seen,
+    And baffled hopes were there with cloudy mien.
+    There was expensive gain, and gain that lost,
+    And amorous schemes by fortune's favour cross'd;
+    And wearisome repose, and cares that slept.
+    There was the semblance of disgrace, that kept
+    The youth from dire mischance on whom it fell,
+    And glory darken'd on the gloom of hell;
+    Perfidious loyalty, and honest fraud,
+    And wisdom slow, and headlong thirst of blood;
+    The dungeon, where the flowery paths decoy;
+    The painful, hard escape, with long annoy.
+    I saw the smooth descent the foot betray,
+    And the steep rocky path that leads again to day.
+    There in the gloomy gulf confusion storm'd,
+    And moody rage its wildest freaks perform'd;
+    And settled grief was there; and solid night,
+    But rarely broke with fitful gleams of light
+    From joy's fantastic hand. Not Vulcan's forge,
+    When his Cyclopean caves the fumes disgorge;
+    Nor the deep mine of Mongibel, that throws
+    The fiery tempest o'er eternal snows;
+    Nor Lipari, whose strong sulphureous blast
+    O'ercanopies with flames the watery waste;
+    Nor Stromboli, that sweeps the glowing sky
+    With red combustion, with its rage could vie.--
+    Little he loves himself that ventures there,
+    For there is ceaseless woe and fell despair:
+    Yet, in this dolorous dungeon long confined,
+    Till time had grizzled o'er my locks, I pined.
+    There, dreaming still of liberty to come,
+    I spent my summers in this noisome gloom;
+    Yet still a dubious joy my grief controll'd,
+    To spy such numbers in that darksome hold.
+    But soon to gall my seeming transport turn'd,
+    And my illustrious partner's fate I mourn'd;
+    And often seem'd, with sympathising woe,
+    To melt in solvent tears like vernal snow.
+    I turn'd away, but, with inverted glance,
+    Perused the fleeting shapes that fill'd my trance;
+    Like him that feels a moment's short delight
+    When a fine picture fleets before his sight.
+
+    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,
+    And will not set her free, doubt not my faith:"
+    When I beheld her with disdain and wrath
+    So fill'd, that to relate it would demand
+    A better muse than mine: her virtuous hand
+    Had quickly quench'd those gilded fiery darts
+    Which, dipp'd in beauty's pleasure, poison hearts.
+    Neither Camilla, nor the warlike host
+    That cut their breasts, could so much valour boast
+    Nor Caesar in Pharsalia fought so well,
+    As she 'gainst him who pierceth coats of mail;
+    All her brave virtues arm'd, attended there,
+    (A glorious troop!) and marched pair by pair:
+    Honour and blushes first in rank; the two
+    Religious virtues make the second row;
+    (By those the other women doth excel);
+    Prudence and Modesty, the twins that dwell
+    Together, both were lodged in her breast:
+    Glory and Perseverance, ever blest:
+    Fair Entertainment, Providence without,
+    Sweet Courtesy, and Pureness round about;
+    Respect of credit, fear of infamy;
+    Grave thoughts in youth; and, what not oft agree,
+    True Chastity and rarest Beauty; these
+    All came 'gainst Love, and this the heavens did please,
+    And every generous soul in that full height.
+    He had no power left to bear the weight;
+    A thousand famous prizes hardly gain'd
+    She took; and thousand glorious palms obtained.
+    Shook from his hands; the fall was not more strange
+    Of Hannibal, when Fortune pleased to change
+    Her mind, and on the Roman youth bestow
+    The favours he enjoy'd; nor was he so
+    Amazed who frighted the Israelitish host--
+    Struck by the Hebrew boy, that quit his boast;
+    Nor Cyrus more astonish'd at the fall
+    The Jewish widow gave his general:
+    As one that sickens suddenly, and fears
+    His life, or as a man ta'en unawares
+    In some base act, and doth the finder hate;
+    Just so was he, or in a worse estate:
+    Fear, grief, and shame, and anger, in his face
+    Were seen: no troubled seas more rage: the place
+    Where huge Typhoeus groans, nor Etna, when
+    Her giant sighs, were moved as he was then.
+    I pass by many noble things I see
+    (To write them were too hard a task for me),
+    To her and those that did attend I go:
+    Her armour was a robe more white than snow;
+    And in her hand a shield like his she bare
+    Who slew Medusa; a fair pillar there
+    Of jasp was next, and with a chain (first wet
+    In Lethe flood) of jewels fitly set,
+    Diamonds, mix'd with topazes (of old
+    'Twas worn by ladies, now 'tis not) first hold
+    She caught, then bound him fast; then such revenge
+    She took as might suffice. My thoughts did change
+    And I, who wish'd him victory before,
+    Was satisfied he now could hurt no more.
+    I cannot in my rhymes the names contain
+    Of blessed maids that did make up her train;
+    Calliope nor Clio could suffice,
+    Nor all the other seven, for th' enterprise;
+    Yet some I will insert may justly claim
+    Precedency of others. Lucrece came
+    On her right hand; Penelope was by,
+    Those broke his bow, and made his arrows lie
+    Split on the ground, and pull'd his plumes away
+    From off his wings: after, Virginia,
+    Near her vex'd father, arm'd with wrath and hate.
+    Fury, and iron, and love, he freed the state
+    And her from slavery, with a manly blow;
+    Next were those barbarous women, who could show
+    They judged it better die than suffer wrong
+    To their rude chastity; the wise and strong--
+    The chaste Hebraean Judith follow'd these;
+    The Greek that saved her honour in the seas;
+    With these and other famous souls I see
+    Her triumph over him who used to be
+    Master of all the world: among the rest
+    The vestal nun I spied, who was so bless'd
+    As by a wonder to preserve her fame;
+    Next came Hersilia, the Roman dame
+    (Or Sabine rather), with her valorous train,
+    Who prove all slanders on that sex are vain.
+    Then, 'mongst the foreign ladies, she whose faith
+    T' her husband (not AEneas) caused her death;
+    The vulgar ignorant may hold their peace,
+    Her safety to her chastity gave place;
+    Dido, I mean, whom no vain passion led
+    (As fame belies her); last, the virtuous maid
+    Retired to Arno, who no rest could find,
+    Her friends' constraining power forced her mind.
+    The Triumph thither went where salt waves wet
+    The Baian shore eastward; her foot she set
+    There on firm land, and did Avernus leave
+    On the one hand, on th' other Sybil's cave;
+    So to Linternus march'd, the village where
+    The noble Africane lies buried; there
+    The great news of her triumph did appear
+    As glorious to the eye as to the ear
+    The fame had been; and the most chaste did show
+    Most beautiful; it grieved Love much to go
+    Another's prisoner, exposed to scorn,
+    Who to command whole empires seemed born.
+    Thus to the chiefest city all were led,
+    Entering the temple which Sulpicia made
+    Sacred; it drives all madness from the mind;
+    And chastity's pure temple next we find,
+    Which in brave souls doth modest thoughts beget,
+    Not by plebeians enter'd, but the great
+    Patrician dames; there were the spoils display'd
+    Of the fair victress; there her palms she laid,
+    And did commit them to the Tuscan youth,
+    Whose marring scars bear witness of his truth:
+    With others more, whose names I fully knew,
+    (My guide instructed me,) that overthrew
+    The power of Love: 'mongst whom, of all the rest,
+    Hippolytus and Joseph were the best.
+
+    ANNA HUME.
+
+
+
+
+THE SAME.
+
+
+      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 we complain,
+    When she vouchsafes her gracious aid in vain
+    In vain the self-abandon'd shift the blame
+    Upon their stars, or fate's perverted name.
+    Ne'er did a gladiator shun the stroke
+    With nimbler turn, or more attentive look;
+    Never did pilot's hand the vessel steer
+    With more dexterity the shoals to clear
+    Than with evasion quick and matchless art,
+    By grace and virtue arm'd in head and heart,
+    She wafted quick the cruel shaft aside,
+    Woe to the lingering soul that dares the stroke abide!
+    I watch'd, and long with firm expectance stood
+    To see a mortal by a god subdued,
+    The usual fate of man! in hope to find
+    The cords of Love the beauteous captive bind
+    With me, a willing slave, to Cupid's car,
+    The fortunes of the common race to share.
+    As one, whose secrets in his looks we spy,
+    His inmost thoughts discovers in his eye
+    Or in his aspect, graved by nature's hand,
+    My gestures, ere I spoke, enforced my fond demand.
+    "Oh, link us to your wheels!" aloud I cried,
+    "If your victorious arms the fray decide:
+    Oh, bind us closely with your strongest chain!
