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,
Scarce able to support my wearied frame,
Ah, wretched me! I pantingly exclaim,
And from her atmosphere new strength embrace;
I think on her I leave--my heart's best grace--
My lengthen'd journey--life's capricious flame--
I pause in withering fear, with purpose tame,
Whilst down my cheek tears quick each other chase.
My doubting heart thus questions in my grief:
"Whence comes it that existence thou canst know
When from thy spirit thou dost dwell entire?"
Love, holy Love, my heart then answers brief:
"Such privilege I do on all bestow
Who feed my flame with nought of earthly fire!"

WOLLASTON.

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

To Laura In Death. Sonnet XVIII.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Sonnet LXXXVI.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Canzone XVI.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

To Laura In Death. Sonnet LVIII.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

English

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Sonnet XV.

Piovonmi amare lagrime dal viso.

HIS STATE WHEN LAURA IS PRESENT, AND WHEN SHE DEPARTS.


    Down my cheeks bitter tears incessant rain,
And my heart struggles with convulsive sighs,
When, Laura, upon you I turn my eyes,
For whom the world's allurements I disdain,
But when I see that gentle smile again,
That modest, sweet, and tender smile, arise,
It pours on every sense a blest surprise;
Lost in delight is all my torturing pain.
Too soon this heavenly transport sinks and dies:
When all thy soothing charms my fate removes
At thy departure from my ravish'd view.
To that sole refuge its firm faith approves
My spirit from my ravish'd bosom flies,
And wing'd with fond remembrance follows you.

CAPEL LOFFT.


    Tears, b...

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet CCIV.

Mira quel colle, o stanco mio cor vago.

HE BIDS HIS HEART RETURN TO LAURA, NOT PERCEIVING THAT IT HAD NEVER LEFT HER.


P.    Look on that hill, my fond but harass'd heart!
        Yestreen we left her there, who 'gan to take
        Some care of us and friendlier looks to dart;
        Now from our eyes she draws a very lake:
        Return alone--I love to be apart--
        Try, if perchance the day will ever break
        To mitigate our still increasing smart,
        Partner and prophet of my lifelong ache.
H. O wretch! in whom vain thoughts and idle swell,
        Thou, who thyself hast tutor'd to forget,
        Speak'st to thy heart as if 'twere with thee yet?
        When to thy greatest bliss thou saidst farewell,
        ...

Francesco Petrarca

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 CCXXI.

Cercato ho sempre solitaria vita.

THINKING ALWAYS OF LAURA, IT PAINS HIM TO REMEMBER WHERE SHE IS LEFT.


    Still have I sought a life of solitude;
The streams, the fields, the forests know my mind;
That I might 'scape the sordid and the blind,
Who paths forsake trod by the wise and good:
Fain would I leave, were mine own will pursued,
These Tuscan haunts, and these soft skies behind,
Sorga's thick-wooded hills again to find;
And sing and weep in concert with its flood.
But Fortune, ever my sore enemy,
Compels my steps, where I with sorrow see
Cast my fair treasure in a worthless soil:
Yet less a foe she justly deigns to prove,
For once, to me, to Laura, and to love;
Favouring my song, my passion, with her smile.

NOTT.

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet CLXXIV.

I' dolci colli ov' io lasciai me stesso.

HE LEAVES VAUCLUSE, BUT HIS SPIRIT REMAINS THERE WITH LAURA.


    The loved hills where I left myself behind,
Whence ever 'twas so hard my steps to tear,
Before me rise; at each remove I bear
The dear load to my lot by Love consign'd.
Often I wonder inly in my mind,
That still the fair yoke holds me, which despair
Would vainly break, that yet I breathe this air;
Though long the chain, its links but closer bind.
And as a stag, sore struck by hunter's dart,
Whose poison'd iron rankles in his breast,
Flies and more grieves the more the chase is press'd,
So I, with Love's keen arrow in my heart,
Endure at once my death and my delight,
Rack'd with long grief, and weary with vain flight.

MACGREGO...

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet CLI.

Amor, Natura, e la bell' alma umile.

DURING A SERIOUS ILLNESS OF LAURA.


    Love, Nature, Laura's gentle self combines,
She where each lofty virtue dwells and reigns,
Against my peace: To pierce with mortal pains
Love toils--such ever are his stern designs.
Nature by bonds so slight to earth confines
Her slender form, a breath may break its chains;
And she, so much her heart the world disdains,
Longer to tread life's wearying round repines.
Hence still in her sweet frame we view decay
All that to earth can joy and radiance lend,
Or serve as mirror to this laggard age;
And Death's dread purpose should not Pity stay,
Too well I see where all those hopes must end,
With which I fondly soothed my lingering pilgrimage.

WRANGHAM.
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Francesco Petrarca