No More Learning

But if, belike, not yet denied to me
That, ere my own life end,
These sad notes mute shall be,
Let not my Lord conceive the wish too free,
Yet once, amid sweet flowers, to touch the string,
"Reason and right it is that love I sing. "

Reason indeed there were at last that I
Should sing, since I have sigh'd so long and late,
But that for me 'tis vain such art to try,
Brief pleasures balancing with sorrows great;
Could I, by some sweet verse, but cause to shine
Glad wonder and new joy
Within those eyes divine,
Bliss o'er all other lovers then were mine!
But more, if frankly fondly I could say,
"My lady asks, I therefore wake the lay. "

Delicious, dangerous thoughts! that, to begin
A theme so high, have gently led me thus,
You know I ne'er can hope to pass within
Our lady's heart, so strongly steel'd from us;
She will not deign to look on thing so low,
Nor may our language win
Aught of her care: since Heaven ordains it so,
And vainly to oppose must irksome grow,
Even as I my heart to stone would turn,
"So in my verse would I be rude and stern. "

What do I say? where am I? --My own heart
And its misplaced desires alone deceive!
Though my view travel utmost heaven athwart
No planet there condemns me thus to grieve:
Why, if the body's veil obscure my sight,
Blame to the stars impart.
Or other things as bright?
Within me reigns my tyrant, day and night,
Since, for his triumph, me a captive took
"Her lovely face, and lustrous eyes' dear look. "

While all things else in Nature's boundless reign
Came good from the Eternal Master's mould,
I look for such desert in me in vain:
Me the light wounds that I around behold;
To the true splendour if I turn at last,
My eye would shrink in pain,
Whose own fault o'er it cast
Such film, and not the fatal day long past,
When first her angel beauty met my view,
"In the sweet season when my life was new. "

MACGREGOR.




CANZONE VIII.

_Perche la vita e breve.
_

IN PRAISE OF LAURA'S EYES: THE DIFFICULTY OF HIS THEME.


Since human life is frail,
And genius trembles at the lofty theme,
I little confidence in either place;
But let my tender wail
There, where it ought, deserved attention claim,
That wail which e'en in silence we may trace.
O beauteous eyes, where Love doth nestling stay!
To you I turn my insufficient lay,
Unapt to flow; but passion's goad I feel:
And he of you who sings
Such courteous habit by the strain is taught,
That, borne on amorous wings,
He soars above the reach of vulgar thought:
Exalted thus, I venture to reveal
What long my cautious heart has labour'd to conceal.

Yes, well do I perceive
To you how wrongful is my scanty praise;
Yet the strong impulse cannot be withstood,
That urges, since I view'd
What fancy to the sight before ne'er gave,
What ne'er before graced mine, or higher lays.
Bright authors of my sadly-pleasing state,
That you alone conceive me well I know,
When to your fierce beams I become as snow!
Your elegant disdain
Haply then kindles at my worthless strain.
Did not this dread create
Some mitigation of my bosom's heat,
Death would be bliss: for greater joy 'twould give
With them to suffer death, without them than to live.

If not consumed quite,
I the weak object of a flame so strong:
'Tis not that safety springs from native might,
But that some fear restrains,
Which chills the current circling through my veins;
Strengthening this heart, that it may suffer long.
O hills, O vales, O forests, floods, and fields,
Ye who have witness'd how my sad life flows,
Oft have ye heard me call on death for aid.
Ah, state surcharged with woes!
To stay destroys, and flight no succour yields.
But had not higher dread
Withheld, some sudden effort I had made
To end my sorrows and protracted pains,
Of which the beauteous cause insensible remains.

Why lead me, grief, astray
From my first theme to chant a different lay?
Let me proceed where pleasure may invite.
'Tis not of you I 'plain,
O eyes, beyond compare serenely bright;
Nor yet of him who binds me in his chain.