The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch

THE TRIUMPH OF CHASTITY

Quando ad un giogo ed in Un tempo quivi

 
When to one yoke at once I saw the height
Of gods and men subdued by Cupid's might,
I took example from their cruel fate,
And by their sufferings eased my own hard state;
Since Phœbus and Leander felt like pain,
The one a god, the other but a man;
One snare caught Juno and the Carthage dame
(Her husband's death prepared her funeral flame—
'Twas not a cause that Virgil maketh one);
I need not grieve, that unprepared, alone,
Unarm'd, and young, I did receive a wound,
Or that my enemy no hurt hath found
By Love; or that she clothed him in my sight,
And took his wings, and marr'd his winding flight;
No angry lions send more hideous noise
From their beat breasts, nor clashing thunder's voice
Rends heaven, frights earth, and roareth through the air
With greater force than Love had raised, to dare
Encounter her of whom I write; and she
As quick and ready to assail as he:
Enceladus when Etna most he shakes,
Nor angry Scylla, nor Charybdis makes
So great and frightful noise, as did the shock
Of this (first doubtful) battle: none could mock
Such earnest war; all drew them to the height
To see what 'mazed their hearts and dimm'd their sight.
Victorious Love a threatening dart did show
His right hand held; the other bore a bow,
The string of which he drew just by his ear;
No leopard could chase a frighted deer
(Free, or broke loose) with quicker speed than he
Made haste to wound; fire sparkled from his eye.
I burn'd, and had a combat in my breast,
Glad t' have her company, yet 'twas not best
(Methought) to see her lost, but 'tis in vain
T' abandon goodness, and of fate complain;
Virtue her servants never will forsake,
As now 'twas seen, she could resistance make:
No fencer ever better warded blow,
Nor pilot did to shore more wisely row
To shun a shelf, than with undaunted power
She waved the stroke of this sharp conqueror.
Mine eyes and heart were watchful to attend,
In hope the victory would that way bend
It ever did; and that I might no more
Be barr'd from her; as one whose thoughts before
His tongue hath utter'd them you well may see
Writ in his looks; "Oh! if you victor be
Great sir," said I, "let her and me be bound
Both with one yoke; I may be worthy found,
And will not set her free, doubt not my faith:"
When I beheld her with disdain and wrath
So fill'd, that to relate it would demand
A better muse than mine: her virtuous hand
Had quickly quench'd those gilded fiery darts
Which, dipp'd in beauty's pleasure, poison hearts.
Neither Camilla, nor the warlike host
That cut their breasts, could so much valour boast
Nor Cæsar in Pharsalia fought so well,
As she 'gainst him who pierceth coats of mail;
All her brave virtues arm'd, attended there,
(A glorious troop!) and marched pair by pair:
Honour and blushes first in rank; the two
Religious virtues make the second row;
(By those the other women doth excel);
Prudence and Modesty, the twins that dwell
Together, both were lodgèd in her breast:
Glory and Perseverance, ever blest:
Fair Entertainment, Providence without,
Sweet Courtesy, and Pureness round about;
Respect of credit, fear of infamy;
Grave thoughts in youth; and, what not oft agree,
True Chastity and rarest Beauty; these
All came 'gainst Love, and this the heavens did please,
And every generous soul in that full height.
He had no power left to bear the weight;
A thousand famous prizes hardly gain'd
She took; and thousand glorious palms obtained.
Shook from his hands; the fall was not more strange
Of Hannibal, when Fortune pleased to change
Her mind, and on the Roman youth bestow