+    I ne'er will seek for liberty again!"--
+    But oh! what fury seem'd his eyes to fill!
+    No bard that ever quaff'd Castalia's rill
+    Could match his frenzy, when his shafts of fire
+    With magic plumed, and barb'd with hot desire,
+    Short of their sacred aim, innoxious fell,
+    Extinguish'd by the pure ethereal spell.
+    Camilla; or the Amazons in arms
+    From ancient Thermodon, to fierce alarms
+    Inured; or Julius in Pharsalia's field,
+    When his dread onset forced the foe to yield--
+    Came not so boldly on as she, to face
+    The mighty victor of the human race,
+    Who scorns the temper'd mail and buckler's ward.
+    With her the Virtues came--an heavenly guard,
+    A sky-descended legion, clad in light
+    Of glorious panoply, contemning mortal might;
+    All weaponless they came; but hand in hand
+    Defied the fury of the adverse band:
+    Honour and maiden Shame were in the ban,
+    Elysian twins, beloved by God and man.
+    Her delegates in arms with them combined;
+    Prudence appear'd, the daughter of the mind;
+    Pure Temperance next, and Steadiness of soul,
+    That ever keeps in view the eternal goal;
+    And Gentleness and soft Address were seen,
+    And Courtesy, with mild inviting mien;
+    And Purity, and cautious Dread of blame,
+    With ardent love of clear unspotted fame;
+    And sage Discretion, seldom seen below,
+    Where the full veins with youthful ardour glow;
+    Benevolence and Harmony of soul
+    Were there, but rarely found from pole to pole;
+    And there consummate Beauty shone, combined
+    With all the pureness of an angel-mind.
+    Such was the host that to the conflict came,
+    Their bosoms kindling with empyreal flame
+    And sense of heavenly help.--The beams that broke
+    From each celestial file with horror struck
+    The bowyer god, who felt the blinding rays,
+    And like a mortal stood in fix'd amaze;
+    While on his spoils the fair assailants flew,
+    And plunder'd at their ease the captive crew;
+    And some with palmy boughs the way bestrew'd,
+    To show their conquest o'er the baffled god.
+    Sudden as Hannibal on Zama's field
+    Was forced to Scipio's conquering arms to yield;
+    Sudden as David's hand the giant sped,
+    When Accaron beheld his fall and fled;
+    Sudden as her revenge who gave the word,
+    When her stern guards dispatch'd the Persian lord;
+    Or like a man that feels a strong disease
+    His shivering members in a moment seize--
+    Such direful throes convulsed the despot's frame.
+    His hands, that veil'd his eyes, confess'd his shame,
+    And mental pangs, more agonising far,
+    In his sick bosom bred a civil war;
+    And hate and anguish, with insatiate ire,
+    Flash'd in his eyes with momentary fire.--
+    Not raging Ocean, when its billows boil;
+    Nor Typhon, when he lifts the trembling soil
+    Of Arima, his tortured limbs to ease;
+    Nor Etna, thundering o'er the subject seas--
+    Surpass'd the fury of the baffled Power,
+    Who stamp'd with rage, and bann'd the luckless hour
+    Scenes yet unsung demand my loftiest lays--
+    But oh! the theme transcends a mortal's praise.
+    A sweet but humbler subject may suffice
+    To muster in my song her fair allies;
+    But first, her arms and vesture claim my song
+    Before I chant the fair attendant throng:--
+    A robe she wore that seem'd of woven light;
+    The buckler of Minerva fill'd her right,
+    Medusa's bane; a column there was drawn
+    Of jasper bright; and o'er the snowy lawn
+    And round her beauteous neck a chain was slung,
+    Which glittering on her snowy bosom hung.
+    Diamond and topaz there, with mingled ray,
+    Return'd in varied hues the beam of day;
+    A treasure of inestimable cost,
+    Too long, alas! in Lethe's bosom lost:
+    To modern matrons scarcely known by fame,
+    Few, were it to be found, the prize would claim.
+    With this the vanquish'd god she firmly bound,
+    While I with joy her kind assistance own'd;
+    But oh! the feeble Muse attempts in vain
+    To celebrate in song her numerous train;
+    Not all the choir of Aganippe's spring
+    The pageant of the sisterhood could sing:
+    But some shall live, distinguished in my lay,
+    The most illustrious of the long array.--
+    The dexter wing the fair Lucretia led,
+    With her, who, faithful to her nuptial bed,
+    Her suitors scorn'd: and these with dauntless hand
+    The quiver seized, and scatter'd on the strand
+    The pointless arrows, and the broken bow
+    Of Cupid, their despoil'd and recreant foe.--
+    Lovely Virginia with her sire was nigh:
+    Paternal love and anger in his eye
+    Beam'd terrible, while in his hand he show'd
+    Aloft the dagger, tinged with virgin blood,
+    Which freedom on the maid and Rome at once bestow'd.--
+    Then the Teutonic dames, a dauntless race,
+    Who rush'd on death to shun a foe's embrace;--
+    And Judith chaste and fair, but void of dread,
+    Who the hot blood of Holofernes shed;--
+    And that fair Greek who chose a watery grave
+    Her threaten'd purity unstain'd to save.--
+    All these and others to the combat flew,
+    And all combined to wreak the vengeance due
+    On him, whose haughty hand in days of yore
+    From clime to clime his conquering standard bore.
+    Another troop the vestal virgin led,
+    Who bore along from Tyber's oozy bed
+    His liquid treasure in a sieve, to show
+    The falsehood of her base calumnious foe
+    By wondrous proof.--And there the Sabine queen
+    With all the matrons of her race was seen,
+    Renown'd in records old;--and next in fame
+    Was she, who dauntless met the funeral flame,
+    Not wrong'd in Love, but to preserve her vows
+    Immaculate to her Sidonian spouse.
+    Let others of AEneas' falsehood tell,
+    How by an unrequited flame she fell;
+    A nobler, though a self-inflicted doom,
+    Caused by connubial Love, dismiss'd her to the tomb.--
+    Picarda next I saw, who vainly tried
+    To pass her days on Arno's flowery side
+    In single purity, till force compell'd
+    The virgin to the marriage bond to yield.
+    The triumph seem'd at last to reach the shore
+    Where lofty Baise hears the Tuscan roar.
+    'Twas on a vernal morn it touch'd the land,
+    And 'twixt Mount Barbaro that crowns the strand
+    And old Avernus (once an hallow'd ground);
+    For the Cumaean sibyl's cell renown'd.
+    Linterno's sandy bounds it reach'd at last,
+    Great Scipio's favour'd haunt in ages past;
+    Famed Africanus, whose victorious blade
+    The slaughterous deeds of Hannibal repaid,
+    And to his country's heart a bloody passage made.
+    Here in a calm retreat his life he spent,
+    With rural peace and solitude content.
+    And here the flying rumour sped before,
+    And magnified the deed from shore to shore.
+    The pageant, when it reach'd the destined spot,
+    Seem'd to exceed their utmost reach of thought.
+    There, all distinguish'd by their deeds of arms,
+    Excell'd the rest in more than mortal charms.
+    Nor he, whom oft the steeds of conquest drew,
+    Disdained another's triumphs to pursue.
+    At the metropolis arrived at last,
+    To fair Sulpicia's temples soon we pass'd,
+    Sacred to Chastity, to ward the pest
+    With which her sensual foes inflame the breast;
+    The patroness of noble dames alone--
+    Then was the fair plebeian Pole unknown,
+    The victress here display'd her martial spoils,
+    And here the laurel hung that crown'd her toils:
+    A guard she stationed on the temple's bound--
+    The Tuscan, mark'd with many a glorious wound
+    Suspicion in the jealous breast to cure:
+    With him a chosen squadron kept the door.
+    I heard their names, and I remember well
+    The youthful Greek that by his stepdame fell,
+    And him who, kept by Heaven's command in awe,
+    Refused to violate the nuptial law.
+
+    BOYD.
+
+
+
+
+THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH.
+
+
+PART I.
+
+_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;
+    Now am I come to you, while yet your state
+    Is happy, ere you feel a harder fate."
+    "On these you have no power," she then replied,
+    (Who had more worth than all the world beside,)
+    "And little over me; but there is one
+    Who will be deeply grieved when I am gone,
+    His happiness doth on my life depend,
+    I shall find freedom in a peaceful end."
+    As one who glancing with a sudden eye
+    Some unexpected object doth espy;
+    Then looks again, and doth his own haste blame
+    So in a doubting pause, this cruel dame
+    A little stay'd, and said, "The rest I call
+    To mind, and know I have o'ercome them all:"
+    Then with less fierce aspect, she said, "Thou guide
+    Of this fair crew, hast not my strength assay'd,
+    Let her advise, who may command, prevent
+    Decrepit age, 'tis but a punishment;
+    From me this honour thou alone shalt have,
+    Without or fear or pain, to find thy grave."
