No More Learning

Petrarch then pronounced an oration on 'Poetry and Fame. '
When all was over, he carried the crown to St. Peter's and set it
upon the altar, an offering of pious gratitude and joy.
The remainder of his external life is mostly a record of jour-
neys and removals and brief sojourns in France and Northern Italy.
Besides Vaucluse, he had houses at Parma, at Modena, at Bologna,
at Verona, at Milan, at Venice, at Padua; whence he made his last
removal in 1370 to Arquà del Monte, a most romantic little village
among the Euganean Hills. In the outskirts even of this sequestered
hamlet, he set an orchard, planted a garden, and built a modest
house, which, with some reminiscences of its illustrious owner, such
as faded frescoes in allusion to his poems, is still accessible to vis-
itors, the only one of all his residences which can to-day be iden-
tified. Here, on the 20th day of July, 1374, his seventieth birthday.
he was found by his friend Lombardo da Serico dead in his study,
with his head reclined on a book. He had a grand funeral, and was
buried in front of the village church. His monument is a sarcopha-
gus on short columns of red marble. Upon it is a more recent bust
of the poet. Beneath is the following rhymed hexameter triplet:-
"Frigida Francisci lapis hic tegit ossa Petrarci.
Suscipe Virgo parens animam! Sate virgine, parce!
Fessaque nam terris celi requiescat in arce. »
The substance of which is:
This stone covers the mortal remains of Francis Petrarch;
O Virgin mother, receive his soul! Son of the Virgin, have mercy on it!
His earthly life was weary; let him have rest in the heavenly temple.
In enormous and almost incredible learning, as well as in con-
temporary and succeeding poetical fame, Petrarch was and is only
second to Dante. He differed greatly from him, however, in several
capital qualities. The temper of Dante was pre-eminently democratic;
and the spirit of all his writings aimed at instructing and elevating
the people, and in particular at building up the vulgar tongue. Pe-
trarch was a literary aristocrat, and despised the vulgar tongue; but
his labors in behalf of the Latin classics-in which he was no doubt
even more deeply learned than his great predecessor—were unparal-
leled and invaluable; and so great, indeed, was the encouragement
which he gave to the studies in Latin, that he may fairly be regarded
as the father of the revival of the vulgar literature, and of the classic
art which became transfused into it.
1


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11363
Judged by the cold blood of later times, Petrarch was an over-
enthusiastic admirer of ancient Rome and her glories. It was an
exaggerated picture, perhaps (if that were possible), which he drew
of her grandeur in his 'Africa,' written in Latin hexameters, where
he paints with superb eloquence Scipio, Lælius, Masinissa, Ennius,
and other great characters; ornamenting his poem with splendid
descriptions and artificial orations. But by it he won his laureateship;
and it was through the possession of this "exaggerated» zeal that he
became the admirer and friend of Cola di Rienzo, and was inspired
to write that immortal canzone which still kindles every true Italian
heart, 'Spirto Gentil,' given at the end of this article in Major Mac-
gregor's very good translation. That this sentiment was founded in
loyal patriotism, as he understood it, would be sufficiently evinced,
if we had nothing more, by the celebrated canzone 'Italia Mia,'
which is here given in the almost perfect translation of Lady Dacre.
Surely never has patriotic affection been clothed in warmer or more
exquisite numbers.
Without deciding whether it was a cause or a consequence of his
"exaggerated" love and admiration of Roman antiquity, it is a fact
that in familiarity with, and in abundance and elegance of writing
in, the Latin tongue, he has not even been approached by any other
modern. He left a very great number of works in Latin, both prose
and verse, upon a very great variety of subjects, religious, political,
philosophical; for the most part of no inherent interest to-day, and
far too numerous to be even named here. Some of the more famous
and curious will show their drift by their titles: 'De Remediis Utrius-
que Fortunæ (Concerning the Remedies for Either Fortune), develop-
ing the doctrine of the Stoics, that "Not the good things of life are
truly good, nor the ills truly bad, but that the good consists in sub-
duing the passions"; "De Vita Solitaria' (On Solitude); 'De Ocio Reli-
giosorum' (On the Soul-Rest of the Religious), written after his visit
to his brother, who was a monk; 'Secretum' (Private), a confession
to St. Augustine in the presence of personified Truth,—an important
work for understanding the mind of Petrarch, and the true nature of
his love for the lady Laura. There are many volumes of letters in
Latin, sometimes in prose, sometimes in verse, often really a short
treatise or oration: the 'Familiari' (To a Friend); Senili' (To an
Old Man), one of which is really a Latin translation of the story of
Griselda in the 'Decameron'; 'Variæ' (Miscellanies); one, 'Ad Pos-
teros' (To Posterity), brings his autobiography up to the year 1351.
He says he had burned more than he preserved.
Petrarch differed from Dante in another aspect, which is twofold.
Dante is often rough and sometimes imperfect in his numbers; but
his invention is Homeric, and never sleeps. Petrarch's invention is