The favours he enjoy'd; nor was he so
Amazed who frighted the Israelitish host—
Struck by the Hebrew boy, that quit his boast;
Nor Cyrus more astonish'd at the fall
The Jewish widow gave his general:
As one that sickens suddenly, and fears
His life, or as a man ta'en unawares
In some base act, and doth the finder hate;
Just so was he, or in a worse estate:
Fear, grief, and shame, and anger, in his face
Were seen: no troubled seas more rage: the place
Where huge Typhœus groans, nor Etna, when
Her giant sighs, were moved as he was then.
I pass by many noble things I see
(To write them were too hard a task for me),
To her and those that did attend I go:
Her armour was a robe more white than snow;
And in her hand a shield like his she bare
Who slew Medusa; a fair pillar there
Of jasp was next, and with a chain (first wet
In Lethe flood) of jewels fitly set,
Diamonds, mix'd with topazes (of old
'Twas worn by ladies, now 'tis not) first hold
She caught, then bound him fast; then such revenge
She took as might suffice. My thoughts did change
And I, who wish'd him victory before,
Was satisfied he now could hurt no more.
I cannot in my rhymes the names contain
Of blessèd maids that did make up her train;
Calliope nor Clio could suffice,
Nor all the other seven, for th' enterprise;
Yet some I will insert may justly claim
Precedency of others. Lucrece came
On her right hand; Penelope was by,
Those broke his bow, and made his arrows lie
Split on the ground, and pull'd his plumes away
From off his wings: after, Virginia,
Near her vex'd father, arm'd with wrath and hate.
Fury, and iron, and love, he freed the state
And her from slavery, with a manly blow;
Next were those barbarous women, who could show
They judged it better die than suffer wrong
To their rude chastity; the wise and strong—
The chaste Hebræan Judith follow'd these;
The Greek that saved her honour in the seas;
With these and other famous souls I see
Her triumph over him who used to be
Master of all the world: among the rest
The vestal nun I spied, who was so bless'd
As by a wonder to preserve her fame;
Next came Hersilia, the Roman dame
(Or Sabine rather), with her valorous train,
Who prove all slanders on that sex are vain.
Then, 'mongst the foreign ladies, she whose faith
T' her husband (not Æneas) caused her death;
The vulgar ignorant may hold their peace,
Her safety to her chastity gave place;
Dido, I mean, whom no vain passion led
(As fame belies her); last, the virtuous maid
Retired to Arno, who no rest could find,
Her friends' constraining power forced her mind.
The Triumph thither went where salt waves wet
The Baian shore eastward; her foot she set
There on firm land, and did Avernus leave
On the one hand, on th' other Sybil's cave;
So to Linternus march'd, the village where
The noble Africane lies buried; there
The great news of her triumph did appear
As glorious to the eye as to the ear
The fame had been; and the most chaste did show
Most beautiful; it grieved Love much to go
Another's prisoner, exposed to scorn,
Who to command whole empires seemèd born.
Thus to the chiefest city all were led,
Entering the temple which Sulpicia made
Sacred; it drives all madness from the mind;
And chastity's pure temple next we find,
Which in brave souls doth modest thoughts beget,
Not by plebeians enter'd, but the great
Patrician dames; there were the spoils display'd
Of the fair victress; there her palms she laid,
And did commit them to the Tuscan youth,
Whose marring scars bear witness of his truth:
With others more, whose names I fully knew,
(My guide instructed me,) that overthrew
The power of Love: 'mongst whom, of all the rest,
Hippolytus and Joseph were the best.
 

