No More Learning

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.