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11364
PETRARCH
often dull; but the utmost refinement and perfection of poetic style,
and the extreme finish of every line, are never absent.
Still another distinction between them, though each was marvelous
in his own way, is that Dante is a universal poet, embracing in his
matter the whole sphere of theology, science, and politics, as well as
all places from the centre of the earth to the zenith of the highest
heaven, and all times from the creation of the world to the final
Judgment Day; whereas the only matter of Petrarch in his Italian
poetry is the passion of human love, and this all centred about one
beautiful woman. The Canzoniere,' on which his immortal fame
depends, consist of more than three hundred sonnets, canzoni, ses-
tine, dancing-songs, and pastorals, and with a half-dozen exceptions,
chiefly patriotic. There is not one in which his love for Laura is not
wrought in, either as foundation or ornament.
This might well enough be expected to produce an intolerable
monotony; and theoretically, the more familiar one should become
with them the more sensibly the monotony would be felt. Except in
the work of an extraordinary genius, equipped with superlative art,
this must undoubtedly hold good. But in fact, in the case of Petrarch
the opposite is true. The character of monotony is not really there;
and the more often one reads the "Rhymes," the less of monotony
is felt, and the more particular and individual each sonnet and can-
zone is perceived to be. Of this curious paradox the poet Campbell
has given a very ingenious and pretty explanation, as follows:-
"This monotony," he says, "impresses the reader exactly in proportion to
the slenderness of his acquaintance with the poet. Approaching the sonnets
for the first time, they may probably appear to him as like to each other as
the sheep of a flock; but when he has become 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 its face. "
Yet again, Dante wrote his great poem in all the panoply of
the poetic art, precisely anticipating immortality for himself and his
work, with posterity distinctly in his view, -as he tells us over and
over again in the Vita Nuova': while Petrarch calls his Italian
poems 'Nuga' (Trifles), which he threw off, in the fugitive transports
of his soul, for the eye of one dear lady, according to the varying
moods of passion and the changing circumstances of life; of necessity
leaving, under all their glittering poetic armor, here and there a vul-
nerable spot, through which the critics could shoot their querulous
shafts, and have often done so. Among these the poet Campbell —
whom we have just quoted, and who is as querulous as any-closes
his criticisms on what he calls Petrarch's "affected refinements" and


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PETRARCH
11365
"unnatural conceits" with refreshing frankness, saying: "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 favorite of the world for 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. »
This answer is very true. But the question returns, "From what
extraordinary particulars has arisen this overtopping regard for Pe-
trarch's poetry in the mind of Italy? " We confidently answer, first,
from the "melting melody" of his verse; in which, taking into
account the quantity he has left, he easily surpasses all others who
have used that harmonious speech. Secondly, that he has treated
the tenderest sentiment of universal humanity not only far more
copiously, in the mere number of touching lines, than any other Ital-
ian poet, but with a marvelous absence of repetition he goes ever on
and on with his delicious numbers, drawing ever new similitudes
and pictures, which are continually bringing silent thoughts of sweet-
ness to the reader's mind. Finally, there is in his handiwork a tone
all his own, an unwonted and peculiar way of expressing the senti-
ment of love; not sensual, not conventional, not over-metaphysical,
but natural and truly human: in still other words, while clothed with
a purity fit for the most virtuous and modest lady's ear, his lines,
radiant with beauty and of bewitching melody, yet breathe a tender-
ness, a sincerity, a manliness, not surpassed by Tibullus, or any of the
most objectionable of the famous old classic pagans.
It is this quality, so bewitching in the original, of Petrarch's Ital-
ian poetry,- subtle and evanescent as the fragrance of a rose,-in
which perhaps lies the greatest difference of all between the two
supreme poets of Italy, and renders the stanzas of Petrarch the
despair of every translator into a foreign tongue. Not only are the
unparalleled melodies of his delicious numbers impossible to be car-
ried over into other measures and other sounds, but the sweet images,
as ethereal as the fleecy clouds of June, are shy of another zone.
No English poet has attempted a complete translation of Petrarch's
Italian poetry. Such translations as exist are fragmentary, by differ-
ent hands, and of very unequal merit. We have selected the most
celebrated morsels, and in the translations which seemed to bring to
us the most successfully that which Petrarch has given to those who
are native to the language and the scenery of Italy.
JF. Bingha


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11366
PETRARCH
«ITALIA MIA, BENCHÈ 'L PARLAR SIA INDARNO»
TO THE PRINCES OF ITALY, EXHORTING THEM TO SET HER FREE
My Own Italy! though words are vain
The mortal wounds to close,
Unnumbered, that thy beauteous bosom stain,
Yet may it soothe my pain
To sigh forth Tiber's woes,
And Arno's wrongs, as on Po's saddened shore
Sorrowing I wander, and my numbers pour.
Ruler of heaven! By the all-pitying love
That could thy Godhead move
To dwell a lowly sojourner on earth,
Turn, Lord! on this thy chosen land thine eye:
See, God of Charity!
From what light cause this cruel war has birth;
And the hard hearts by savage discord steeled,
Thou, Father! from on high,
Touch by my humble voice, that stubborn wrath may yield!
O
Ye, to whose sovereign hands the fates confide
Of this fair land the reins,-
(This land for which no pity wrings your breast,).
Why does the stranger's sword her plains invest?
That her green fields be dyed,
Hope ye, with blood from the Barbarians' veins ?
Beguiled by error weak,
Ye see not, though to pierce so deep ye boast,
Who love or faith in venal bosoms seek:
When thronged your standards most,
Ye are encompassed most by hostile bands.
Oh, hideous deluge gathered in strange lands,
That rushing down amain
-
O'erwhelms our every native lovely plain!
Alas! if our own hands
Have thus our weal betrayed, who shall our cause sustain ?
Well did kind Nature, guardian of our State,
Rear her rude Alpine heights,
A lofty rampart against German hate:
But blind ambition, seeking his own ill,
With ever restless will,
To the pure gales contagion foul invites;
Within the same strait fold