Anna Hume.

THE SAME

 
When gods and men I saw in Cupid's chain
Promiscuous led, a long uncounted train,
By sad example taught, I learn'd at last
Wisdom's best rule—to profit from the past
Some solace in the numbers too I found,
Of those that mourn'd, like me, the common wound
That Phœbus felt, a mortal beauty's slave,
That urged Leander through the wintry wave;
That jealous Juno with Eliza shared,
Whose more than pious hands the flame prepared;
That mix'd her ashes with her murder'd spouse.
A dire completion of her nuptial vows.
(For not the Trojan's love, as poets sing,
In her wan bosom fix'd the secret string.)
And why should I of common ills complain,
Shot by a random shaft, a thoughtless swain?
Unarm'd and unprepared to meet the foe,
My naked bosom seem'd to court the blow.
One cause, at least, to soothe my grief ensued;
When I beheld the ruthless power subdued;
And all unable now to twang the string,
Or mount the breeze on many-colour'd wing.
But never tawny monarch of the wood
His raging rival meets, athirst for blood;
Nor thunder-clouds, when winds the signal blow,
With louder shock astound the world below;
When the red flash, insufferably bright,
Heaven, earth, and sea displays in dismal light;
Could match the furious speed and fell intent
With which the wingèd son of Venus bent
His fatal yew against the dauntless fair
Who seem'd with heart of proof to meet the war;
Nor Etna sends abroad the blast of death
When, wrapp'd in flames, the giant moves beneath;
Nor Scylla, roaring, nor the loud reply
Of mad Charybdis, when her waters fly
And seem to lave the moon, could match the rage
Of those fierce rivals burning to engage.
Aloof the many drew with sudden fright,
And clamber'd up the hills to see the fight;
And when the tempest of the battle grew,
Each face display'd a wan and earthy hue.
The assailant now prepared his shaft to wing,
And fixed his fatal arrow on the string:
The fatal string already reach'd his ear;
Nor from the leopard flies the trembling deer
With half the haste that his ferocious wrath
Bore him impetuous on to deeds of death;
And in his stern regard the scorching fire
Was seen, that burns the breast with fierce desire;
To me a fatal flame! but hope to see
My lovely tyrant forced to love like me,
And, bound in equal chain, assuaged my woe,
As, with an eager eye, I watch'd the coming blow
But virtue, as it ne'er forsakes the soul
That yields obedience to her blest control,
Proves how of her unjustly we complain,
When she vouchsafes her gracious aid in vain
In vain the self-abandon'd shift the blame
Upon their stars, or fate's perverted name.
Ne'er did a gladiator shun the stroke
With nimbler turn, or more attentive look;
Never did pilot's hand the vessel steer
With more dexterity the shoals to clear
Than with evasion quick and matchless art,
By grace and virtue arm'd in head and heart,
She wafted quick the cruel shaft aside,
Woe to the lingering soul that dares the stroke abide!
I watch'd, and long with firm expectance stood
To see a mortal by a god subdued,
The usual fate of man! in hope to find
The cords of Love the beauteous captive bind
With me, a willing slave, to Cupid's car,
The fortunes of the common race to share.
As one, whose secrets in his looks we spy,
His inmost thoughts discovers in his eye
Or in his aspect, graved by nature's hand,
My gestures, ere I spoke, enforced my fond demand.
"Oh, link us to your wheels!" aloud I cried,
"If your victorious arms the fray decide:
Oh, bind us closely with your strongest chain!
I ne'er will seek for liberty again!"—
But oh! what fury seem'd his eyes to fill!
No bard that ever quaff'd Castalia's rill
Could match his frenzy, when his shafts of fire
With magic plumed, and barb'd with hot desire,
Short of their sacred aim, innoxious fell,
Extinguish'd by the pure ethereal spell.
Camilla; or the Amazons in arms
From ancient Thermodon, to fierce alarms
Inured; or Julius in Pharsalia's field,
When his dread onset forced the foe to yield—
Came not so boldly on as she, to face
The mighty victor of the human race,
Who scorns the temper'd mail and buckler's ward.
With her the Virtues came—an heavenly guard,
A sky-descended legion, clad in light
Of glorious panoply, contemning mortal might;
All weaponless they came; but hand in hand
Defied the fury of the adverse band:
Honour and maiden Shame were in the ban,
Elysian twins, beloved by God and man.
Her delegates in arms with them combined;
Prudence appear'd, the daughter of the mind;
Pure Temperance next, and Steadiness of soul,
That ever keeps in view the eternal goal;
And Gentleness and soft Address were seen,
And Courtesy, with mild inviting mien;
And Purity, and cautious Dread of blame,
With ardent love of clear unspotted fame;
And sage Discretion, seldom seen below,
Where the full veins with youthful ardour glow;
Benevolence and Harmony of soul
Were there, but rarely found from pole to pole;
And there consummate Beauty shone, combined
With all the pureness of an angel-mind.
Such was the host that to the conflict came,
Their bosoms kindling with empyreal flame
And sense of heavenly help.—The beams that broke
From each celestial file with horror struck
The bowyer god, who felt the blinding rays,
And like a mortal stood in fix'd amaze;
While on his spoils the fair assailants flew,
And plunder'd at their ease the captive crew;