+    "As He shall please, who dwelleth in the heaven
+    And rules on earth, such portion must be given
+    To me, as others from thy hand receive,"
+    She answered then; afar we might perceive
+    Millions of dead heap'd on th' adjacent plain;
+    No verse nor prose may comprehend the slain
+    Did on Death's triumph wait, from India,
+    From Spain, and from Morocco, from Cathay,
+    And all the skirts of th' earth they gather'd were;
+    Who had most happy lived, attended there:
+    Popes, Emperors, nor Kings, no ensigns wore
+    Of their past height, but naked show'd and poor.
+    Where be their riches, where their precious gems,
+    Their mitres, sceptres, robes, and diadems?
+    O miserable men, whose hopes arise
+    From worldly joys, yet be there few so wise
+    As in those trifling follies not to trust;
+    And if they be deceived, in end 'tis just:
+    Ah! more than blind, what gain you by your toil?
+    You must return once to your mother's soil,
+    And after-times your names shall hardly know,
+    Nor any profit from your labour grow;
+    All those strange countries by your warlike stroke
+    Submitted to a tributary yoke;
+    The fuel erst of your ambitious fire,
+    What help they now? The vast and bad desire
+    Of wealth and power at a bloody rate
+    Is wicked,--better bread and water eat
+    With peace; a wooden dish doth seldom hold
+    A poison'd draught; glass is more safe than gold;
+    But for this theme a larger time will ask,
+    I must betake me to my former task.
+    The fatal hour of her short life drew near,
+    That doubtful passage which the world doth fear;
+    Another company, who had not been
+    Freed from their earthy burden there were seen,
+    To try if prayers could appease the wrath,
+    Or stay th' inexorable hand, of Death.
+    That beauteous crowd convened to see the end
+    Which all must taste; each neighbour, every friend
+    Stood by, when grim Death with her hand took hold,
+    And pull'd away one only hair of gold,
+    Thus from the world this fairest flower is ta'en
+    To make her shine more bright, not out of spleen
+    How many moaning plaints, what store of cries
+    Were utter'd there, when Fate shut those fair eyes
+    For which so oft I sung; whose beauty burn'd
+    My tortured heart so long; while others mourn'd,
+    She pleased, and quiet did the fruit enjoy
+    Of her blest life: "Farewell," without annoy,
+    "True saint on earth," said they; so might she be
+    Esteem'd, but nothing bates Death's cruelty.
+    What shall become of others, since so pure
+    A body did such heats and colds endure,
+    And changed so often in so little space?
+    Ah, worldly hopes, how blind you be, how base!
+    If since I bathe the ground with flowing tears
+    For that mild soul, who sees it, witness bears;
+    And thou who read'st mayst judge she fetter'd me
+    The sixth of April, and did set me free
+    On the same day and month. Oh! how the way
+    Of fortune is unsure; none hates the day
+    Of slavery, or of death, so much as I
+    Abhor the time which wrought my liberty,
+    And my too lasting life; it had been just
+    My greater age had first been turn'd to dust,
+    And paid to time, and to the world, the debt
+    I owed, then earth had kept her glorious state:
+    Now at what rate I should the sorrow prize
+    I know not, nor have heart that can suffice
+    The sad affliction to relate in verse
+    Of these fair dames, that wept about her hearse;
+    "Courtesy, Virtue, Beauty, all are lost;
+    What shall become of us? None else can boast
+    Such high perfection; no more we shall
+    Hear her wise words, nor the angelical
+    Sweet music of her voice." While thus they cried,
+    The parting spirit doth itself divide
+    With every virtue from the noble breast,
+    As some grave hermit seeks a lonely rest:
+    The heavens were clear, and all the ambient air
+    Without a threatening cloud; no adversaire
+    'Durst once appear, or her calm mind affright;
+    Death singly did herself conclude the fight;
+    After, when fear, and the extremest plaint
+    Were ceased, th' attentive eyes of all were bent
+    On that fair face, and by despair became
+    Secure; she who was spent, not like a flame
+    By force extinguish'd, but as lights decay,
+    And undiscerned waste themselves away:
+    Thus went the soul in peace; so lamps are spent,
+    As the oil fails which gave them nourishment;
+    In sum, her countenance you still might know
+    The same it was, not pale, but white as snow,
+    Which on the tops of hills in gentle flakes
+    Falls in a calm, or as a man that takes
+    Desir'ed rest, as if her lovely sight
+    Were closed with sweetest sleep, after the sprite
+    Was gone. If this be that fools call to die,
+    Death seem'd in her exceeding fair to be.
+
+    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 ill influence, dared
+    Within a space so holy to intrude,
+    Till Death his terrible triumph had declared.
+    Then hush'd was all lament, all fear subdued;
+    Each on those beauteous features gazed intent,
+    And from despair was arm'd with fortitude.
+    As a pure flame that not by force is spent,
+    But faint and fainter softly dies away,
+    Pass'd gently forth in peace the soul content:
+    And as a light of clear and steady ray,
+    When fails the source from which its brightness flows,
+    She to the last held on her-wonted way.
+    Pale, was she? no, but white as shrouding snows,
+    That, when the winds are lull'd, fall silently,
+    She seem'd as one o'erwearied to repose.
+    E'en as in balmy slumbers lapt to lie
+    (The spirit parted from the form below),
+    In her appear'd what th' unwise term to die;
+    And Death sate beauteous on her beauteous brow.
+
+    DACRE.
+
+
+PART II
+
+_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 with many a tear,
+    Would seem a gain, and, knew you my delight
+    Boundless and pure, your joyful praise excite."
+    Thus spoke she, and on heaven her grateful eye
+    Devoutly fix'd, but while her rose-lips lie
+    Chain'd in cold silence, I renew'd my theme:
+    "Lightning and storm, red battle, age, disease,
+    Backs, prisons, poison, famine,--make not these
+    Death, even to the bravest, bitter seem?"
+    She answer'd: "I deny not that the strife
+    Is great and sore which waits on parting life,
+    And then of death eternal the sharp dread!
+    But if the soul with hope from heaven be fed,
+    And haply in itself the heart have grief,
+    What then is death? Its brief sigh brings relief:
+    Already I approach'd my final goal,
+    My strength was failing, on the wing my soul,
+    When thus a low sad-whisper by my side,
+    'O miserable! who, to vain life tied,
+    Counts every hour and deems each hour a day,
+    By land or ocean, to himself a prey,
+    Where'er he wanders, who one form pursues,
+    Indulges one desire, one dream renews,
+    Thought, speech, sense, feeling, there for ever bound!'
+    It ceased, and to the spot whence came the sound
+    I turn'd my languid eyes, and her beheld,
+    Your love who check'd, my pity who impell'd;
+    I recognised her by that voice and air,
+    So often which had chased my spirit's gloom,
+    Now calm and wise, as courteous then and fail.
+    But e'en to you when dearest, in the bloom
+    Of joyous youth and beauty's rosy prime.
+    Theme of much thought, and muse of many a rhyme,
+    Believe me, life to me was far less sweet
+    Than thus a merciful mild death to meet,
+    The blessed hope, to mortals rarely given:
+    And such joy smooth'd my path from earth to heaven,
+    As from long exile to sweet home I turn'd,
+    While but for you alone my soul with pity yearn'd."
+    "But tell me, lady," said I, "by that true
+    And loyal faith, on earth well known to you
+    Now better known before the Omniscient's face,
+    If in your breast the thought e'er found a place
+    Love prompted, my long martyrdom to cheer,
+    Though virtue follow'd still her fair emprize.
+    For ah! oft written in those sweetest eyes,
+    Dear anger, dear disdain, and pardon dear,
+    Long o'er my wishes doubts and shadows cast."
+    Scarce from my lips the venturous speech had pass'd,
+    When o'er her fair face its old sun-smile beam'd,
+    My sinking virtue which so oft redeem'd,
+    And with a tender sigh she answer'd: "Never
+    Can or did aught from you my firm heart sever:
+    But as, to our young fame, no other way,
+    Direct and plain, of mutual safety lay,
+    I temper'd with cold looks your raging flame:
+    So fondest mothers wayward children tame.
+    How often have I said, 'It me behoves
+    To act discreetly, for he burns, not loves!
+    Who hopes and fears, ill plays discretion's part!
+    He must not in my face detect my heart;'
+    'Twas this, which, as a rein the generous horse,
+    Slack'd your hot haste, and shaped your proper course.