## p. 11367 (#591) ##########################################

PETRARCH
11367
The gentle flocks and wolves relentless throng,
Where still meek innocence must suffer wrong:
And these-oh, shame avowed! -
Are of the lawless hordes no tie can hold;
Fame tells how Marius's sword
Erewhile their bosoms gored,-
Nor has Time's hand aught blurred the record proud!
When they who, thirsting, stooped to quaff the flood,
With the cool waters mixed, drank of a comrade's blood!
Great Cæsar's name I pass, who o'er our plains
Poured forth the ensanguined tide,
Drawn by our own good swords from out their veins;
But now-nor know I what ill stars preside —
Heaven holds this land in hate!
To you the thanks, whose hands control her helm!
You, whose rash feuds despoil
Of all the beauteous earth the fairest realm!
Are ye impelled by judgment, crime, or fate,
To oppress the desolate?
From broken fortunes and from humble toil
The hard-earned dole to wring,
While from afar ye bring
Dealers in blood, bartering their souls for hire?
In truth's great cause I sing,
Nor hatred nor disdain my earnest lay inspire.
Nor mark ye yet, confirmed by proof on proof,
Bavaria's perfidy,
Who strikes in mockery, keeping death aloof?
(Shame, worse than aught of loss, in honor's eye! )
While ye, with honest rage, devoted pour
Your inmost bosom's gore! -
Yet give one hour to thought,
And ye shall own how little he can hold
Another's glory dear, who sets his own at naught.
O Latin blood of old!
Arise, and wrest from obloquy thy fame,
Nor bow before a name
Of hollow sound, whose power no laws enforce!
For if barbarians rude
Have higher minds subdued,
Ours! ours the crime! - Not such wise Nature's course.
Ah! is not this the soil my foot first pressed?
And here, in cradled rest,


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11368
PETRARCH
Was I not softly hushed? here fondly reared?
Ah! is not this my country? so endeared
By every filial tie!
In whose lap shrouded both my parents lie!
Oh! by this tender thought,
Your torpid bosoms to compassion wrought,
Look on the people's grief!
Who, after God, of you expect relief;
And if ye but relent,
Virtue shall rouse her in embattled might,
Against blind fury bent,
Nor long shall doubtful hang the unequal fight;
For no-the ancient flame
Is not extinguished yet, that raised the Italian name!
Mark, sovereign lords! how Time, with pinion strong,
Swift hurries life along!
E'en now, behold! Death presses on the rear.
We sojourn here a day-the next, are gone!
The soul disrobed, alone,
Must shuddering seek the doubtful pass we fear.
Oh! at the dreaded bourne,
Abase the lofty brow of wrath and scorn,-
Storms adverse to the eternal calm on high!
And yet, whose cruelty
Has sought another's harm, by fairer deed
Of heart, or hand, or intellect, aspire
To win the honest meed
Of just renown- the noble mind's desire!
Thus sweet on earth the stay!
Thus to the spirit pure, unbarred is Heaven's way!
My song! with courtesy, and numbers sooth,
Thy daring reasons grace;
For thou the mighty, in their pride of place,
Must woo to gentle ruth,
Whose haughty will long evil customs nurse,
Ever to truth averse!
Thee better fortunes wait,
Among the virtues few, the truly great!
Tell them- but who shall bid my terrors cease?
Peace! Peace! on thee I call!
Return, O heaven-born Peace!
Translation of Lady Dacre.


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PETRARCH
11369
"SPIRTO GENTIL CHE QUELLE MEMBRA REGGI»
TO RIENZI, BESEECHING HIM TO RESTORE TO ROME HER ANCIENT
LIBERTY
PIRIT heroic! who with fire divine
SPIR
Kindlest those limbs, awhile which pilgrim hold
On earth a chieftain gracious, wise, and bold;
Since rightly now the rod of State is thine,
Rome and her wandering children to confine,
And yet reclaim her to the old good way;
To thee I speak, for elsewhere not a ray
Of virtue can I find, extinct below,
Nor one who feels of evil deeds the shame.
Why Italy still waits, and what her aim,
I know not: callous to her proper woe,
Indolent, aged, slow,
Still will she sleep? Is none to rouse her found?
Oh that my wakening hands were through her tresses wound!
So grievous is the spell, the trance so deep,
Loud though we call, my hope is faint that e'er
She yet will waken from her heavy sleep;
But not, methinks, without some better end
Was this our Rome intrusted to thy care,
Who surest may revive and best defend.
Fearlessly then upon that reverend head,
'Mid her disheveled locks, thy fingers spread,
And lift at length the sluggard from the dust;
I, day and night, who her prostration mourn,
For this in thee have fixed my certain trust,-
That if her sons yet turn,
And their eyes ever true to honor raise,
The glory is reserved for thy illustrious days!
Her ancient walls, which still with fear and love
The world admires, whene'er it calls to mind
The days of eld, and turns to look behind;
Her hoar and caverned monuments above
The dust of men, whose fame, until the world
In dissolution sink, can never fail;
Her all, that in one ruin now lies hurled,
Hopes to have healed by thee its every ail.


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PETRARCH
11370
O faithful Brutus, noble Scipios, dead!
To you what triumph, where ye now are blest,
If of our worthy choice the fame have spread:
And how his laureled crest
Will old Fabricius rear, with joy elate,
That his own Rome again shall beauteous be and great!
And if for things of earth its care Heaven show,
The souls who dwell above in joy and peace,
And their mere mortal frames have left below,
Implore thee this long civil strife may cease,
Which kills all confidence, nips every good,
Which bars the way to many a roof where men
Once holy, hospitable lived, the den
Of fearless rapine now and frequent blood,
Whose doors to virtue only are denied.
While beneath plundered saints, in outraged fanes
Plots faction, and revenge the altar stains;
And contrast sad and wide-
-
―――――
The very bells which sweetly wont to fling
Summons to prayer and praise, now battle's tocsin ring!
Pale weeping women, and a friendless crowd
Of tender years, infirm and desolate Age,
Which hates itself and its superfluous days,
With each blest order to religion vowed,
Whom works of love through lives of want engage.
To thee for help their hands and voices raise;
While our poor panic-stricken land displays
The thousand wounds which now so mar her frame
That e'en from foes compassion they command;
Or more if Christendom thy care may claim,
Lo! God's own house on fire, while not a hand
Moves to subdue the flame:
Heal thou these wounds, this feverish tumult end,
And on the holy work Heaven's blessing shall descend!
Often against our marble column high,
Wolf, Lion, Bear, proud Eagle, and base Snake
Even to their own injury insult shower;
Lifts against thee and theirs her mournful cry
The noble Dame who calls thee here to break
Away the evil weeds which will not flower.
A thousand years and more! and gallant men
There fixed her seat in beauty and in power;