And some with palmy boughs the way bestrew'd,
To show their conquest o'er the baffled god.
Sudden as Hannibal on Zama's field
Was forced to Scipio's conquering arms to yield;
Sudden as David's hand the giant sped,
When Accaron beheld his fall and fled;
Sudden as her revenge who gave the word,
When her stern guards dispatch'd the Persian lord;
Or like a man that feels a strong disease
His shivering members in a moment seize—
Such direful throes convulsed the despot's frame.
His hands, that veil'd his eyes, confess'd his shame,
And mental pangs, more agonising far,
In his sick bosom bred a civil war;
And hate and anguish, with insatiate ire,
Flash'd in his eyes with momentary fire.—
Not raging Ocean, when its billows boil;
Nor Typhon, when he lifts the trembling soil
Of Arima, his tortured limbs to ease;
Nor Etna, thundering o'er the subject seas—
Surpass'd the fury of the baffled Power,
Who stamp'd with rage, and bann'd the luckless hour
Scenes yet unsung demand my loftiest lays—
But oh! the theme transcends a mortal's praise.
A sweet but humbler subject may suffice
To muster in my song her fair allies;
But first, her arms and vesture claim my song
Before I chant the fair attendant throng:—
A robe she wore that seem'd of woven light;
The buckler of Minerva fill'd her right,
Medusa's bane; a column there was drawn
Of jasper bright; and o'er the snowy lawn
And round her beauteous neck a chain was slung,
Which glittering on her snowy bosom hung.
Diamond and topaz there, with mingled ray,
Return'd in varied hues the beam of day;
A treasure of inestimable cost,
Too long, alas! in Lethe's bosom lost:
To modern matrons scarcely known by fame,
Few, were it to be found, the prize would claim.
With this the vanquish'd god she firmly bound,
While I with joy her kind assistance own'd;
But oh! the feeble Muse attempts in vain
To celebrate in song her numerous train;
Not all the choir of Aganippe's spring
The pageant of the sisterhood could sing:
But some shall live, distinguished in my lay,
The most illustrious of the long array.—
The dexter wing the fair Lucretia led,
With her, who, faithful to her nuptial bed,
Her suitors scorn'd: and these with dauntless hand
The quiver seized, and scatter'd on the strand
The pointless arrows, and the broken bow
Of Cupid, their despoil'd and recreant foe.—
Lovely Virginia with her sire was nigh:
Paternal love and anger in his eye
Beam'd terrible, while in his hand he show'd
Aloft the dagger, tinged with virgin blood,
Which freedom on the maid and Rome at once bestow'd.—
Then the Teutonic dames, a dauntless race,
Who rush'd on death to shun a foe's embrace;—
And Judith chaste and fair, but void of dread,
Who the hot blood of Holofernes shed;—
And that fair Greek who chose a watery grave
Her threaten'd purity unstain'd to save.—
All these and others to the combat flew,
And all combined to wreak the vengeance due
On him, whose haughty hand in days of yore
From clime to clime his conquering standard bore.
Another troop the vestal virgin led,
Who bore along from Tyber's oozy bed
His liquid treasure in a sieve, to show
The falsehood of her base calumnious foe
By wondrous proof.—And there the Sabine queen
With all the matrons of her race was seen,
Renown'd in records old;—and next in fame
Was she, who dauntless met the funeral flame,
Not wrong'd in Love, but to preserve her vows
Immaculate to her Sidonian spouse.
Let others of Æneas' falsehood tell,
How by an unrequited flame she fell;
A nobler, though a self-inflicted doom,
Caused by connubial Love, dismiss'd her to the tomb.—
Picarda next I saw, who vainly tried
To pass her days on Arno's flowery side
In single purity, till force compell'd
The virgin to the marriage bond to yield.
The triumph seem'd at last to reach the shore
Where lofty Baise hears the Tuscan roar.
'Twas on a vernal morn it touch'd the land,
And 'twixt Mount Barbaro that crowns the strand
And old Avernus (once an hallow'd ground);
For the Cumæan sibyl's cell renown'd.
Linterno's sandy bounds it reach'd at last,
Great Scipio's favour'd haunt in ages past;
Famed Africanus, whose victorious blade
The slaughterous deeds of Hannibal repaid,
And to his country's heart a bloody passage made.
Here in a calm retreat his life he spent,
With rural peace and solitude content.
And here the flying rumour sped before,
And magnified the deed from shore to shore.
The pageant, when it reach'd the destined spot,
Seem'd to exceed their utmost reach of thought.
There, all distinguish'd by their deeds of arms,
Excell'd the rest in more than mortal charms.
Nor he, whom oft the steeds of conquest drew,
Disdained another's triumphs to pursue.
At the metropolis arrived at last,
To fair Sulpicia's temples soon we pass'd,
Sacred to Chastity, to ward the pest
With which her sensual foes inflame the breast;
The patroness of noble dames alone—
Then was the fair plebeian Pole unknown,
The victress here display'd her martial spoils,
And here the laurel hung that crown'd her toils:
A guard she stationed on the temple's bound—
The Tuscan, mark'd with many a glorious wound
Suspicion in the jealous breast to cure:
With him a chosen squadron kept the door.
I heard their names, and I remember well
The youthful Greek that by his stepdame fell,
And him who, kept by Heaven's command in awe,
Refused to violate the nuptial law.
 