+    Often, while Love my struggling heart consumed,
+    Has anger tinged my cheek, my eyes illumed,
+    For Love in me could reason ne'er subdue;
+    But ever if I saw you sorrow-spent,
+    Instant my fondest looks on you were bent,
+    Myself from shame, from death redeeming you;
+    Or, if the flame of passion blazed too high,
+    My greeting changed, with short speech and cold eye
+    My sorrow moved you or my terror shook.
+    That these the arts I used, the way I took,
+    Smiles varying scorn as sunshine follows rain,
+    You know, and well have sung in many a deathless strain
+    Again and oft, as saw I sunk in grief
+    Those tearful eyes, I said, 'Without relief,
+    Surely and swift he marches to his grave,'
+    And, at the thought, the fitting help I gave.'
+    But if I saw you wild and passion spurr'd,
+    Prompt with the curb, your boldness I deterr'd;
+    Thus cold and kind, pale, blushing, gloomy, gay,
+    Safe have I led you through the dangerous way,
+    And, as my labour, great my joy at last."
+    Trembling, I answer'd, and my tears flow'd fast,
+    "Lady, could I the blessed thought believe,
+    My faithful love would full reward receive."
+    "O man of little faith!"--her fairest cheek,
+    E'en as she spoke, a warm blush 'gan to streak--
+    "Why should I say it, were it less than true?
+    If you on earth were pleasant in my view
+    I need not ask; enough it pleased to see
+    The best love of that true heart fix'd on me;
+    Well too your genius pleased me, and the fame
+    Which, far and wide, it shower'd upon my name;
+    Your Love had blame in its excess alone,
+    And wanted prudence; while you sought to tell,
+    By act and air, what long I knew and well,
+    To the whole world your secret heart was shown;
+    Thence was the coldness which your hopes distress'd,
+    For such our sympathy in all the rest,
+    As is alone where Love keeps honour's law.
+    Since in your bosom first its birth I saw,
+    One fire our heart has equally inflamed,
+    Except that I conceal'd it, you proclaim'd;
+    And louder as your cry for mercy swell'd,
+    Terror and shame my silence more compell'd,
+    That men my great desire should little think;
+    But ah! concealment makes not sorrow less,
+    Complaint embitters not the mind's distress,
+    Feeling with fiction cannot swell and shrink,
+    But surely then at least the veil was raised,
+    You only present when your verse I praised,
+    And whispering sang, 'Love dares not more to say.'
+    Yours was my heart, though turn'd my eyes away;
+    Grieve you, as cruel, that their grace was such,
+    As kept the little, gave the good and much;
+    Yet oft and openly as they withdrew,
+    Far oftener furtively they dwelt on you,
+    For pity thus, what prudence robb'd, return'd;
+    And ever so their tranquil lights had burn'd,
+    Save that I fear'd those dear and dangerous eyes
+    Might then the secret of my soul surprise.
+    But one thing more, that, ere our parley cease,
+    Memory may shrine my words, as treasures sweet,
+    And this our parting give your spirit peace.
+    In all things else my fortune was complete,
+    In this alone some cause had I to mourn
+    That first I saw the light in humble earth,
+    And still, in sooth, it grieves that I was born
+    Far from the flowery nest where you had birth;
+    Yet fair to me the land where your love bless'd;
+    Haply that heart, which I alone possess'd,
+    Elsewhere had others loved, myself unseen,
+    And I, now voiced by fame, had there inglorious been."
+    "Ah, no!" I cried, "howe'er the spheres might roll,
+    Wherever born, immutable and whole,
+    In life, in death, my great love had been yours."
+    "Enough," she smiled, "its fame for aye endures,
+    And all my own! but pleasure has such power,
+    Too little have we reck'd the growing hour;
+    Behold! Aurora, from her golden bed,
+    Brings back the day to mortals, and the sun
+    Already from the ocean lifts his head.
+    Alas! he warns me that, my mission done,
+    We here must part. If more remain to say,
+    Sweet friend! in speech be brief, as must my stay."
+    Then I: "This kindest converse makes to me
+    All sense of my long suffering light and sweet:
+    But lady! for that now my life must be
+    Hateful and heavy, tell me, I entreat,
+    When, late or early, we again shall meet?"
+    "If right I read the future, long must you
+    Without me walk the earth."
+    She spoke, and pass'd from view.
+
+    MACGREGOR.
+
+
+
+
+THE TRIUMPH OF FAME.
+
+
+PART I.
+
+_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 rear of night,
+    Before the golden wheels of orient light
+    He came. But who the tendant pomp can tell,
+    What mighty master of the corded shell
+    Can sing how heaven above accordant smiled,
+    And what bright pageantry the prospect fill'd.
+    I look'd, but all in vain: the potent ray
+    Flash'd on my sight intolerable day
+    At first; but to the splendour soon inured,
+    My eyes perused the pomp with sight assured.
+    True dignity in every face was seen,
+    As on they march'd with more than mortal mien;
+    And some I saw whom Love had link'd before,
+    Ennobled now by Virtue's lofty lore.
+    Caesar and Scipio on the dexter hand
+    Of the bright goddess led the laurell'd band.
+    One, like a planet by the lord of day,
+    Seem'd o'er-illumined by her splendid ray,
+    By brightness hid; for he, to virtue true,
+    His mind from Love's soft bondage nobly drew.
+    The other, half a slave to female charms,
+    Parted his homage to the god of arms
+    And Love's seductive power: but, close and deep,
+    Like files that climb'd the Capitolian steep
+    In years of yore, along the sacred way
+    A martial squadron came in long array.
+    In ranges as they moved distinct and bright,
+    On every burganet that met the light,
+    Some name of long renown, distinctly read,
+    O'er each majestic brow a glory shed.
+    Still on the noble pair my eyes I bent,
+    And watch'd their progress up the steep ascent.
+    The second Scipio next in line was seen,
+    And he that seem'd the lure of Egypt's queen;
+    With many a mighty chief I there beheld,
+    Whose valorous hand the battle's storm repell'd.
+    Two fathers of the great Cornelian name,
+    With their three noble sons who shared their fame,
+    One singly march'd before, and, hand in hand,
+    His two heroic partners trod the strand.
+    The last was first in fame; but brighter beams
+    His follower flung around in solar streams.
+    Metaurus' champion, whom the moon beheld,
+    When his resistless spears the current swell'd
+    With Libya's hated gore, in arms renown'd
+    Was he, nor less with Wisdom's olive crown'd.
+    Quick was his thought and ready was his hand,
+    His power accomplish'd what his reason plann'd;
+    He seem'd, with eagle eye and eagle wing,
+    Sudden on his predestined game to spring.
+    But he that follow'd next with step sedate
+    Drew round his foe the viewless snare of fate;
+    While, with consummate art, he kept at bay
+    The raging foe, and conquer'd by delay.
+    Another Fabius join'd the stoic pair,
+    The Pauli and Marcelli famed in war;
+    With them the victor in the friendly strife,
+    Whose public virtue quench'd his love of life.
+    With either Brutus ancient Curius came;
+    Fabricius, too, I spied, a nobler name
+    (With his plain russet gown and simple board)
+    Than either Lydian with her golden hoard.
+    Then came the great dictator from the plough;
+    And old Serranus show'd his laurell'd brow.
+    Marching with equal step. Camillus near,
+    Who, fresh and vigorous in the bright career
+    Of honour, sped, and never slack'd his pace,
+    Till Death o'ertook him in the noble race,
+    And placed him in a sphere of fame so high,
+    That other patriots fill'd a lower sky.
+    Even those ungrateful lands that seal'd his doom
+    Recall'd the hanish'd man to rescue Rome.
+    Torquains nigh, a sterner spectre stood,
+    His fasces all besmear'd with filial blood:
+    He childless to the shades resolved to go,
+    Rather than Rome a moment should forego
+    That dreadful discipline, whose rigid lore
+    Had spread their triumphs round from shore to shore.
+    Then the two Decii came, by Heaven inspired,
+    Divinely bold, as when the foe retired
+    Before their Heaven-directed march, amazed,
+    When on the self-devoted men they gazed,
+    Till they provoked their fate. And Curtius nigh,
+    As when to heaven he cast his upward eye,
+    And all on fire with glory's opening charms,
+    Plunged to the Shades below with clanging arms,
+    Laevinus, Mummius, with Flaminius show'd,
+    Like meaner lights along the heavenly road;
+    And he who conquer'd Greece from sea to sea,
+    Then mildly bade th' afflicted race be free.
+    Next came the dauntless envoy, with his wand,
+    Whose more than magic circle on the sand
+    The frenzy of the Syrian king confined:
+    O'er-awed he stood, and at his fate repined.