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PETRARCH
11371
The breed of patriot hearts has failed since then!
And in their stead, upstart and haughty now,
A race which ne'er to her in reverence bends,
Her husband, father thou!
Like care from thee and counsel she attends,
As o'er his other works the Sire of all extends.
'Tis seldom e'en that with our fairest schemes
Some adverse fortune will not mix, and mar
With instant ill, ambition's noblest dreams;
But thou, once ta'en thy path, so walk that I
May pardon her past faults, great as they are,
If now at least she give herself the lie.
For never in all memory as to thee,
To mortal man so sure and straight the way
Of everlasting honor open lay,
For thine the power and will, if right I see,
To lift our empire to its old proud state.
Let this thy glory be!
They succored her when young and strong and great;
He, in her weak old age, warded the stroke of Fate.
Forth on thy way! my song, and where the bold
Tarpeian lifts his brow, shouldst thou behold,
Of others' weal more thoughtful than his own,
The chief, by general Italy revered,
Tell him from me, to whom he is but known
As one to virtue and by fame endeared,
Till stamped upon his heart the sad truth be,
That day by day to thee,
With suppliant attitude and streaming eyes,
For justice and relief our seven-hilled city cries.
Translation of Major Macgregor.
«VERGINE BELLA CHE DI SOL VESTITA »
TO THE VIRGIN MARY
Β'
EAUTIFUL Virgin! clothed with the sun,
Crowned with the stars, who so the eternal sun
Well pleasèdst that in thine his light he hid;
Love pricks me on to utter speech of thee,
And-feeble to commence without thy aid —
Of Him who on thy bosom rests in love.
Her I invoke who gracious still replies


## p. 11372 (#596) ##########################################

11372
PETRARCH
To all who ask in faith:
Virgin! if ever yet
The misery of man and mortal things
To mercy moved thee, to my prayer incline;
Help me in this my strife,
Though I am but of dust, and thou heaven's radiant Queen!
Wise Virgin! of that lovely number one,-
Of virgins blest and wise
Even the first, and with the brightest lamp:
O solid buckler of afflicted hearts!
'Neath which against the blows of fate and death,
Not mere deliverance but great victory is;
Relief from the blind ardor which consumes
Vain mortals here below!
Virgin! those lustrous eyes,
Which tearfully beheld the cruel prints
In the fair limbs of thy beloved Son,
Ah! turn on my sad doubt,
Who friendless, helpless thus, for counsel come to thee!
-
O Virgin! pure and perfect in each part,
Maiden or Mother, from thy honored birth,
This life to lighten and the next adorn;
O bright and lofty gate of opened heaven!
By thee, thy Son, and His the Almighty Sire,
In our worst need to save us came below:
And from amid all other earthly seats,
Thou only wert elect,
Virgin supremely blest!
The tears of Eve who turnedst into joy;
Make me, thou canst, yet worthy of his grace,
Oh, happy without end,
Who art in highest heaven a saint immortal shrined!
O holy Virgin! full of every good,
Who, in humility most deep and true,
To heaven art mounted, thence my prayers to hear,
That fountain thou of pity didst produce,
That sun of justice, light, which calms and clears
Our age, else clogged with errors dark and foul.
Three sweet and precious names in thee combine,
Of mother, daughter, wife,
Virgin! with glory crowned,
Queen of that King who has unloosed our bonds,


## p. 11373 (#597) ##########################################

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11373
And free and happy made the world again,
By whose most sacred wounds
I pray my heart to fix where true joys only are!
Virgin! of all unparalleled, alone,
Who with thy beauties hast enamored heaven,
Whose like has never been, nor e'er shall be;
For holy thoughts with chaste and pious acts
To the true God a sacred living shrine
In thy fecund virginity have made.
By thee, dear Mary, yet my life may be
Happy, if to thy prayers,
O Virgin meek and mild!
Where sin abounded grace shall more abound!
With bended knee and broken heart I pray
That thou my guide wouldst be,
And to such prosperous end direct my faltering way.
Bright Virgin! and immutable as bright,
O'er life's tempestuous ocean the sure star
Each trusting mariner that truly guides,—
Look down, and see amid this dreadful storm
How I am tost at random and alone,
And how already my last shriek is near;
Yet still in thee, sinful although and vile
My soul keeps all her trust:
Virgin! I thee implore,
Let not thy foe have triumph in my fall;
Remember that our sin made God himself,
To free us from its chain,
Within thy virgin womb our image on him take!
[vain,
Virgin! what tears already have I shed,
Cherished what dreams and breathed what prayers in
But for my own worse penance and sure loss:
Since first on Arno's shore I saw the light
Till now, whate'er I sought, wherever turned,
My life has passed in torment and in tears;
For mortal loveliness in air, act, speech,
Has seized and soiled my soul:
O Virgin! pure and good,
Delay not till I reach my life's last year;
Swifter than shaft and shuttle are, my days
'Mid misery and sin
Have vanished all, and now death only is behind!