Boyd.

THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH

PART I

Questa leggiadra e gloriosa Donna

 
The glorious Maid, whose soul to heaven is gone
And left the rest cold earth, she who was grown
A pillar of true valour, and had gain'd
Much honour by her victory, and chain'd
That god which doth the world with terror bind,
Using no armour but her own chaste mind;
A fair aspect, coy thoughts, and words well weigh'd,
Sweet modesty to these gave friendly aid.
It was a miracle on earth to see
The bow and arrows of the deity,
And all his armour broke, who erst had slain
Such numbers, and so many captive ta'en;
The fair dame from the noble sight withdrew
With her choice company,—they were but few.
And made a little troop, true virtue's rare,—
Yet each of them did by herself appear
A theme for poems, and might well incite
The best historian: they bore a white
Unspotted ermine, in a field of green,
About whose neck a topaz chain was seen
Set in pure gold; their heavenly words and gait,
Express'd them blest were born for such a fate.
Bright stars they seem'd, she did a sun appear,
Who darken'd not the rest, but made more clear
Their splendour; honour in brave minds is found:
This troop, with violets and roses crown'd,
Cheerfully march'd, when lo, I might espy
Another ensign dreadful to mine eye—
A lady clothed in black, whose stern looks were
With horror fill'd, and did like hell appear,
Advanced, and said, "You who are proud to be
So fair and young, yet have no eyes to see
How near you are your end; behold, I am
She, whom they, fierce, and blind, and cruel name,
Who meet untimely deaths; 'twas I did make
Greece subject, and the Roman Empire shake;
My piercing sword sack'd Troy, how many rude
And barbarous people are by me subdued?
Many ambitious, vain, and amorous thought
My unwish'd presence hath to nothing brought;
Now am I come to you, while yet your state
Is happy, ere you feel a harder fate."
"On these you have no power," she then replied,
(Who had more worth than all the world beside,)
"And little over me; but there is one
Who will be deeply grieved when I am gone,
His happiness doth on my life depend,
I shall find freedom in a peaceful end."
As one who glancing with a sudden eye
Some unexpected object doth espy;
Then looks again, and doth his own haste blame
So in a doubting pause, this cruel dame
A little stay'd, and said, "The rest I call
To mind, and know I have o'ercome them all:"
Then with less fierce aspect, she said, "Thou guide
Of this fair crew, hast not my strength assay'd,
Let her advise, who may command, prevent
Decrepit age, 'tis but a punishment;
From me this honour thou alone shalt have,
Without or fear or pain, to find thy grave."
"As He shall please, who dwelleth in the heaven
And rules on earth, such portion must be given
To me, as others from thy hand receive,"
She answered then; afar we might perceive
Millions of dead heap'd on th' adjacent plain;
No verse nor prose may comprehend the slain
Did on Death's triumph wait, from India,
From Spain, and from Morocco, from Cathay,
And all the skirts of th' earth they gather'd were;
Who had most happy lived, attended there:
Popes, Emperors, nor Kings, no ensigns wore
Of their past height, but naked show'd and poor.
Where be their riches, where their precious gems,
Their mitres, sceptres, robes, and diadems?
O miserable men, whose hopes arise
From worldly joys, yet be there few so wise
As in those trifling follies not to trust;
And if they be deceived, in end 'tis just:
Ah! more than blind, what gain you by your toil?
You must return once to your mother's soil,
And after-times your names shall hardly know,
Nor any profit from your labour grow;
All those strange countries by your warlike stroke
Submitted to a tributary yoke;
The fuel erst of your ambitious fire,
What help they now? The vast and bad desire
Of wealth and power at a bloody rate
Is wicked,—better bread and water eat
With peace; a wooden dish doth seldom hold
A poison'd draught; glass is more safe than gold;
But for this theme a larger time will ask,
I must betake me to my former task.
The fatal hour of her short life drew near,
That doubtful passage which the world doth fear;
Another company, who had not been
Freed from their earthy burden there were seen,
To try if prayers could appease the wrath,
Or stay th' inexorable hand, of Death.
That beauteous crowd convened to see the end
Which all must taste; each neighbour, every friend
Stood by, when grim Death with her hand took hold,
And pull'd away one only hair of gold,
Thus from the world this fairest flower is ta'en
To make her shine more bright, not out of spleen
How many moaning plaints, what store of cries
Were utter'd there, when Fate shut those fair eyes
For which so oft I sung; whose beauty burn'd
My tortured heart so long; while others mourn'd,
She pleased, and quiet did the fruit enjoy
Of her blest life: "Farewell," without annoy,
"True saint on earth," said they; so might she be
Esteem'd, but nothing bates Death's cruelty.
What shall become of others, since so pure
A body did such heats and colds endure,
And changed so often in so little space?
Ah, worldly hopes, how blind you be, how base!
If since I bathe the ground with flowing tears
For that mild soul, who sees it, witness bears;
And thou who read'st mayst judge she fetter'd me
The sixth of April, and did set me free
On the same day and month. Oh! how the way
Of fortune is unsure; none hates the day
Of slavery, or of death, so much as I
Abhor the time which wrought my liberty,
And my too lasting life; it had been just
My greater age had first been turn'd to dust,
And paid to time, and to the world, the debt
I owed, then earth had kept her glorious state:
Now at what rate I should the sorrow prize
I know not, nor have heart that can suffice
The sad affliction to relate in verse
Of these fair dames, that wept about her hearse;
"Courtesy, Virtue, Beauty, all are lost;
What shall become of us? None else can boast
Such high perfection; no more we shall
Hear her wise words, nor the angelical
Sweet music of her voice." While thus they cried,
The parting spirit doth itself divide
With every virtue from the noble breast,
As some grave hermit seeks a lonely rest:
The heavens were clear, and all the ambient air
Without a threatening cloud; no adversaire
'Durst once appear, or her calm mind affright;
Death singly did herself conclude the fight;
After, when fear, and the extremest plaint
Were ceased, th' attentive eyes of all were bent
On that fair face, and by despair became
Secure; she who was spent, not like a flame
By force extinguish'd, but as lights decay,
And undiscerned waste themselves away:
Thus went the soul in peace; so lamps are spent,
As the oil fails which gave them nourishment;
In sum, her countenance you still might know
The same it was, not pale, but white as snow,
Which on the tops of hills in gentle flakes
Falls in a calm, or as a man that takes
Desir'ed rest, as if her lovely sight
Were closed with sweetest sleep, after the sprite
Was gone. If this be that fools call to die,
Death seem'd in her exceeding fair to be.
 