+    Great Manlius, too, who drove the hostile throng
+    Prone from the steep on which his members hung,
+    (A sad reverse) the hungry vultures' food,
+    When Roman justice claim'd his forfeit blood.
+    Then Cocles came, who took his dreadful stand
+    Where the wide arch the foaming torrent spann'd,
+    Stemming the tide of war with matchless might,
+    And turn'd the heady current of the fight.
+    And he that, stung with fierce vindictive ire,
+    Consumed his erring hand with hostile fire.
+    Duillius next and Catulus were seen,
+    Whose daring navies plough'd the billowy green
+    That laves Pelorus and the Sardian shore,
+    And dyed the rolling waves with Punic gore.
+    Great Appius next advanced in sterner mood,
+    Who with patrician loftiness withstood
+    The clamours of the crowd. But, close behind,
+    Of gentler manners and more equal mind,
+    Came one, perhaps the first in martial might,
+    Yet his dim glory cast a waning light;
+    But neither Bacchus, nor Alcmena's son
+    Such trophies yet by east or west have won;
+    Nor he that in the arms of conquest died,
+    As he, when Rome's stern foes his valour tried
+    Yet he survived his fame. But luckier far
+    Was one that follow'd next, whose golden star
+    To better fortune led, and mark'd his name
+    Among the first in deeds of martial fame:
+    But cruel was his rage, and dipp'd in gore
+    By civil slaughter was the wreath he wore.
+    A less-ensanguined laurel graced the head
+    Of him that next advanced with lofty tread,
+    In martial conduct and in active might
+    Of equal honour in the fields of fight.
+    Then great Volumnius, who expell'd the pest
+    Whose spreading ills the Romans long distress'd.
+    Rutilius Cassus, Philo next in sight
+    Appear'd, like twinkling stars that gild the night.
+    Three men I saw advancing up the vale,
+    Mangled with ghastly wounds through plate and mail;
+    Dentatus, long in standing fight renown'd,
+    Sergius and Scaeva oft with conquest crown'd;
+    The triple terror of the hostile train,
+    On whom the storm of battle broke in vain.
+    Another Sergius near with deep disgrace
+    Marr'd the long glories of his ancient race,
+    Marius, then, the Cimbrians who repell'd
+    From fearful Rome, and Lybia's tyrant quell'd.
+    And Fulvius, who Campania's traitors slew,
+    And paid ingratitude with vengeance due.
+    Another nobler Fulvius next appear'd;
+    And there the Father of the Gracchi rear'd
+    A solitary crest. The following form
+    Was he that often raised the factious storm--
+    Bold Catulus, and he whom fortune's ray
+    Illumined still with beams of cloudless day;
+    Yet fail'd to chase the darkness of the mind,
+    That brooded still on loftier hopes behind.
+    From him a nobler line in two degrees
+    Reduced Numidia to reluctant peace.
+    Crete, Spain, and Macedonia's conquer'd lord
+    Adorn'd their triumphs and their treasures stored.
+    Vespasian, with his son, I next survey'd,
+    An angel soul in angel form array'd;
+    Nor less his brother seem'd in outward grace,
+    But hell within belied a beauteous face.
+    Then Nerva, who retrieved the falling throne,
+    And Trajan, by his conquering eagles known.
+    Adrian, and Antonine the just and good,
+    He, with his son, the golden age renew'd;
+    And ere they ruled the world, themselves subdued.
+    Then, as I turn'd my roving eyes around,
+    Quirinus I beheld with laurel crown'd,
+    And five succeeding kings. The sixth was lost,
+    By vice degraded from his regal post;
+    A sentence just, whatever pride may claim,
+    For virtue only finds eternal Fame.
+
+    BOYD.
+
+
+PART II.
+
+_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 of stern debate,
+    Hamilcar mark'd, who at a distance stood,
+    And eyed the friendly pair in hostile mood.
+    The royal Lydian, with distracted mien,
+    Just as he 'scaped the vengeful flame, was seen
+    And Syphax, who deplored an equal doom,
+    Who paid with life his enmity of Rome;
+    And Brennus, famed for sacrilegious spoil,
+    That, overwhelm'd beneath the rocky pile,
+    Atoned the carnage of his cruel hand,
+    Join'd the long pageant of the martial band;
+    Who march'd in foreign or barbarian guise
+    From every realm and clime beneath the skies
+    But different far in habit from the rest,
+    One tribe with reverent awe my heart impress'd:
+    There he that entertain'd the grand design
+    To build a temple to the Power Divine;
+    With him, to whom the oracles of Heaven
+    The task to raise the sacred pile had given:
+    The task he soon fulfill'd by Heaven assign'd,--
+    But let the nobler temple of the mind
+    To ruin fall, by Love's alluring sway
+    Seduced from duty's hallow'd path astray;
+    Then he that on the flaming hill survived
+    That sight no mortal else beheld, and lived--
+    The Eternal One, and heard, with awe profound,
+    That awful voice that shakes the globe around;
+    With him who check'd the sun in mid career,
+    And stopp'd the burning wheels that mark the sphere,
+    (As a well-managed steed his lord obeys,
+    And at the straiten'd rein his course delays,)
+    And still the flying war the tide of day
+    Pursued, and show'd their bands in wild dismay.--
+    Victorious faith! to thee belongs the prize;
+    In earth thy power is felt, and in the circling skies.--
+    The father next, who erst by Heaven's command
+    Forsook his home, and sought the promised land;
+    The hallow'd scene of wide-redeeming grace:
+    And to the care of Heaven consign'd his race.
+    Then Jacob, cheated in his amorous vows,
+    Who led in either hand a Syrian spouse;
+    And youthful Joseph, famed for self-command,
+    Was seen, conspicuous midst his kindred band.
+    Then stretching far my sight amid the train
+    That hid, in countless crowds, the shaded plain,
+    Good Hezekiah met my raptured sight,
+    And Manoah's son, a prey to female sleight;
+    And he, whose eye foresaw the coming flood,
+    With mighty Nimrod nigh, a man of blood;
+    Whose pride the heaven-defying tower design'd,
+    But sin the rising fabric undermined.
+    Great Maccabeus next my notice claim'd,
+    By Love to Zion's broken laws inflamed;
+    Who rush'd to arms to save a sinking state,
+    Scorning the menace of impending Fate
+    Now satiate with the view, my languid sight
+    Had fail'd, but soon perceived with new delight
+    A train, like Heaven's descending powers, appear,
+    Whose radiance seem'd my cherish'd sight to clear
+    There march'd in rank the dames of ancient days,
+    Antiope, renown'd for martial praise;
+    Orithya near, in glittering armour shone,
+    And fair Hippolyta that wept her son;
+    The sisters whom Alcides met of yore
+    In arms on Thermodon's distinguish'd shore;
+    When he and Theseus foil'd the warlike pair,
+    By force compell'd the nuptial rite to share.
+    The widow'd queen, who seem'd with tranquil smile
+    To view her son upon the funeral pile;
+    But brooding vengeance rankled deep within,
+    So Cyrus fell within the fatal gin:
+    Misconduct, which from age to age convey'd,
+    O'er her long glories cast a funeral shade.
+    I saw the Amazon whom Ilion mourn'd,
+    And her for whom the flames of discord burn'd,
+    Betwixt the Trojan and Rutulian train
+    When her affianced lover press'd the plain;
+    And her, that with dishevell'd tresses flew,
+    Half-arm'd, half-clad, her rebels to subdue.
+    Her partner too in lawless love I spied,
+    A Roman harlot, an incestuous bride.
+    But Tadmor's queen, with nobler fires inflamed,
+    The pristine glory of the sex reclaim'd,
+    Who in the spring of life, in beauty's bloom,
+    Her heart devoted to her husband's tomb;
+    True to his dust, aspiring to the crown
+    Of virtue, in such years but seldom known:
+    With temper'd mail she hid her snowy breast,
+    And with Bellona's helm and nodding crest
+    Despising Cupid's lore, her charms conceal'd,
+    And led the foes of Latium to the field.
+    The shock at ancient Rome was felt afar,
+    And Tyber trembled at the distant war
+    Of foes she held in scorn: but soon she found
+    That Mars his native tribes with conquest crown'd
+    And by her haughty foes in triumph led,
+    The last warm tears of indignation shed.
+    O fair Bethulian! can my vagrant song
+    O'erpass thy virtues in the nameless throng,
+    When he that sought to lure thee to thy shame
+    Paid with his sever'd head his frantic flame?
+    Can Ninus be forgot, whose ancient name
+    Begins the long roll of imperial fame?
+    And he whose pride, by Heaven's imperial doom,
+    Reduced among the grazing herd to roam?