## p. 11374 (#598) ##########################################

11374
PETRARCH
Virgin! She now is dust who living held
My heart in grief, and plunged it since in gloom;
She knew not of my many ills this one,—
And had she known, what since befell me still
Had been the same, for every other wish
Was death to me and ill renown for her;
But, Queen of heaven, our Goddess, if to thee
Such homage be not sin,——
Virgin! of matchless mind,
Thou knowest now the whole; and that which else
No other can, is naught to thy great power:
Deign then my grief to end,–
Thus honor shall be thine, and safe my peace at last!
Virgin in whom I fix my every hope,
Who canst and willst assist me in great need,
Forsake me not in this my worst extreme:
Regard not me, but Him who made me thus;
Let his high image stamped on my poor worth
Towards one so low and lost thy pity move.
Medusa spells have made me as a rock
Distilling a vain flood:
Virgin! my harassed heart
With pure and pious tears do thou fulfill,
That its last sigh at least may be devout,
And free from earthly taint
As was my earliest vow ere madness filled my veins!
Virgin! benevolent, and foe of pride,
Ah! let the love of our one Author win
Some mercy for a contrite humble heart;
For if her poor frail mortal dust I loved
With loyalty so wonderful and long,
Much more my faith and gratitude for thee.
From this my present sad and sunken state
If by thy help I rise,
Virgin!
to thy dear name
I consecrate and cleanse my thoughts, speech, pen,
My mind, and heart with all its tears and sighs;
Point then that better path,
And with complacence view my changed desires at last.
The day must come, nor distant far its date,
Time flies so swift and sure,
Oh, peerless and alone!


## p. 11375 (#599) ##########################################

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11375
When death my heart, now conscience-struck, shall seize;
Commend me, Virgin! then to thy dear Son,
True God and Very Man,
That my last sigh in peace may in his arms be breathed!
Translation of Major Macgregor.
"CHIARE, FRESCHE E DOLCI ACQUE»
TO THE FOUNTAIN OF VAUCLUSE-CONTEMPLATIONS OF DEATH
YE
´E LIMPID brooks, by whose clear streams
My goddess laid her tender limbs!
Ye gentle boughs, whose friendly shade
Gave shelter to the lovely maid!
Ye herbs and flowers, so sweetly pressed
By her soft rising snowy breast!
Ye zephyrs mild, that breathed around
The place where Love my heart did wound!
Now at my summons all appear,
And to my dying words give ear.
If then my destiny requires,
And Heaven with my fate conspires,
That Love these eyes should weeping close,
Here let me find a soft repose.
So death will less my soul affright,
And free from dread, my weary sprite
Naked alone will dare t' essay
The still unknown, though beaten way;
Pleased that her mortal part will have
So safe a port, so sweet a grave.
The cruel fair, for whom I burn,
May one day to these shades return,
And smiling with superior grace,
Her lover seek around this place;
And when instead of me she finds
Some crumbling dust tossed by the winds,
She may feel pity in her breast,
And sighing, wish me happy rest,
Drying her eyes with her soft veil:
Such tears must sure with Heaven prevail.
Well I remember how the flowers
Descended from these boughs in showers,


## p. 11376 (#600) ##########################################

11376
PETRARCH
Encircled in the fragrant cloud
She sat, nor 'midst such glory proud.
These blossoms to her lap repair,
These fall upon her flowing hair,
(Like pearls enchased in gold they seem,)
These on the ground, these on the stream;
In giddy rounds these dancing say,
"Here Love and Laura only sway. "
In rapturous wonder oft I said,
Sure she in Paradise was made;
Thence sprang that bright angelic state,
Those looks, those words, that heavenly gait,
That beauteous smile, that voice divine,
Those graces that around her shine.
Transported I beheld the fair,
And sighing cried, How came I here?
In heaven, amongst th' immortal blest,
Here let me fix and ever rest.
Translation of R. Molesworth.
«ERANO I CAPEI D'ORO ALL' AURA SPARSI”
HE PAINTS THE BEAUTIES OF LAURA, PROTESTING HIS UNALTERABLE
LOVE
L
OOSE to the breeze her golden tresses flowed,
Wildly in thousand mazy ringlets blown,
And from her eyes unconquered glances shone,
Those glances now so sparingly bestowed.
And true or false, meseemed some signs she showed
As o'er her cheek soft pity's hue was thrown;
I, whose whole breast with love's soft food was sown,
What wonder if at once my bosom glowed?
Graceful she moved, with more than mortal mien,
In form an angel; and her accents won
Upon the ear with more than human sound.
A spirit heavenly pure, a living sun,
Was what I saw; and if no more 'twere seen,
.
T'unbend the bow will never heal the wound.
Translation Anonymous: Oxford, 1795.


## p. 11377 (#601) ##########################################

PETRARCH
11377
«IN QUAL PARTE DEL CIELO, IN QUALE IDEA »
HE EXTOLS THE BEAUTY AND VIRTUE OF LAURA
SAY
AY from what part of heaven 'twas Nature drew,
From what idea, that so perfect mold
To form such features, bidding us behold,
In charms below, what she above could do?
What fountain nymph, what dryad maid e'er threw
Upon the wind such tresses of pure gold?
What heart such numerous virtues can unfold?
Although the chiefest all my fond hopes slew.
He for celestial charms may look in vain
Who has not seen my fair one's radiant eyes,
And felt their glances pleasingly beguile.
How Love can heal his wounds, then wound again,
He only knows who knows how sweet her sighs,
How sweet her converse, and how sweet her smile.
Translation of Rev. Dr. Nott.
THE DEATH-BED OF LAURA
N°
O POWER of darkness, with ill influence, dared
Within a space so holy to intrude,
Till Death his terrible triumph had declared.
Then hushed was all lament, all fear subd ed;
Each on those beauteous features gazed intent,
And from despair was armed with fortitude.
As a pure flame that not by force is spent,
But faint and fainter softly dies away
Passed gently forth in peace the soul, content;
And as a light of clear and steady ray.
When fails the source from which its brightness flows,
She to the last held on her wonted way.
Pale, was she? no; but white as shrouding snows,
That, when the winds are lulled, fall silently,
She seemed as one o'erwearied to repose.
E'en as in balmy slumbers lapt to lie
(The spirit parted from the form below),
In her appeared what th' unwise term to die;
And Death sate beauteous on her beauteous brow.
XIX-712
Translation of Lady Dacre.