Anna Hume.

[LINES 103 TO END.]

 
And now closed in the last hour's narrow span
Of that so glorious and so brief career,
Ere the dark pass so terrible to man!
And a fair troop of ladies gather'd there,
Still of this earth, with grace and honour crown'd,
To mark if ever Death remorseful were.
This gentle company thus throng'd around,
In her contemplating the awful end
All once must make, by law of nature bound;
Each was a neighbour, each a sorrowing friend.
Then Death stretch'd forth his hand, in that dread hour,
From her bright head a golden hair to rend,
Thus culling of this earth the fairest flower;
Nor hate impell'd the deed, but pride, to dare
Assert o'er highest excellence his power.
What tearful lamentations fill the air
The while those beauteous eyes alone are dry,
Whose sway my burning thoughts and lays declare!
And while in grief dissolved all weep and sigh,
She, in meek silence, joyous sits secure,
Gathering already virtue's guerdon high.
"Depart in peace, O mortal goddess pure!"
They said; and such she was: although it nought
'Gainst mightier Death avail'd, so stern—so sure!
Alas for others! if a few nights wrought
In her each change of suffering dust below!
Oh! Hope, how false! how blind all human thought!
Whether in earth sank deep the dews of woe
For the bright spirit that had pass'd away,
Think, ye who listen! they who witness'd know.
'Twas the first hour, of April the sixth day,
That bound me, and, alas! now sets me free:
How Fortune doth her fickleness display!
None ever grieved for loss of liberty
Or doom of death as I for freedom grieve,
And life prolong'd, who only ask to die.
Due to the world it had been her to leave,
And me, of earlier birth, to have laid low,
Nor of its pride and boast the age bereave.
How great the grief it is not mine to show,
Scarce dare I think, still less by numbers try,
Or by vain speech to ease my weight of woe.
Virtue is dead, beauty and courtesy!
The sorrowing dames her honour'd couch around
"For what are we reserved?" in anguish cry;
"Where now in woman will all grace be found?
Who with her wise and gentle words be blest,
And drink of her sweet song th' angelic sound?"
The spirit parting from that beauteous breast,
In its meek virtues wrapt, and best prepared,
Had with serenity the heavens imprest:
No power of darkness, with ill influence, dared
Within a space so holy to intrude,
Till Death his terrible triumph had declared.
Then hush'd was all lament, all fear subdued;
Each on those beauteous features gazed intent,
And from despair was arm'd with fortitude.
As a pure flame that not by force is spent,
But faint and fainter softly dies away,
Pass'd 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 lull'd, fall silently,
She seem'd as one o'erwearied to repose.
E'en as in balmy slumbers lapt to lie
(The spirit parted from the form below),
In her appear'd what th' unwise term to die;
And Death sate beauteous on her beauteous brow.
 