+    Belus, who first beheld the nations sway
+    To idols, from the Heaven-directed way,
+    Though he was blameless? Where does he reside
+    Who first the dangerous art of magic tried?
+    O Crassus! much I mourn the baleful star
+    That o'er Euphrates led the storm of war.
+    Thy troops, by Parthian snares encircled round,
+    Mark'd with Hesperia's shame the bloody ground;
+    And Mithridates, Rome's incessant foe,
+    Who fled through burning plains and tracts of snow
+    Their fell pursuit. But now, the parting strain
+    Must pass, with slight survey, the coming train:
+    There British Arthur seeks his share of fame,
+    And three Caesarian victors join their claim;
+    One from the race of Libya, one from Spain,
+    And last, not least, the pride of fair Lorraine,
+    With his twelve noble peers. Goffredo's powers
+    Direct their march to Salem's sacred towers;
+    And plant his throne beneath the Asian skies,
+    A sacred seat that now neglected lies.
+    Ye lords of Christendom! eternal shame
+    For ever will pursue each royal name,
+    And tell your wolfish rage for kindred blood,
+    While Paynim hounds profane the seat of God!
+    With him the Christian glory seem'd to fall,
+    The rest was hid behind oblivion's pall;
+    Save a few honour'd names, inferior far
+    In peace to guide, or point the storm of war.
+    Yet e'en among the stranger tribes were found
+    A few selected names, in song renown'd.
+    First, mighty Saladin, his country's boast,
+    The scourge and terror of the baptized host.
+    Noradin, and Lancaster fierce in arms,
+    Who vex'd the Gallic coast with long alarms.
+    I look'd around with painful search to spy
+    If any martial form should meet my eye
+    Familiar to my sight in worlds above,
+    The willing objects of respect or love;
+    And soon a well-known face my notice drew,
+    Sicilia's king, to whose sagacious view
+    The scenes of deep futurity display'd
+    Their birth, through coming Time's disclosing shade.
+    There my Colonna, too, with glad surprise,
+    'Mid the pale group, assail'd my startled eyes.
+    His noble soul was all alive to fame,
+    Yet holy friendship mix'd her softer claim,
+    Which in his bosom fix'd her lasting throne,
+    With Charity, that makes the wants of all her own.
+
+    BOYD.
+
+
+PART III.
+
+_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 mournful tale.
+    The woes of Thetis, and Ulysses' toils,
+    His mighty mind recover'd from the spoils
+    Of envious time, and placed in lasting light
+    The trophies ransom'd from oblivion's night
+    The Mantuan bard, responsive to his song,
+    Co-rival of his glory, walk'd along.
+    The next with new surprise my notice drew,
+    Where'er he pass'd spontaneous flowerets grew,
+    Fit emblems of his style; and close behind
+    The great Athenian at his lot repined;
+    Which doom'd him, like a secondary star,
+    To yield precedence in the wordy war;
+    Though like the bolts of Jove that shake the spheres,
+    He lighten'd in their eyes, and thunder'd in their ears.
+    The assembly felt the shock, the immortal sound,
+    His Attic rival's fainter accents drown'd.
+    But now so many candidates for fame
+    In countless crowds and gay confusion came,
+    That Memory seem'd her province to resign,
+    Perplex'd and lost amid the lengthen'd line.
+    Yet Solon there I spied, for laws renown'd,
+    Salubrious plants in clean and cultured ground;
+    But noxious, if malignant hands infuse
+    In their transmuted stems a baneful juice
+    Amongst the Romans, Varro next I spied,
+    The light of linguists, and our country's pride;
+    Still nearer as he moved, the eye could trace
+    A new attraction and a nameless grace.
+    Livy I saw, with dark invidious frown
+    Listening with pain to Sallust's loud renown;
+    And Pliny there, profuse of life I found,
+    Whom love of knowledge to the burning bound
+    Led unawares; and there Plotinus' shade,
+    Who dark Platonic truths in fuller light display'd:
+    He, flying far to 'scape the coming pest,
+    Was, when he seem'd secure, by death oppressed;
+    That, fix'd by fate, before he saw the sun,
+    The careful sophist strove in vain to shun.
+    Hortensius, Crassus, Galba, next appear'd,
+    Calvus and Antony, by Rome revered,
+    The first with Pollio join'd, whose tongue profane
+    Assail'd the fame of Cicero in vain.
+    Thucydides, who mark'd distinct and clear
+    The tardy round of many a bloody year,
+    And, with a master's graphic skill, pourtray'd
+    The fields, "whose summer dust with blood was laid;"
+    And near Herodotus his ninefold roll display'd,
+    Father of history; and Euclid's vest
+    The heaven-taught symbols of that art express'd
+    That measures matter, form, and empty space,
+    And calculates the planets' heavenly race;
+    And Porphyry, whose proud obdurate heart
+    Was proof to mighty Truth's celestial dart;
+    With sophistry assail'd the cause of God,
+    And stood in arms against the heavenly code.
+    Hippocrates, for healing arts renown'd,
+    And half obscured within the dark profound;
+    The pair, whom ignorance in ancient days
+    Adorn'd like deities, with borrow'd rays.
+    Galen was near, of Pergamus the boast,
+    Whose skill retrieved the art so nearly lost.
+    Then Anaxarchus came, who conquer'd pain;
+    And he, whom pleasures strove to lure in vain
+    From duty's path. And first in mournful mood
+    The mighty soul of Archimedes stood;
+    And sage Democritus I there beheld,
+    Whose daring hand the light of vision quell'd,
+    To shun the soul-seducing forms, that play
+    On the rapt fancy in the beam of day:
+    The gifts of fortune, too, he flung aside,
+    By wisdom's wealth, a nobler store, supplied.
+    There Hippias, too, I saw, who dared to claim
+    For general science an unequall'd name.
+    And him, whose doubtful mind and roving eye
+    No certainty in truth itself could spy;
+    With him who in a deep mysterious guise
+    Her heavenly charms conceal'd from vulgar eyes.
+    The frontless cynic next in rank I saw,
+    Sworn foe to decency and nature's modest law.
+    With him the sage, that mark'd, with dark disdain,
+    His wealth consumed by rapine's lawless train;
+    And glad that nothing now remain'd behind,
+    To foster envy in a rival's mind,
+    That treasure bought, which nothing can destroy,
+    "The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy."
+    Then curious Dicaearchus met my view,
+    Who studied nature with sagacious view.
+    Quintilian next, and Seneca were seen,
+    And Chaeronea's sage, of placid mien;
+    All various in their taste and studious toils,
+    But each adorn'd with Learning's splendid spoils.
+    There, too, I saw, in universal jar,
+    The tribes that spend their time in wordy war;
+    And o'er the vast interminable deep
+    Of knowledge, like conflicting tempests, sweep.
+    For truth they never toil, but feed their pride
+    With fuel by eternal strife supplied:
+    No dragon of the wild with equal rage,
+    Nor lions in nocturnal war, engage
+    With hate so deadly, as the learn'd and wise,
+    Who scan their own desert with partial eyes.
+    Carneades, renown'd for logic skill,
+    Who right or wrong, and true and false, at will
+    Could turn and change, employ'd his fruitless pain
+    To reconcile the fierce, contending train:
+    But, ever as he toil'd, the raging pest
+    Of pride, as knowledge grew, with equal speed increased.
+    Then Epicurus, of sinister fame,
+    Rebellious to the lord of nature, came;
+    Who studied to deprive the soaring soul
+    Of her bright world of hope beyond the pole;
+    A mole-ey'd race their hapless guide pursued,
+    And blindly still the vain assault renew'd.
+    Dark Metrodorus next sustain'd the cause,
+    With Aristippus, true to Pleasure's laws.
+    Chrysippus next his subtle web disposed:
+    Zeno alternate spread his hand, and closed;
+    To show how eloquence expands the soul,
+    And logic boasts a close and nervous whole.
+    And there Cleanthes drew the mighty line
+    That led his pupils on, with heart divine,
+    Through time's fallacious joys, by Virtue's road,
+    To the bright palace of the sovereign good.--
+    But here the weary Muse forsakes the throng,
+    Too numerous for the bounds of mortal song.
+
+    BOYD.
+
+
+
+
+THE TRIUMPH OF TIME.
+
+_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 glancing ray,
+    Swift as a falcon darting on its prey;
+    No planet's swift career could match his speed,
+    That seem'd the power of fancy to exceed.
+    The courier of the sky I mark'd with dread,
+    As by degrees the baseless fabric fled
+    That human power had built, while high disdain
+    I felt within to see the toiling train
+    Striving to seize each transitory thing
+    That fleets away on dissolution's wing;
+    And soonest from the firmest grasp recede,
+    Like airy forms, with tantalizing speed.
