To Laura In Death. Sonnet LXXIV.

Spinse amor e dolor ove ir non debbe.

REFLECTING THAT LAURA IS IN HEAVEN, HE REPENTS HIS EXCESSIVE GRIEF, AND IS CONSOLED.


    Sorrow and Love encouraged my poor tongue,
Discreet in sadness, where it should not go,
To speak of her for whom I burn'd and sung,
What, even were it true, 'twere wrong to show.
That blessèd saint my miserable state
Might surely soothe, and ease my spirit's strife,
Since she in heaven is now domesticate
With Him who ever ruled her heart in life.
Wherefore I am contented and consoled,
Nor would again in life her form behold;
Nay, I prefer to die, and live alone.
Fairer than ever to my mental eye,
I see her soaring with the angels high,
Before our Lord, her maker and my own.

MACGREGOR.


    My love and grief compell'd me to proclaim
My heart's lament, and urged me to convey
That, were it true, of her I should not say
Who woke alike my song and bosom's flame.
For I should comfort find, 'mid this world's shame,
To mark her soul's beatified array,
To think that He who here had own'd its sway,
Doth now within his home its presence claim.
And true I comfort find--myself resign'd,
I would not woo her back to earthly gloom;
Oh! rather let me die, or live still lone!
My mental eye, that holds her there enshrined,
Now paints her wing'd, bright with celestial bloom,
Prostrate beneath our mutual Heaven's throne.

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

Sonnet LXXXIX.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Sonnet CXIV.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

To Laura In Death. Sonnet LIII.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

Sonnet CXXI.

Francesco Petrarca, Simple Poetry

English

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To Laura In Death. Sonnet LXXII.

Ripensando a quel ch' oggi il ciel onora.

HE WOULD DIE OF GRIEF WERE SHE NOT SOMETIMES TO CONSOLE HIM BY HER PRESENCE.


    To that soft look which now adorns the skies,
The graceful bending of the radiant head,
The face, the sweet angelic accents fled,
That soothed me once, but now awake my sighs
Oh! when to these imagination flies,
I wonder that I am not long since dead!
'Tis she supports me, for her heavenly tread
Is round my couch when morning visions rise!
In every attitude how holy, chaste!
How tenderly she seems to hear the tale
Of my long woes, and their relief to seek!
But when day breaks she then appears in haste
The well-known heavenward path again to scale,
With moisten'd eye, and soft expressive cheek!

MOREHEAD.
...

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet LI.

I dì miei più leggier che nessun cervo.

HIS PASSION FINDS ITS ONLY CONSOLATION IN CONTEMPLATING HER IN HEAVEN.


    My days more swiftly than the forest hind
Have fled like shadows, and no pleasure seen
Save for a moment, and few hours serene,
Whose bitter-sweet I treasure in true mind.
O wretched world, unstable, wayward! Blind
Whose hopes in thee alone have centred been;
In thee my heart was captived by her mien
Who bore it with her when she earth rejoin'd:
Her better spirit, now a deathless flower,
And in the highest heaven that still shall be,
Each day inflames me with its beauties more.
Alone, though frailer, fonder every hour,
I muse on her--Now what, and where is she,
And what the lovely veil which here she wore?

MACGREGOR....

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet XXVI.

Soleasi nel mio cor star bella e viva.

SINCE HER DEATH, NOTHING IS LEFT TO HIM BUT GRIEF.


    She stood within my heart, warm, young, alone,
As in a humble home a lady bright;
By her last flight not merely am I grown
Mortal, but dead, and she an angel quite.
A soul whence every bliss and hope is flown,
Love shorn and naked of its own glad light,
Might melt with pity e'en a heart of stone:
But none there is to tell their grief or write;
These plead within, where deaf is every ear
Except mine own, whose power its griefs so mar
That nought is left me save to suffer here.
Verily we but dust and shadows are!
Verily blind and evil is our will!
Verily human hopes deceive us still!

MACGREGOR.


    'Mid life's bright glow ...

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet XLIV.

Nè per sereno cielo ir vaghe stelle.

NOTHING THAT NATURE OFFERS CAN AFFORD HIM CONSOLATION.


    Not skies serene, with glittering stars inlaid,
Nor gallant ships o'er tranquil ocean dancing,
Nor gay careering knights in arms advancing,
Nor wild herds bounding through the forest glade,
Nor tidings new of happiness delay'd,
Nor poesie, Love's witchery enhancing,
Nor lady's song beside clear fountain glancing,
In beauty's pride, with chastity array'd;
Nor aught of lovely, aught of gay in show,
Shall touch my heart, now cold within her tomb
Who was erewhile my life and light below!
So heavy--tedious--sad--my days unblest,
That I, with strong desire, invoke Death's gloom,
Her to behold, whom ne'er to have seen were best!

DACRE.
<...

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet XLV.

Passato è 'l tempo omai, lasso! che tanto.

HIS ONLY DESIRE IS AGAIN TO BE WITH HER.


    Fled--fled, alas! for ever--is the day,
Which to my flame some soothing whilom brought;
And fled is she of whom I wept and wrote:
Yet still the pang, the tear, prolong their stay!
And fled that angel vision far away;
But flying, with soft glance my heart it smote
('Twas then my own) which straight, divided, sought
Her, who had wrapp'd it in her robe of clay.
Part shares her tomb, part to her heaven is sped;
Where now, with laurel wreathed, in triumph's car
She reaps the meed of matchless holiness:
So might I, of this flesh discumberèd,
Which holds me prisoner here, from sorrow far
With her expatiate free 'midst realms of endless bliss!

WRANGHA...

Francesco Petrarca

To Laura In Death. Sonnet XXV.

S' io avessi pensato che sì care.

HIS POEMS WERE WRITTEN ONLY TO SOOTHE HIS OWN GRIEF: OTHERWISE HE WOULD HAVE LABOURED TO MAKE THEM MORE DESERVING OF THE FAME THEY HAVE ACQUIRED.


    Had I e'er thought that to the world so dear
The echo of my sighs would be in rhyme,
I would have made them in my sorrow's prime
Rarer in style, in number more appear.
Since she is dead my muse who prompted here,
First in my thoughts and feelings at all time,
All power is lost of tender or sublime
My rough dark verse to render soft and clear.
And certes, my sole study and desire
Was but--I knew not how--in those long years
To unburthen my sad heart, not fame acquire.
I wept, but wish'd no honour in my tears.
Fain would I now taste joy; but that high fair,
Sile...

Francesco Petrarca