Dacre.

PART II

La notte che seguì l' orribil caso

 
The night—that follow'd the disastrous blow
Which my spent sun removed in heaven to glow,
And left me here a blind and desolate man—
Now far advanced, to spread o'er earth began
The sweet spring dew which harbingers the dawn,
When slumber's veil and visions are withdrawn;
When, crown'd with oriental gems, and bright
As newborn day, upon my tranced sight
My Lady lighted from her starry sphere:
With kind speech and soft sigh, her hand so dear.
So long desired in vain, to mine she press'd,
While heavenly sweetness instant warm'd my breast:
"Remember her, who, from the world apart,
Kept all your course since known to that young heart."
Pensive she spoke, with mild and modest air
Seating me by her, on a soft bank, where,
In greenest shade, the beech and laurel met.
"Remember? ah! how should I e'er forget?
Yet tell me, idol mine," in tears I said,
"Live you?—or dreamt I—is, is Laura dead?"
"Live I? I only live, but you indeed
Are dead, and must be, till the last best hour
Shall free you from the flesh and vile world's power.
But, our brief leisure lest desire exceed,
Turn we, ere breaks the day already nigh,
To themes of greater interest, pure and high."
Then I: "When ended the brief dream and vain
That men call life, by you now safely pass'd,
Is death indeed such punishment and pain?"
Replied she: "While on earth your lot is cast,
Slave to the world's opinions blind and hard,
True happiness shall ne'er your search reward;
Death to the good a dreary prison opes,
But to the vile and base, who all their hopes
And cares below have fix'd, is full of fear;
And this my loss, now mourn'd with many a tear,
Would seem a gain, and, knew you my delight
Boundless and pure, your joyful praise excite."
Thus spoke she, and on heaven her grateful eye
Devoutly fix'd, but while her rose-lips lie
Chain'd in cold silence, I renew'd my theme:
"Lightning and storm, red battle, age, disease,
Backs, prisons, poison, famine,—make not these
Death, even to the bravest, bitter seem?"
She answer'd: "I deny not that the strife
Is great and sore which waits on parting life,
And then of death eternal the sharp dread!
But if the soul with hope from heaven be fed,
And haply in itself the heart have grief,
What then is death? Its brief sigh brings relief:
Already I approach'd my final goal,
My strength was failing, on the wing my soul,
When thus a low sad-whisper by my side,
'O miserable! who, to vain life tied,
Counts every hour and deems each hour a day,
By land or ocean, to himself a prey,
Where'er he wanders, who one form pursues,
Indulges one desire, one dream renews,
Thought, speech, sense, feeling, there for ever bound!'
It ceased, and to the spot whence came the sound
I turn'd my languid eyes, and her beheld,
Your love who check'd, my pity who impell'd;
I recognised her by that voice and air,
So often which had chased my spirit's gloom,
Now calm and wise, as courteous then and fail.
But e'en to you when dearest, in the bloom
Of joyous youth and beauty's rosy prime.
Theme of much thought, and muse of many a rhyme,
Believe me, life to me was far less sweet
Than thus a merciful mild death to meet,
The blessed hope, to mortals rarely given:
And such joy smooth'd my path from earth to heaven,
As from long exile to sweet home I turn'd,
While but for you alone my soul with pity yearn'd."
"But tell me, lady," said I, "by that true
And loyal faith, on earth well known to you
Now better known before the Omniscient's face,
If in your breast the thought e'er found a place
Love prompted, my long martyrdom to cheer,
Though virtue follow'd still her fair emprize.
For ah! oft written in those sweetest eyes,
Dear anger, dear disdain, and pardon dear,
Long o'er my wishes doubts and shadows cast."
Scarce from my lips the venturous speech had pass'd,
When o'er her fair face its old sun-smile beam'd,
My sinking virtue which so oft redeem'd,
And with a tender sigh she answer'd: "Never
Can or did aught from you my firm heart sever:
But as, to our young fame, no other way,
Direct and plain, of mutual safety lay,
I temper'd with cold looks your raging flame:
So fondest mothers wayward children tame.
How often have I said, 'It me behoves
To act discreetly, for he burns, not loves!
