No More Learning

Francesco passed the first seven years with the mother at
Incisa; afterward he followed the father and the family to Pisa.
Here he began his first studies, which were to tower to such
a marvelous height, under the famous grammarian Convonevole da
Prato; then, so happily for him, living in Pisa. Whether from choice,
or being still too near to Florence for safety, the exiled father and
«<


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PETRARCH
11359
partisan churchman removed, and established his family, consisting
of the mother and certainly one brother of Francesco, in Avignon in
France, the then home of the wandering popes. Happily again for
Francesco, now between twelve and fifteen years of age, Convonevole
had come into France, and settled at Carpentras, some fifteen miles
northeast of Avignon. Here he was sent by the father to pursue his
studies under his old preceptor. In 1319 he was sent to Montpellier,
to begin the study of jurisprudence, which he afterward carried for-
ward in Bologna. He had never felt any inclination toward legal
science, but was to the highest degree fond of the study of literature.
Absorbed in this, his legal studies naturally suffered. By abstemious
living and denying himself many comforts, he had also acquired a
considerable number of valuable manuscripts of the Greek and Latin
authors, which were rare and costly in that age. His father, how-
ever, was not pleased that for the sake of these classics he should
neglect the legal studies, which were then the principal road to pre-
ferment and wealth: and during a visit to his father in 1325 (as the
poet himself relates in his 'Old Man's Memories'), the father burned
many of these precious books, and only left, through the prayers and
tears of the son, Cicero's 'De Oratore' and the works of Virgil; which
books became, from that moment to his dying day, those which he
loved above all others. After the death of his father, which hap-
pened in 1326 while he was still a student at Bologna, he returned
to make his home at Avignon; and soon entered into the ecclesias-
tical state. Although he was never in any but minor orders, he
obtained during his life many benefices. The indispensable require-
ments of this condition were, the tonsure, the clerical dress, and the
daily recitation of the "Divine office. " His breviary is still preserved
in the library of the Vatican. He continued his favorite studies in
Avignon; solacing himself in a youthful way, he regretfully tells us,
in the gallant and licentious life of that city.
During the first year of his settled residence here occurred the
event which was destined, more than any other through the rest of
his life, to influence his thoughts, his writings, and his happiness.
He himself tells us that on Good Friday, in the year 1327, being in
the church of the convent of St. Claire, in Avignon, he was struck
by the beauty of a young lady near him, younger than himself,
in a green mantle sprinkled with violets, on which her golden hair
fell in plaited tresses. She was distinguished from all others by her
proud and delicate carriage. From this moment was conceived in his
heart an infinite admiration and love for her. He says her name
was Laura, but her family name he never mentions. There has been
much discussion and controversy as to who this lady was, or even
whether she ever had any other reality than the fervid allegorical
idea in the poet's brain. But he tells us that she was ni
teen years


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11360
PETRARCH
old and had been two years married; and from many allusions of his
own and the words of contemporaries, it seems almost certain that
she was in fact the daughter of Audibert de Noves, and the wife of
Hugues de Sade, and became the mother of fully eleven children.
She died in 1348, a victim of the plague.
When the news of her death reached Petrarch, at the time travel-
ing in Italy, he wrote in Latin the following notice of her as a mar-
ginal note in his own favorite copy of Virgil, still preserved in the
Ambrosian Library at Milan :
-
"It was in the prime of my youth, on the 6th of April, at the first hour of
the day [the variable ecclesiastical day] in the year 1327, that Laura, distin-
guished by her virtues, and celebrated in my verses, in the Church of St.
Clara at Avignon first appeared to my eyes. In the same city and at the
same hour, in the year 1348, this bright luminary disappeared from the world.
Alas, I was then at Verona, ignorant of my wretchedness! Her chaste and
beautiful body was laid, the same day, after vespers, in the Church of the
Cordeliers. Her soul returned to its home in heaven. I have written this
with mingled pleasure and pain, retracing in this book, so often before my
eyes, the sad memory of my great loss; that I may constantly remember that
there is nothing more left me to live for, since my strongest tie to life has been
broken, and may easily renounce this empty and transitory world, and con-
sider, being freed from my bonds, that it is time for me to flee from Babylon. "
He had endeavored from the first to stifle his passion, or at least
to restrain it within the limits of peaceful admiration and friendship,
by a prodigious intensity of serious studies, and at the same time by
giving vent to it through a continual stream of sonnets, in which her
beauty and worth constituted the supporting thread, around which
was Woven an ever new and incredible variety of elegant poetic
conceits. Unappeased by these means, he sought relief from the tem-
pestuous disquiet of his soul in gathering an extensive library of clas-
sical manuscripts, traveling abroad in Italy, France, Germany, Spain, in
search of such especially as were accounted lost. He discovered in
these journeys the 'Institutions' of Quintilian at Arezzo; Cicero's
'Familiar Letters' at Verona; his 'Letters to Atticus' somewhere
else, and some lost Orations' at Liège; and he speaks of having
seen, though they have not come down to us, Cicero's treatise 'On
Fame,' and Varro's 'On Divine and Human Things,' and the 'Letters
of Augustus. '
In these prodigious and useful and beautiful activities he became
everywhere known, and was the wonder and admiration of his age.
But the wound of his heart was not to be cured by the ecstasies of
poetry, nor the refinements of literature, nor the curiosities of learn-
ing, nor the admiration of men. The beautiful magnet at Avignon
drew him always back; and that he might be near her, and at the
same time be relieved of the presence of the revelry and vice of that


