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?
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?
Petrarch
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.
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.