Who hopes and fears, ill plays discretion's part!
He must not in my face detect my heart;'
'Twas this, which, as a rein the generous horse,
Slack'd your hot haste, and shaped your proper course.
Often, while Love my struggling heart consumed,
Has anger tinged my cheek, my eyes illumed,
For Love in me could reason ne'er subdue;
But ever if I saw you sorrow-spent,
Instant my fondest looks on you were bent,
Myself from shame, from death redeeming you;
Or, if the flame of passion blazed too high,
My greeting changed, with short speech and cold eye
My sorrow moved you or my terror shook.
That these the arts I used, the way I took,
Smiles varying scorn as sunshine follows rain,
You know, and well have sung in many a deathless strain
Again and oft, as saw I sunk in grief
Those tearful eyes, I said, 'Without relief,
Surely and swift he marches to his grave,'
And, at the thought, the fitting help I gave.'
But if I saw you wild and passion spurr'd,
Prompt with the curb, your boldness I deterr'd;
Thus cold and kind, pale, blushing, gloomy, gay,
Safe have I led you through the dangerous way,
And, as my labour, great my joy at last."
Trembling, I answer'd, and my tears flow'd fast,
"Lady, could I the blessed thought believe,
My faithful love would full reward receive."
"O man of little faith!"—her fairest cheek,
E'en as she spoke, a warm blush 'gan to streak—
"Why should I say it, were it less than true?
If you on earth were pleasant in my view
I need not ask; enough it pleased to see
The best love of that true heart fix'd on me;
Well too your genius pleased me, and the fame
Which, far and wide, it shower'd upon my name;
Your Love had blame in its excess alone,
And wanted prudence; while you sought to tell,
By act and air, what long I knew and well,
To the whole world your secret heart was shown;
Thence was the coldness which your hopes distress'd,
For such our sympathy in all the rest,
As is alone where Love keeps honour's law.
Since in your bosom first its birth I saw,
One fire our heart has equally inflamed,
Except that I conceal'd it, you proclaim'd;
And louder as your cry for mercy swell'd,
Terror and shame my silence more compell'd,
That men my great desire should little think;
But ah! concealment makes not sorrow less,
Complaint embitters not the mind's distress,
Feeling with fiction cannot swell and shrink,
But surely then at least the veil was raised,
You only present when your verse I praised,
And whispering sang, 'Love dares not more to say.'
Yours was my heart, though turn'd my eyes away;
Grieve you, as cruel, that their grace was such,
As kept the little, gave the good and much;
Yet oft and openly as they withdrew,
Far oftener furtively they dwelt on you,
For pity thus, what prudence robb'd, return'd;
And ever so their tranquil lights had burn'd,
Save that I fear'd those dear and dangerous eyes
Might then the secret of my soul surprise.
But one thing more, that, ere our parley cease,
Memory may shrine my words, as treasures sweet,
And this our parting give your spirit peace.
In all things else my fortune was complete,
In this alone some cause had I to mourn
That first I saw the light in humble earth,
And still, in sooth, it grieves that I was born
Far from the flowery nest where you had birth;
Yet fair to me the land where your love bless'd;
Haply that heart, which I alone possess'd,
Elsewhere had others loved, myself unseen,
And I, now voiced by fame, had there inglorious been."
"Ah, no!" I cried, "howe'er the spheres might roll,
Wherever born, immutable and whole,
In life, in death, my great love had been yours."
"Enough," she smiled, "its fame for aye endures,
And all my own! but pleasure has such power,
Too little have we reck'd the growing hour;
Behold! Aurora, from her golden bed,
Brings back the day to mortals, and the sun
Already from the ocean lifts his head.
Alas! he warns me that, my mission done,
We here must part. If more remain to say,
Sweet friend! in speech be brief, as must my stay."
Then I: "This kindest converse makes to me
All sense of my long suffering light and sweet:
But lady! for that now my life must be
Hateful and heavy, tell me, I entreat,
When, late or early, we again shall meet?"
"If right I read the future, long must you
Without me walk the earth."
She spoke, and pass'd from view.
 

Macgregor.