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11361
shameful court, he built a home in the beautiful and romantic neigh-
boring valley of Vaucluse. This home, which he called such for fully
eleven years, became to him the dearest of all, and excited his best
inspirations.
However strange to us to-day (especially us of northern blood), it
was and is beyond doubt that the external relations of these cele-
brated lovers to one another were unimpeachable. Moreover, there
are the strongest reasons to believe, from recorded facts and from
what we know of his external life and of the intimate workings of
his heart, that after some possible weaknesses in the ebullitions of
youth,- particularly at Avignon, before his first sight of Laura,-
he lived ever afterward with conscientious jealousy against all the
excesses of luxury of every sort.
As an ecclesiastic, he was debarred from matrimony accompanied
with the lawful benediction of the Church. But it is well known,
from his writings, that Petrarch did not in his heart accept all the
teachings of the Church in his day, especially in matters of disci-
pline; and this was only a matter of discipline, not of faith. At all
events, among his other struggles for external innocence and heart
rest he formed a permanent connection with another woman, who
bore him a son and a daughter, whom he publicly recognized and
treated with the greatest tenderness. The son, whom he placed
under the most celebrated teachers, and from whom he hoped great
things but realized only regrets, died in early manhood. The daugh-
ter Tullia, characteristically named after Cicero's famous daughter,
who became a great comfort to him in his old age, was well married
in Milan; and by his will he made her husband, Francesco da Bros-
sano, his principal heir.
For the next ten years, though always in motion, he called Vau-
cluse his home; and from thence poured forth many of his most
noted productions. Among these was the Latin heroic poem 'Africa,'
which shook with applause the learned world, and gained for him
the most highly prized honor of his life, - his coronation, on the
Campidoglio at Rome, laureate of the Christian world. On the Ist
of September, 1340, this honor was offered him by the University of
Paris; and a vote of the Roman Senate invited him to receive it on
the Capitol Hill. It filled his heart most of all with infinite joy that
it came in Laura's lifetime, and that she sweetly and proudly sym-
pathized in this his unparalleled glory. He went by way of Naples,
where his royal friend Robert added a sort of ad eundem; and then
he passed on to the capital of the world. On the 8th of April, Easter
Day, 1341, in the square in front of the remains of the temple of
Jupiter Capitolinus, the crown of laurel, with great solemnity, was
placed upon his head by the hands of a Senator of Rome, in the
XIX-711


## p. 11362 (#586) ##########################################

11362
PETRARCH
presence and amid the tremendous acclamations of a vast and dis-
tinguished assembly, the braying of trumpets, and strains of martial
music. 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


## p. 11363 (#587) ##########################################

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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


## p. 11364 (#588) ##########################################

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) ##########################################

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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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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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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;


## p. 11371 (#595) ##########################################

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) ##########################################

PETRARCH
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) ##########################################

PETRARCH
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.