## p. 11378 (#602) ##########################################

11378
PETRARCH
"OIMÉ IL BEL VISO! OIMÉ IL SOAVE AGUARDO! »
ON THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE DEATH OF LAURA
A
LAS! that touching glance, that beauteous face!
Alas! that dignity with sweetness fraught!
Alas! that speech which tamed the wildest thought!
That roused the coward, glory to embrace;
Alas! that smile which in me did encase
The fatal dart, whence here I hope for naught.
Oh! hadst thou earlier our regions sought,
The world had then confessed thy sovereign grace!
In thee I breathed; life's flame was nursed by thee,
For I was thine; and since of thee bereaved,
Each other woe hath lost its venomed sting:
My soul's blest joy! when last thy voice on me
In music fell, my heart sweet hope conceived;
Alas! thy words have sped on zephyrs' wing!
Translation of Miss Wollaston.
"SE LAMENTAR AUGELLI, O VERDI FRONDE»
SHE IS EVER PRESENT TO HIM
I'
F THE the lorn bird complain, or rustling weep
Soft summer airs o'er foliage waving slow,
Or the hoarse brook come murmuring down the steep,
Where on the enameled bank I sit below,
With thoughts of love that bid my numbers flow,-
'Tis then I see her, though in earth she sleep!
Her, formed in heaven! I see, and hear, and know!
Responsive sighing, weeping as I weep:
"Alas! " she pitying says, «< ere yet the hour,
Why hurry life away with swifter flight?
Why from thy eyes this flood of sorrow pour?
No longer mourn my fate! through death my days
Become eternal! to eternal light
These eyes, which seemed in darkness closed, I raise! "
Translation of Lady Dacre.


## p. 11379 (#603) ##########################################

PETRARCH
11379
"ALMA FELICE, CHE SOVENTE TORNI»
HE THANKS HER THAT FROM TIME TO TIME SHE RETURNS TO CONSOLE
HIM WITH HER PRESENCE
WHE
HEN welcome slumber locks my torpid frame,
I see thy spirit in the midnight dream;
Thine eyes that still in living lustre beam:
In all but frail mortality the same.
Ah! then, from earth and all its sorrows free,
Methinks I meet thee in each former scene,
Once the sweet shelter of a heart serene;
Now vocal only while I weep for thee.
For thee! -ah, no! From human ills secure,
Thy hallowed soul exults in endless day,
'Tis I who linger on the toilsome way.
No balm relieves the anguish I endure,
Save the fond feeble hope that thou art near
To soothe my sufferings with an angel's tear.
Translation of Anne Bannerman.
"I HO PIEN DI SOSPIR QUEST' AER TUTTO»
VAUCLUSE HAS BECOME TO HIM A SCENE OF PAIN
NO EVERY Sound, save sighs, this air is mute,
T
When from rude rocks I view the smiling land
Where she was born, who held my life in hand
From its first bud till blossoms turned to fruit.
To heaven she's gone, and I left destitute
To mourn her loss, and cast around in pain
These wearied eyes, which, seeking her in vain
Where'er they turn, o'erflow with grief acute;
There's not a root or stone amongst these hills,
Nor branch nor verdant leaf 'midst these soft glades,
Nor in the valley flowery herbage grows,
Nor liquid drop the sparkling fount distils,
Nor savage beast that shelters in these shades,
But knows how sharp my grief-how deep my woes.
Translation of Mrs. Wrottesley.


## p. 11380 (#604) ##########################################

11380
PETRARCH
«PASSATO È 'L TEMPO OMAI, LASSO! CHE TANTO »
HIS ONLY DESIRE IS AGAIN TO BE WITH HER
Α'
H! GONE for ever are the happy years
That soothed my soul amid love's fiercest fire,
And she for whom I wept and tuned my lyre
Has gone, alas! —but left my lyre, my tears:
Gone is the face, whose holy look endears;
But in my heart, ere yet it did retire,
Left the sweet radiance of its eyes entire ;
My heart? Ah, no! not mine! for to the spheres
Of light she bore it captive, soaring high,
In angel robe triumphant, and now stands
Crowned with the laurel wreath of chastity:
Oh, could I throw aside these earthly bands
That tie me down where wretched mortals sigh,
To join blest spirits in celestial lands!
Ο
Translation of Dr. Morehead.
"SENTO L' AURA MIA ANTICA, E I DOLCI COLLI»
HE REVISITS VAUCLUSE
NCE more, ye balmy gales, I feel you blow;
Again, sweet hills, I mark the morning beams
Gild your green summits; while your silver streams
Through vales of fragrance undulating flow.
But you, ye dreams of bliss, no longer here
Give life and beauty to the glowing scene;
For stern remembrance stands where you have been,
And blasts the verdure of the blooming year.
O Laura! Laura! in the dust with thee,
Would I could find a refuge from despair!
Is this thy boasted triumph, Love, to tear
A heart thy coward malice dares not free;
And bid it live, while every hope is fled,
To weep among the ashes of the dead?
Translation of Anne Bannerman.


