Sonnet LX.

Io son sì stanco sotto 'l fascio antico.

HE CONFESSES HIS ERRORS, AND THROWS HIMSELF ON THE MERCY OF GOD.


    Evil by custom, as by nature frail,
I am so wearied with the long disgrace,
That much I dread my fainting in the race
Should let th' original enemy prevail.
Once an Eternal Friend, that heard my cries,
Came to my rescue, glorious in his might,
Arm'd with all-conquering love, then took his flight,
That I in vain pursued Him with my eyes.
But his dear words, yet sounding, sweetly say,
"O ye that faint with travel, see the way!
Hopeless of other refuge, come to me."
What grace, what kindness, or what destiny
Will give me wings, as the fair-feather'd dove,
To raise me hence and seek my rest above?

BASIL KENNET.


    So weary am I 'neath the constant thrall
Of mine own vile heart, and the false world's taint,
That much I fear while on the way to faint,
And in the hands of my worst foe to fall.
Well came, ineffably, supremely kind,
A friend to free me from the guilty bond,
But too soon upward flew my sight beyond,
So that in vain I strive his track to find;
But still his words stamp'd on my heart remain,
All ye who labour, lo! the way in me;
Come unto me, nor let the world detain!
Oh! that to me, by grace divine, were given
Wings like a dove, then I away would flee,
And be at rest, up, up from earth to heaven!

MACGREGOR.

Francesco Petrarca

Francesco Petrarca, commonly known as Petrarch, was an Italian scholar, poet, and early humanist during the Renaissance. He is often called the "Father of Humanism" and is best known for his Italian poetry, notably the Canzoniere, a collection of poems addressed to his idealized beloved Laura. Petrarch's works have influenced countless writers and helped shape the modern Italian language.

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet CCXXII.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Sonnet CCVII.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Canzone XIII.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Sonnet CXLVII.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

English

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Sonnet CLXI.

L' aura gentil che rasserena i poggi.

JOURNEYING TO VISIT LAURA, HE FEELS RENEWED ARDOUR AS HE APPROACHES.


    The gale, that o'er yon hills flings softer blue,
And wakes to life each bud that gems the glade,
I know; its breathings such impression made,
Wafting me fame, but wafting sorrow too:
My wearied soul to soothe, I bid adieu
To those dear Tuscan haunts I first survey'd;
And, to dispel the gloom around me spread,
I seek this day my cheering sun to view,
Whose sweet attraction is so strong, so great,
That Love again compels me to its light;
Then he so dazzles me, that vain were flight.
Not arms to brave, 'tis wings to 'scape, my fate
I ask; but by those beams I'm doom'd to die,
When distant which consume, and which enflame when nigh.

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet CCVI.

Il mal mi preme, e mi spaventa il peggio.

TO A FRIEND, IN LOVE LIKE HIMSELF, HE CAN GIVE NO ADVICE BUT TO RAISE HIS SOUL TO GOD.


    Evil oppresses me and worse dismay,
To which a plain and ample way I find;
Driven like thee by frantic passion, blind,
Urged by harsh thoughts I bend like thee my way.
Nor know I if for war or peace to pray:
To war is ruin, shame to peace, assign'd.
But wherefore languish thus?--Rather, resign'd,
Whate'er the Will Supreme ordains, obey.
However ill that honour me beseem
By thee conferr'd, whom that affection cheats
Which many a perfect eye to error sways,
To raise thy spirit to that realm supreme
My counsel is, and win those blissful seats:
For short the time, and few the allotted days.

CAPEL LOFFT....

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet CXCIV.

I' piansi, or canto; che 'l celeste lume.

AT HER RETURN, HIS SORROWS VANISH.


    I wept, but now I sing; its heavenly light
That living sun conceals not from my view,
But virtuous love therein revealeth true
His holy purposes and precious might;
Whence, as his wont, such flood of sorrow springs
To shorten of my life the friendless course,
Nor bridge, nor ford, nor oar, nor sails have force
To forward mine escape, nor even wings.
But so profound and of so full a vein
My suff'ring is, so far its shore appears,
Scarcely to reach it can e'en thought contrive:
Nor palm, nor laurel pity prompts to gain,
But tranquil olive, and the dark sky clears,
And checks my grief and wills me to survive.

MACGREGOR.

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet XLVIII.

Padre del ciel, dopo i perduti giorni.

CONSCIOUS OF HIS FOLLY, HE PRAYS GOD TO TURN HIM TO A BETTER LIFE.


    Father of heaven! after the days misspent,
After the nights of wild tumultuous thought,
In that fierce passion's strong entanglement,
One, for my peace too lovely fair, had wrought;
Vouchsafe that, by thy grace, my spirit bent
On nobler aims, to holier ways be brought;
That so my foe, spreading with dark intent
His mortal snares, be foil'd, and held at nought.
E'en now th' eleventh year its course fulfils,
That I have bow'd me to the tyranny
Relentless most to fealty most tried.
Have mercy, Lord! on my unworthy ills:
Fix all my thoughts in contemplation high;
How on the cross this day a Saviour died.

DACRE.

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet LIV.

Io son già stanco di pensar siccome.

HE WONDERS AT HIS LONG ENDURANCE OF SUCH TOIL AND SUFFERING.


    I weary me alway with questions keen
How, why my thoughts ne'er turn from you away,
Wherefore in life they still prefer to stay,
When they might flee this sad and painful scene,
And how of the fine hair, the lovely mien,
Of the bright eyes which all my feelings sway,
Calling on your dear name by night and day,
My tongue ne'er silent in their praise has been,
And how my feet not tender are, nor tired,
Pursuing still with many a useless pace
Of your fair footsteps the elastic trace;
And whence the ink, the paper whence acquired,
Fill'd with your memories: if in this I err,
Not art's defect but Love's own fault it were.

MACGREGOR.

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet XIII.

Io mi rivolgo indietro a ciascun passo.

ON QUITTING LAURA.


    With weary frame which painfully I bear,
I look behind me at each onward pace,
And then take comfort from your native air,
Which following fans my melancholy face;
The far way, my frail life, the cherish'd fair
Whom thus I leave, as then my thoughts retrace,
I fix my feet in silent pale despair,
And on the earth my tearful eyes abase.
At times a doubt, too, rises on my woes,
"How ever can this weak and wasted frame
Live from life's spirit and one source afar?"
Love's answer soon the truth forgotten shows--
"This high pure privilege true lovers claim,
Who from mere human feelings franchised are!"

MACGREGOR.


    I look behind each step I onward trace,

Francesco Petrarca