+    O mortals! ere the vital powers decay,
+    Or palsied eld obscures the mental ray,
+    Raise your affections to the things above,
+    Which time or fickle chance can never move.
+    Had you but seen what I despair to sing,
+    How fast his courser plied the flaming wing
+    With unremitted speed, the soaring mind
+    Had left his low terrestrial cares behind.
+    But what an awful change of earth and sky
+    All in a moment pass'd before my eye!
+    Now rigid winter stretch'd her brumal reign
+    With frown Gorgonean over land and main;
+    And Flora now her gaudy mantle spread,
+    And many a blushing rose adorn'd her bed:
+    The momentary seasons seem'd to fleet
+    From bright solstitial dews to winter's driving sleet.
+    In circle multiform, and swift career:
+    A wondrous tale, untold to mortal ear
+    Before: yet reason's calm unbiass'd view
+    Must soon pronounce the seeming fable true,
+    When deep remorse for many a wasted spring
+    Still haunts the frighted soul on demon wing.
+    Fond hope allured me on with meteor flight,
+    And Love my fancy fed with vain delight,
+    Chasing through fairy fields her pageants gay.
+    But now, at last, a clear and steady ray,
+    From reason's mirror sent, my folly shows,
+    And on my sight the hideous image throws
+    Of what I am--a mind eclipsed and lost,
+    By vice degraded from its noble post
+    But yet, e'en yet, the mind's elastic spring
+    Buoys up my powers on resolution's wing,
+    While on the flight of time, with rueful gaze
+    Intent, I try to thread the backward maze,
+    And husband what remains, a scanty space.
+    Few fleeting hours, alas! have pass'd away,
+    Since a weak infant in the lap I lay;
+    For what is human life but one uncertain day!
+    Now hid by flying vapours, dark and cold,
+    And brighten'd now with gleams of sunny gold,
+    That mock the gazer's eye with gaudy show,
+    And leave the victim to substantial woe:
+    Yet hope can live beneath the stormy sky,
+    And empty pleasures have their pinions ply;
+    And frantic pride exalts the lofty brow,
+    Nor marks the snares of death that lurk below.
+    Uncertain, whether now the shaft of fate
+    Sings on the wind, or heaven prolongs my date.
+    I see my hours run on with cruel speed,
+    And in my doom the fate of all I read;
+    A certain doom, which nature's self must feel
+    When the dread sentence checks the mundane wheel.
+    Go! court the smiles of Hope, ye thoughtless crew!
+    Her fairy scenes disclose an ample view
+    To brainless men. But Wisdom o'er the field
+    Casts her keen glance, and lifts her beamy shield
+    To meet the point of Fate, that flies afar,
+    And with stern vigilance expects the war.
+    Perhaps in vain my admonitions fall,
+    Yet still the Muse repeats the solemn call;
+    Nor can she see unmoved your senses drown'd
+    By Circe's deadly spells in sleep profound.
+    She cannot see the flying seasons roll
+    In dread succession to the final goal,
+    And sweep the tribes of men so fast away,
+    To Stygian darkness or eternal day,
+    With unconcern.--Oh! yet the doom repeal
+    Before your callous hearts forget to feel;
+    E'er Penitence foregoes her fruitless toil,
+    Or hell's black regent claims his human spoil
+    Oh, haste! before the fatal arrows fly
+    That send you headlong to the nether sky
+    When down the gulf the sons of folly go
+    In sad procession to the seat of woe!
+    Thus deeply musing on the rapid round
+    Of planetary speed, in thought profound
+    I stood, and long bewail'd my wasted hours,
+    My vain afflictions, and my squander'd powers:
+    When, in deliberate march, a train was seen
+    In silent order moving o'er the green;
+    A band that seem'd to hold in high disdain
+    The desolating power of Time's resistless reign:
+    Their names were hallow'd in the Muse's song,
+    Wafted by fame from age to age along,
+    High o'er oblivion's deep, devouring wave,
+    Where millions find an unrefunding grave.
+    With envious glance the changeful power beheld
+    The glorious phalanx which his power repell'd,
+    And faster now the fiery chariot flew,
+    While Fame appear'd the rapid flight to rue,
+    And labour'd some to save. But, close behind,
+    I heard a voice, which, like the western wind,
+    That whispers softly through the summer shade,
+    These solemn accents to mine ear convey'd:--
+    "Man is a falling flower; and Fame in vain
+    Strives to protract his momentaneous reign
+    Beyond his bounds, to match the rolling tide,
+    On whose dread waves the long olympiads ride,
+    Till, fed by time, the deep procession grows,
+    And in long centuries continuous flows;
+    For what the power of ages can oppose?
+    Though Tempe's rolling flood, or Hebrus claim
+    Renown, they soon shall live an empty name.
+    Where are their heroes now, and those who led
+    The files of war by Xanthus' gory bed?
+    Or Tuscan Tyber's more illustrious band,
+    Whose conquering eagles flew o'er sea and land?
+    What is renown?--a gleam of transient light,
+    That soon an envious cloud involves in night,
+    While passing Time's malignant hands diffuse
+    On many a noble name pernicious dews.
+    Thus our terrestrial glories fade away,
+    Our triumphs pass the pageants of a day;
+    Our fields exchange their lords, our kingdoms fall,
+    And thrones are wrapt in Hades' funeral pall
+    Yet virtue seldom gains what vice had lost,
+    And oft the hopes of good desert are cross'd.
+    Not wealth alone, but mental stores decay,
+    And, like the gifts of Mammon, pass away;
+    Nor wisdom, wealth, nor fortune can withstand
+    His desolating march by sea and land;
+    Nor prayers, nor regal power his wheels restrain,
+    Till he has ground us down to dust again.
+    Though various are the titles men can plead,
+    Some for a time enjoy the glorious meed
+    That merit claims; yet unrelenting fate
+    On all the doom pronounces soon or late;
+    And whatsoe'er the vulgar think or say,
+    Were not your lives thus shorten'd to a day,
+    Your eyes would see the consummating power
+    His countless millions at a meal devour."
+    And reason's voice my stubborn mind subdued;
+    Conviction soon the solemn words pursued;
+    I saw all mortal glory pass away,
+    Like vernal snows beneath the rising ray;
+    And wealth, and power, and honour, strive in vain
+    To 'scape the laws of Time's despotic reign.
+    Though still to vulgar eyes they seem to claim
+    A lot conspicuous in the lists of Fame,
+    Transient as human joys; to feeble age
+    They love to linger on this earthly stage,
+    And think it cruel to be call'd away
+    On the faint morn of life's disastrous day.
+    Yet ah! how many infants on the breast
+    By Heaven's indulgence sink to endless rest!
+    And oft decrepid age his lot bewails,
+    Whom every ill of lengthen'd life assails.
+    Hence sick despondence thinks the human lot
+    A gift of fleeting breath too dearly bought:
+    But should the voice of Fame's obstreperous blast
+    From ages on to future ages last,
+    E'en to the trump of doom,--how poor the prize
+    Whose worth depends upon the changing skies!
+    What time bestows and claims (the fleeting breath
+    Of Fame) is but, at best, a second death--
+    A death that none of mortal race can shun,
+    That wastes the brood of time, and triumphs o'er the sun.
+
+    BOYD.
+
+
+
+
+THE TRIUMPH OF ETERNITY.
+
+_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 mind,
+    Musing, I ask'd, "What basis I could find
+    To fix my trust?" An inward voice replied,
+    "Trust to the Almighty: He thy steps shall guide;
+    He never fails to hear the faithful prayer,
+    But worldly hope must end in dark despair."
+    Now, what I am, and what I was, I know;
+    I see the seasons in procession go
+    With still increasing speed; while things to come,
+    Unknown, unthought, amid the growing gloom
+    Of long futurity, perplex my soul,
+    While life is posting to its final goal.
+    Mine is the crime, who ought with clearer light
+    To watch the winged years' incessant flight;
+    And not to slumber on in dull delay
+    Till circling seasons bring the doomful day.
+    But grace is never slow in that, I trust,
+    To wake the mind, before I sink to dust,
+    With those strong energies that lift the soul
+    To scenes unhoped, unthought, above the pole.
+    While thus I ponder'd, soon my working thought
+    Once more that ever-changing picture brought
+    Of sublunary things before my view,
+    And thus I question'd with myself anew:--
+    "What is the end of this incessant flight
+    Of life and death, alternate day and night?
+    When will the motion on these orbs impress'd
+    Sink on the bosom of eternal rest?"