## p. 11381 (#605) ##########################################

PETRARCH
11381
«E' MI PAR D'OR IN ORA UDIRE IL MESSO»
HE FEELS THAT THE DAY OF THEIR REUNION IS AT HAND
ETHINKS from hour to hour her voice I hear;
Μ
My Lady calls me! I would fain obey:
Within, without, I feel myself decay;
And am so altered not with many a year-
That to myself a stranger I appear;
All my old usual life is put away.
Could I but know how long I have to stay!
Grant, Heaven, the long-wished summons may be near!
Oh, blest the day when from this earthly jail
I shall be freed; when burst and broken lies
This mortal guise, so heavy yet so frail;
When from this black night my saved spirit flies,
Soaring up, up, above the bright serene,
Where with my Lord my Lady shall be seen.
Translation of Major Macgregor.
-
«SOLO E PENSOSO I PIÙ DESERTI CAMPI»
HE SEEKS SOLITUDE, BUT LOVE FOLLOWS HIM EVERYWHERE
LONE, and lost in thought, the desert glade
A
Measuring, I roam with ling'ring steps and slow;
And still a watchful glance around me throw,
Anxious to shun the print of human tread:
No other means I find, no surer aid
From the world's prying eye to hide my woe:
So well my wild disordered gestures show,
And love-lorn looks, the fire within me bred,
That well I deem each mountain, wood, and plain,
And river, knows what I from man conceal,-
What dreary hues my life's fond prospects dim.
Yet whate'er wild or savage paths I've ta'en,
Where'er I wander, Love attends me still,
Soft whisp'ring to my soul, and I to him.
Translation Anonymous: Oxford, 1795.


## p. 11382 (#606) ##########################################

11382
PETRARCH
PADRE DEL CIEL, DOPO I PERDUTI GIORNI »
CONSCIOUS OF HIS FOLLY, HE PRAYS GOD TO TURN HIM TO A BETTER
LIFE
ATHER of heaven! after days misspent,
FATH
After the nights of wild tumultuous thought,
In that fierce passion's strong entanglement,
One, for my peace too lovely fair, had wrought:
Vouchsafe that by thy grace, my spirit, bent
On nobler aims, to holier ways be brought;
That so my Foe, spreading with dark intent
His mortal snares, be foiled, and held at naught.
E'en now th' eleventh year its course fulfills,
That I have bowed me to the tyranny
Relentless most to fealty most tried.
Have mercy, Lord! on my unworthy ills;
Fix all my thoughts in contemplation high,-
How on the cross this day a Savior died.
-
WHO
Translation of Lady Dacre.
«CHI VUOL VEDER QUANTUNQUE PUÒ NATURA»
WHOEVER BEHOLDS HER MUST ADMIT THAT HIS PRAISES CANNOT REACH
HER PERFECTION
нO wishes to behold the utmost might
Of heaven and nature, on her let him gaze,-
Sole sun, not only in my partial lays,
But to the dark world, blind to virtue's light!
And let him haste to view: for death in spite
The guilty leaves, and on the virtuous preys;
For this loved angel heaven impatient stays;
And mortal charms are transient as they're bright!
Here shall he see, if timely he arrive,
Virtue and beauty, royalty of mind,
In one blest union joined. Then shall he say
That vainly my weak rhymes to praise her strive,
Whose dazzling beams have struck my genius blind;
He must forever weep if he delay!
Translation of Lord Charlemont.
1


## p. 11383 (#607) ##########################################

PETRARCH
11383
«NÈ MAI PIETOSA MADRE AL CARO FIGLIO »
HER COUNSEL ALONE AFFORDS HIM RELIEF
NE
E'ER to the son in whom her age is blest,
The anxious mother, nor to her loved lord
The wedded dame, impending ill to ward,-
With careful sighs so faithful counsel pressed,
As she who, from her high eternal rest,
Bending as though my exile she deplored,
With all her wonted tenderness restored,
And softer pity on her brow impressed!
Now with a mother's fears, and now as one
-
Who loves with chaste affection, in her speech
She points what to pursue and what to shun!
Our years retracing of long, various grief,
Wooing my soul at higher good to reach,
And while she speaks, my bosom finds relief!
Translation of Lady Dacre.
«QUI REPOSAN QUEI CASTE E FELICI OSSA»
SONNET FOUND IN LAURA'S TOMB
H
ERE now repose those chaste, those blest remains
Of that most gentle spirit, sole in earth!
Harsh monumental stone, that here confinest
True honor, fame, and beauty, all o'erthrown!
Death has destroyed that Laurel green, and torn
Its tender roots; and all the noble meed
Of my long warfare, passing (if aright
My melancholy reckoning holds) four lustres.
O happy plant! Avignon's favored soil.
Has seen thee spring and die; - and here with thee
Thy poet's pen, and Muse, and genius lie.
O lovely beauteous limbs! O vivid fire,
That even in death hast power to melt the soul!
Heaven be thy portion, peace with God on high!
Translation of Lord Woodhouselee.


## p. 11384 (#608) ##########################################

11384
PETRONIUS ARBITER
(FIRST CENTURY A. D. : DIED 66)
BY HARRIET WATERS PRESTON
N THE solemn last book of the fragmentary Annals of Taci-
tus, where the historian is enumerating the distinguished
victims of Nero's tyranny, he pauses for a moment before
one gallant figure, of which the smiling, dauntless, almost insolent
grace appears to discountenance and half confute the sombre vehe-
mence of his own righteous wrath.
It
"But about Gaius Petronius," he says, "a word more is necessary.
had been the habit of this man to sleep in the daytime, reserving the night
hours both for the duties and the delights of life.
Others win fame by industry; he won his by
indolence. Yet it was not as a roysterer, or a
debauchee, that he was renowned, like the com-
mon herd of spendthrifts, but for being pro-
foundly versed in the art of luxury. Free of
speech, prompt in action, and ostentatiously care-
less of consequences, he nevertheless charmed by
a complete absence of affectation. Yet when he
was proconsul in Bithynia, and afterward as con-
sul, he showed great vigor and ability in affairs.
Returning then to his vices,-or to his affecta-
tion of vice,- he was received into the small
circle of Nero's intimates as arbiter, or final
authority in matters of taste. Nothing was con-
sidered truly elegant and refined until Petronius
had given it his sanction. All this excited the
jealousy of Tigellinus, who scented a rival, and one more accomplished than
himself in the proper lore of the voluptuary. He therefore began appealing to
the emperor's cruelty, which was stronger in him than any other sentiment;
accused Petronius of complicity with Scævinus, had him indicted, seized and
imprisoned the greater part of his household, suborned a slave to testify
against him, bought off the defense. Meanwhile Cæsar had gone into Cam-
pania; but Petronius, who was to have followed him, was arrested at Cumæ,
and preferred himself to put an end to all uncertainty. Yet he showed no
unseemly hurry even about taking his own life. When his veins had been
once opened, he ordered them bound up again for a little and talked with his
friends cheerfully and lightly,- not in the least as though wishing to impress

