_L' aura gentil che
rasserena
i poggi.
Petrarch - Poems
Here tarry, Love, our glory to behold;
Nought in creation so sublime we trace;
Ah! see what sweetness showers upon that face,
Heaven's brightness to this earth those eyes unfold!
See, with what magic art, pearls, purple, gold,
That form transcendant, unexampled, grace:
Beneath the shadowing hills observe her pace,
Her glance replete with elegance untold!
The verdant turf, and flowers of every hue,
Clustering beneath yon aged holm-oak's gloom,
For the sweet pressure of her fair feet sue;
The orbs of fire that stud yon beauteous sky,
Cheer'd by her presence and her smiles, assume
Superior lustre and serenity.
NOTT.
SONNET CLX.
_Pasco la mente d' un si nobil cibo. _
TO SEE AND HEAR HER IS HIS GREATEST BLISS.
I feed my fancy on such noble food,
That Jove I envy not his godlike meal;
I see her--joy invades me like a flood,
And lethe of all other bliss I feel;
I hear her--instantly that music rare
Bids from my captive heart the fond sigh flow;
Borne by the hand of Love I know not where,
A double pleasure in one draught I know.
Even in heaven that dear voice pleaseth well,
So winning are its words, its sound so sweet,
None can conceive, save who had heard, their spell;
Thus, in the same small space, visibly, meet
All charms of eye and ear wherewith our race
Art, Genius, Nature, Heaven have join'd to grace.
MACGREGOR.
Such noble aliment sustains my soul,
That Jove I envy not his godlike food;
I gaze on her--and feel each other good
Engulph'd in that blest draught at Lethe's bowl:
Her every word I in my heart enrol,
That on its grief it still may constant brood;
Prostrate by Love--my doom not understood
From that one form, I feel a twin control.
My spirit drinks the music of her voice,
Whose speaking harmony (to heaven so dear)
They only feel who in its tone partake:
Again within her face my eyes rejoice,
For in its gentle lineaments appear
What Genius, Nature, Art, and Heaven can wake.
WOLLASTON.
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.
NOTT.
The gentle air, which brightens each green hill,
Wakening the flowers that paint this bowery glade,
I recognise it by its soft breath still,
My sorrow and renown which long has made:
Again where erst my sick heart shelter sought,
From my dear native Tuscan air I flee:
That light may cheer my dark and troubled thought,
I seek my sun, and hope to-day to see.
That sun so great and genial sweetness brings,
That Love compels me to his beams again,
Which then so dazzle me that flight is vain:
I ask for my escape not arms, but wings:
Heaven by this light condemns me sure to die,
Which from afar consumes, and burns when nigh.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CLXII.
_Di di in di vo cangiando il viso e 'l pelo. _
HIS WOUNDS CAN BE HEALED ONLY BY PITY OR DEATH.
I alter day by day in hair and mien,
Yet shun not the old dangerous baits and dear,
Nor sever from the laurel, limed and green,
Which nor the scorching sun, nor fierce cold sear.
Dry shall the sea, the sky be starless seen,
Ere I shall cease to covet and to fear
Her lovely shadow, and--which ill I screen--
To like, yet loathe, the deep wound cherish'd here:
For never hope I respite from my pain,
From bones and nerves and flesh till I am free,
Unless mine enemy some pity deign,
Till things impossible accomplish'd be,
None but herself or death the blow can heal
Which Love from her bright eyes has left my heart to feel.
MACGREGOR.
SONNET CLXIII.
_L' aura serena che fra verdi fronde.