+    At once, as if obsequious to my will,
+    Another prospect shone, unmoved and still;
+    Eternal as the heavens that glow'd above,
+    A wide resplendent scene of light and love.
+    The wheels of Phoebus from the zodiac turn'd;
+    No more the nightly constellations burn'd;
+    Green earth and undulating ocean roll'd
+    Away, by some resistless power controll'd;
+    Immensity conceived, and brought to birth
+    A grander firmament, and more luxuriant earth.
+    What wonder seized my soul when first I view'd
+    How motionless the restless racer stood,
+    Whose flying feet, with winged speed before,
+    Still mark'd with sad mutation sea and shore.
+    No more he sway'd the future and the past,
+    But on the moveless present fix'd at last;
+    As at a goal reposing from his toils,
+    Like earth unclothed of all its vernal foils.
+    Unvaried scene! where neither change nor fate,
+    Nor care, nor sorrow, can our joys abate;
+    Nor finds the light of thought resistance here,
+    More than the sunbeams in a crystal sphere.
+    But no material things can match their flight,
+    In speed excelling far the race of light.
+    Oh! what a glorious lot shall then be mine
+    If Heaven to me these nameless joys assign!
+    For there the sovereign good for ever reigns,
+    Nor evil yet to come, nor present pains;
+    No baleful birth of time its inmates fear,
+    That comes, the burthen of the passing year;
+    No solar chariot circles through the signs,
+    And now too near, and now too distant, shines;
+    To wretched man and earth's devoted soil
+    Dispensing sad variety of toil.
+    Oh! happy are the blessed souls that sing
+    Loud hallelujahs in eternal ring!
+    Thrice happy he, who late, at last shall find
+    A lot in the celestial climes assign'd!
+    He, led by grace, the auspicious ford explores,
+    Where, cross the plains, the wintry torrent roars;
+    That troublous tide, where, with incessant strife,
+    Weak mortals struggle through, and call it life.
+    In love with Vanity, oh, doubly blind
+    Are they that final consolation find
+    In things that fleet on dissolution's wing,
+    Or dance away upon the transient ring
+    Of seasons, as they roll. No sound they hear
+    From that still voice that Wisdom's sons revere;
+    No vestment they procure to keep them warm
+    Against the menace of the wintry storm;
+    But all exposed, in naked nature lie,
+    A shivering crowd beneath the inclement sky,
+    Of reason void, by every foe subdued,
+    Self-ruin'd, self-deprived of sovereign good;
+    Reckless of Him, whose universal sway,
+    Matter, and all its various forms, obey;
+    Whether they mix in elemental strife,
+    Or meet in married calm, and foster life.
+    His nature baffles all created mind,
+    In earth or heaven, to fathom, or to find.
+    One glimpse of glory on the saints bestow'd,
+    With eager longings fills the courts of God
+    For deeper views, in that abyss of light,
+    While mortals slumber here, content with night:
+    Though nought, we find, below the moon, can fill
+    The boundless cravings of the human will.
+    And yet, what fierce desire the fancy wings
+    To gain a grasp of perishable things;
+    Although one fleeting hour may scatter far
+    The fruit of many a year's corroding care;
+    Those spacious regions where our fancies roam,
+    Pain'd by the past, expecting ills to come,
+    In some dread moment, by the fates assign'd,
+    Shall pass away, nor leave a rack behind;
+    And Time's revolving wheels shall lose at last
+    The speed that spins the future and the past;
+    And, sovereign of an undisputed throne,
+    Awful eternity shall reign alone.
+    Then every darksome veil shall fleet away
+    That hides the prospects of eternal day:
+    Those cloud-born objects of our hopes and fears,
+    Whose air-drawn forms deluded memory bears
+    As of substantial things, away so fast
+    Shall fleet, that mortals, at their speed aghast,
+    Watching the change of all beneath the moon,
+    Shall ask, what once they were, and will be soon?
+    The time will come when every change shall cease,
+    This quick revolving wheel shall rest in peace:
+    No summer then shall glow, nor winter freeze;
+    Nothing shall be to come, and nothing past,
+    But an eternal now shall ever last.
+    Though time shall be no more, yet space shall give
+    A nobler theatre to love and live
+    The winged courier then no more shall claim
+    The power to sink or raise the notes of Fame,
+    Or give its glories to the noontide ray:
+    True merit then, in everlasting day,
+    Shall shine for ever, as at first it shone
+    At once to God and man and angels known.
+    Happy are they who in this changing sphere
+    Already have begun the bright career
+    That reaches to the goal which, all in vain,
+    The Muse would blazon in her feeble strain:
+    But blest above all other blest is he
+    Who from the trammels of mortality,
+    Ere half the vital thread ran out, was free,
+    Mature for Heaven; where now the matchless fair
+    Preserves those features, that seraphic air,
+    And all those mental charms that raised my mind,
+    To judge of heaven while yet on earth confined.
+    That soft attractive glance that won my heart
+    When first my bosom felt unusual smart,
+    Now beams, now glories, in the realms above,
+    Fed by the eternal source of light and love.
+    Then shall I see her as I first beheld,
+    But lovelier far, and by herself excell'd;
+    And I distinguish'd in the bands above
+    Shall hear this plaudit in the choirs of love:--
+    "Lo! this is he who sung in mournful strains
+    For many years a lover's doubts and pains;
+    Yet in this soul-expanding, sweet employ,
+    A sacred transport felt above all vulgar joy."
+    She too shall wonder at herself to hear
+    Her praises ring around the radiant sphere:
+    But of that hour it is not mine to know;
+    To her, perhaps, the period of my woe
+    Is manifest; for she my fate may find
+    In the pure mirror of the eternal mind.
+    To me it seems at hand a sure presage,
+    Denotes my rise from this terrestrial stage;
+    Then what I gain'd and lost below shall lie
+    Suspended in the balance of the sky,
+    And all our anxious sublunary cares
+    Shall seem one tissue of Arachne's snares;
+    And all the lying vanities of life,
+    The sordid source of envy, hate, and strife,
+    Ignoble as they are, shall then appear
+    Before the searching beam of truth severe;
+    Then souls, from sense refined, shall see the fraud
+    That led them from the living way of God.
+    From the dark dungeon of the human breast
+    All direful secrets then shall rise confess'd,
+    In honour multiplied--a dreadful show
+    To hierarchies above, and saints below.
+    Eternal reason then shall give her doom;
+    And, sever'd wide, the tenants of the tomb
+    Shall seek their portions with instinctive haste,
+    Quick as the savage speeds along the waste.
+    Then shall the golden hoard its trust betray,
+    And they, that, mindless of that dreadful day,
+    Boasted their wealth, its vanity shall know
+    In the dread avenue of endless woe:
+    While they whom moderation's wholesome rule
+    Kept still unstain'd in Virtue's heavenly school,
+    Who the calm sunshine of the soul beneath
+    Enjoy'd, will share the triumph of the Faith.
+
+    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.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET FOUND IN LAURA'S TOMB.
+
+_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.
+
+
+
+
+INDEX.
+
+
+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
+
+
+Beato in sogno, e di languir contento             192
+
+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
+
+
+Cantai, or piango; e non men di dolcezza          203
+
+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
+
+
+Da' piu begli occhi e dal piu chiaro viso         302
+
+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' mi par d' or in ora udire il messo             303
+
+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
+
+
+Far potess' io vendetta di colei                  222
+
+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
+
+
+Gentil mia donna, i' veggio                        74
+
+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 begli occhi, ond' i' fui percosso in guisa       78
+
+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 bella donna che cotanto amavi                   89
+
+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 fu' in parte ove si chiar' vedessi        244
+
+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
+
+
+Ne cosi bello il sol giammai levarsi              141
+
+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 aspettata in ciel, beata e bella                 26
+
+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
+
+
+Pace non trovo, e non ho da far guerra            132
+
+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 donna attende a gloriosa fama                225
+
+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
+
+
+Rapido fiume che d' alpestra vena                 189
+
+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' Amore o Morte non da qualche stroppio           44
+
+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
+
+
+Tacer non posso, e temo non adopre                280
+
+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 candida cerva sopra l' erba                   172
+
+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
+
+
+Zefiro torna, e 'l bel tempo rimena               266
+
+
+TRIUMPHS.
+
+Triumph of Chastity                               361
+
+---- Death                                        371
+
+---- Eternity                                     400
+
+---- Fame                                         381
+
+---- Love                                         322
+
+---- Time                                         394
+
+
+SONNET FOUND IN LAURA'S TOMB                      406
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+LONDON: PRINTED BY WM. CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED
+
+STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems
+of Petrarch, by Petrarch
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SONNETS, TRIUMPHS, AND ***
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