PETRONIUS ARBITER


## p. 11385 (#609) ##########################################

PETRONIUS ARBITER
11385
them by his fortitude. Verses were improvised, and merry songs were sung.
He was ready to listen to anything and everything except philosophical max-
ims and discourse on the immortality of the soul. To some of his slaves
he gave largess, and to some he gave lashes. Finally he lay down upon a
couch, and composed himself to sleep, as though preferring that his compul-
sory end should appear an accidental one. He had not, however, like many
of the victims of that period, devoted his last will and testament to the adula-
tion of Nero and Tigellinus. On the contrary, he drew up an arraignment of
the Emperor, detailing all his adulteries and ingenious atrocities, and giving
the names of those whom he had destroyed, both men and women; which
document he sealed and dispatched to Nero. He then broke his seal-ring,
that it might bring no one else into trouble. »
Except for what remains of his own writing, and for casual and
unimportant allusions by the elder Pliny, Macrobius, and one or two
other ancient writers, this is literally all we know of Nero's arbiter
elegantiæ; but seldom have a character and a career been condensed
into fewer and more telling words. The whole man is there, as
truly as in the highly elaborated recent portrait by Henryk Sien-
kiewicz, in 'Quo Vadis. ' We see and know him in all his native
amiability and perfect breeding, his keen insight, quiet daring, and
immense reserve of power; his irresistible gayety and careless fasci-
nation. But even without the help of the stern yet candid analysis
of Tacitus, we almost think we could have divined the same inter-
esting personality from the disjointed fragments of Petronius's own
book. Even where the matter of the story it tells is coarsest, the
narrator's accent is so refined, his touch so light, above all, his
humor is at once so droll and so delightfully indulgent and humane,
- that we cannot help separating the man from his work. We feel
as if he had the magic art of keeping his own fine toga to some
extent unsmirched by the filth amid which he treads; and as if it
were quite deliberately, and with a motive not base, and even less
unkindly, that he holds his artistic silver mirror up to the festering
waste of common Roman nature.
-
The
Satiricon,' or 'Satirorum Liber Petronii Arbitri,' contained
originally or was apparently to have contained-some twenty books,
of which we only possess parts of the fifteenth and sixteenth, and a
few more disconnected passages. The species of satire was that
known as Menippean, or prose interspersed with bits of verse. In the
language of our day, the works would be called a novel of manners
and adventure. And what manners! what adventures! Over and over
again we turn away in disgust, but the irresistible accents of the
narrator win us back. "Come, come," he seems to say, "nothing
human is alien! Squeamishness- pardon me! -is often a mere lack
of nerve! These curious, wallowing folk are, after all, our next of


## p. 11386 (#610) ##########################################

11386
PETRONIUS ARBITER
kin. Do not let us commit the unpardonable vulgarity of being
ashamed of our relations! And then-they are so deliciously droll! *
So he pursues his theme with all the verve of Dumas père, and all
but the unerring discernment and dramatic power of Shakespeare.
The freedman Eucolpius is relating his adventures, and those of
his friend Ascyltos, by sea and land. They appear, when we abruptly
make their acquaintance, already to have traveled far and seen much.
In the fifth century we come upon traces of them at Marseilles, in
the writings of a no less worthy author than Sidonius Apollinaris,-
but just where we pick them up they are living by their abundant
wits among the semi-Greek cities of southern Italy; chiefly perhaps
at Cumæ. The best and most complete episode they have to offer
us is that of a stupendous feast, given by an enormously rich and
ignorant parvenu named Trimalchio. The invitations have been so
general that our two ne'er-do-weels find it easy to be included. The
clumsy ceremonial and sumptuous hideosity of the house of entertain-
ment are minutely and conscientiously described, the costly serving
of impossible viands, the persons of the host and of his wife Fortu-
nata, with the ineffably queer contrast between their naïve grossness
and their æsthetic affectations, their good temper and bad taste.
Then we have the motley assemblage of guests, who, when Trimal-
chio leaves the table for a few minutes, all break out into uproarious
talk. They have had just wine enough to reveal themselves without
stint or shame. Two, a trifle more maudlin than the rest, solemnly
discuss the folly and danger of too frequent baths. A morose old
fellow interrupts them to bemoan the degeneracy of the times, the
frightful decay of religion,-above all, the high cost of living. He
will tell anybody who will listen to him, how cheap bread used to
be, and how big the loaves when a certain Safinius was Ædile. After
Trimalchio comes back, he makes a pompous attempt at turning the
conversation to higher themes. He has heard that literature and art
are the proper things to discuss at banquets, and he calls attention
to the splendor of his own table ware, and repeats what they used to
tell him at school about Homer. His elderly spouse, Fortunata, who
has had a little too much wine since she joined the company at des-
sert, now obliges them with a dance; after which the fun becomes
fast and furious, and unutterable anecdotes are in order. Trimalchio
himself tells a ghost story; then, lapsing into a sentimental mood, he
begins to recite his own last will and testament, and is so overcome
by the generosity of his own posthumous provisions that he bursts
into tears, and blubbers out an epitaph which begins, "Here lies
Gaius Pompeius Trimalchio, the new Mæcenas," and closes with the
touching words, "He left thirty million sesterces, and never attended
a course of Philosophy. Stranger, go thou and do likewise!