What envy of the saints, in realms so fair,
Who eager seem'd, from that bright form of grace
The spirit pure to summon to its place,
Amidst those joys, which few can hope to share;
What envy of the blest in heaven above,
With whom she dwells in sympathies divine
Denied to me on earth, though sought in sighs;
And oh!
Who eager seem'd, from that bright form of grace
The spirit pure to summon to its place,
Amidst those joys, which few can hope to share;
What envy of the blest in heaven above,
With whom she dwells in sympathies divine
Denied to me on earth, though sought in sighs;
And oh!
Petrarch - Poems
Where are that science, sense, and worth confess'd?
That speech by virtue, by the graces dress'd?
Where are those beauties, where those charms combined,
That caused this long captivity of mind?
Where the dear shade of all that once was fair,
The source, the solace, of each amorous care--
My heart's sole sovereign, Nature's only boast?
--Lost to the world, to me for ever lost!
LANGHORNE.
SONNET XXXII.
_Quanta invidia ti porto, avara terra. _
HE ENVIES EARTH, HEAVEN, AND DEATH THEIR POSSESSION OF HIS TREASURE.
O earth, whose clay-cold mantle shrouds that face,
And veils those eyes that late so brightly shone,
Whence all that gave delight on earth was known,
How much I envy thee that harsh embrace!
O heaven, that in thy airy courts confined
That purest spirit, when from earth she fled,
And sought the mansions of the righteous dead;
How envious, thus to leave my panting soul behind!
O angels, that in your seraphic choir
Received her sister-soul, and now enjoy
Still present, those delights without alloy,
Which my fond heart must still in vain desire!
In her I lived--in her my life decays;
Yet envious Fate denies to end my hapless days.
WOODHOUSELEE.
What envy of the greedy earth I bear,
That holds from me within its cold embrace
The light, the meaning, of that angel face,
On which to gaze could soften e'en despair.
What envy of the saints, in realms so fair,
Who eager seem'd, from that bright form of grace
The spirit pure to summon to its place,
Amidst those joys, which few can hope to share;
What envy of the blest in heaven above,
With whom she dwells in sympathies divine
Denied to me on earth, though sought in sighs;
And oh! what envy of stern Death I prove,
That with her life has ta'en the light of mine,
Yet calls me not,--though fixed and cold those eyes.
WROTTESLEY.
SONNET XXXIII.
_Valle che d' lamenti miei se' piena. _
ON HIS RETURN TO VAUCLUSE AFTER LAURA'S DEATH.
Valley, which long hast echoed with my cries;
Stream, which my flowing tears have often fed;
Beasts, fluttering birds, and ye who in the bed
Of Cabrieres' wave display your speckled dyes;
Air, hush'd to rest and soften'd by my sighs;
Dear path, whose mazes lone and sad I tread;
Hill of delight--though now delight is fled--
To rove whose haunts Love still my foot decoys;
Well I retain your old unchanging face!
Myself how changed! in whom, for joy's light throng,
Infinite woes their constant mansion find!
Here bloom'd my bliss: and I your tracks retrace,
To mark whence upward to her heaven she sprung,
Leaving her beauteous spoil, her robe of flesh behind!
WRANGHAM.
Ye vales, made vocal by my plaintive lay;
Ye streams, embitter'd with the tears of love;
Ye tenants of the sweet melodious grove;
Ye tribes that in the grass fringed streamlet play;
Ye tepid gales, to which my sighs convey
A softer warmth; ye flowery plains, that move
Reflection sad; ye hills, where yet I rove,
Since Laura there first taught my steps to stray;--
You, you are still the same! How changed, alas,
Am I! who, from a state of life so blest,
Am now the gloomy dwelling-place of woe!
'Twas here I saw my love: here still I trace
Her parting steps, when she her mortal vest
Cast to the earth, and left these scenes below.
ANON.
