who dost oft return,
Ministering comfort to my nights of woe,
From eyes which Death, relenting in his blow,
Has lit with all the lustres of the morn:
How am I gladden'd, that thou dost not scorn
O'er my dark days thy radiant beam to throw!
Ministering comfort to my nights of woe,
From eyes which Death, relenting in his blow,
Has lit with all the lustres of the morn:
How am I gladden'd, that thou dost not scorn
O'er my dark days thy radiant beam to throw!
Petrarch - Poems
To Love and meditation, faithful shade,
Receive the breathings of my grateful breast!
Love not in Cyprus found so sweet a nest
As this, by pine and arching laurel made!
The birds, breeze, water, branches, whisper love;
Herb, flower, and verdant path the lay symphonious move.
CAPEL LOFFT.
SONNET XIII.
_Quante fiate al mio dolce ricetto. _
HER FORM STILL HAUNTS HIM IN SOLITUDE.
How oft, all lonely, to my sweet retreat
From man and from myself I strive to fly,
Bathing with dewy eyes each much-loved seat,
And swelling every blossom with a sigh!
How oft, deep musing on my woes complete,
Along the dark and silent glens I lie,
In thought again that dearest form to meet
By death possess'd, and therefore wish to die!
How oft I see her rising from the tide
Of Sorga, like some goddess of the flood;
Or pensive wander by the river's side;
Or tread the flowery mazes of the wood;
Bright as in life; while angel pity throws
O'er her fair face the impress of my woes.
MERIVALE.
SONNET XIV.
_Alma felice, che sovente torni. _
HE THANKS HER THAT FROM TIME TO TIME SHE RETURNS TO CONSOLE HIM WITH HER
PRESENCE.
O blessed spirit!
who dost oft return,
Ministering comfort to my nights of woe,
From eyes which Death, relenting in his blow,
Has lit with all the lustres of the morn:
How am I gladden'd, that thou dost not scorn
O'er my dark days thy radiant beam to throw!
Thus do I seem again to trace below
Thy beauties, hovering o'er their loved sojourn.
There now, thou seest, where long of thee had been
My sprightlier strain, of thee my plaint I swell--
Of thee! --oh, no! of mine own sorrows keen.
One only solace cheers the wretched scene:
By many a sign I know thy coming well--
Thy step, thy voice and look, and robe of favour'd green.
WRANGHAM.
When welcome slumber locks my torpid frame,
I see thy spirit in the midnight dream;
Thine eyes that still in living lustre beam:
In all but frail mortality the same.
Ah! then, from earth and all its sorrows free,
Methinks I meet thee in each former scene:
Once the sweet shelter of a heart serene;
Now vocal only while I weep for thee.
For thee! --ah, no! From human ills secure.
Thy hallow'd soul exults in endless day;
'Tis I who linger on the toilsome way:
No balm relieves the anguish I endure;
Save the fond feeble hope that thou art near
To soothe my sufferings with an angel's tear.
ANNE BANNERMAN.
SONNET XV.
