No More Learning

But nought there is on earth in which the wise
May trust, for, wearying braving her afresh,
To rugged stone she changed my quivering flesh.
So that, in their old strain, my broken cries
In vain ask'd death, or told her one name to deaf skies.

A sad and wandering shade, I next recall,
Through many a distant and deserted glen,
That long I mourn'd my indissoluble thrall.
At length my malady seem'd ended, when
I to my earthly frame return'd again,
Haply but greater grief therein to feel;
Still following my desire with such fond zeal
That once (beneath the proud sun's fiercest blaze,
Returning from the chase, as was my wont)
Naked, where gush'd a font,
My fair and fatal tyrant met my gaze;
I whom nought else could pleasure, paused to look,
While, touch'd with shame as natural as intense,
Herself to hide or punish my offence,
She o'er my face the crystal waters shook
--I still speak true, though truth may seem a lie--
Instantly from my proper person torn,
A solitary stag, I felt me borne
In winged terrors the dark forest through,
As still of my own dogs the rushing storm I flew
My song! I never was that cloud of gold
Which once descended in such precious rain,
Easing awhile with bliss Jove's amorous pain;
I was a flame, kindled by one bright eye,
I was the bird which gladly soar'd on high,
Exalting her whose praise in song I wake;
Nor, for new fancies, knew I to forsake
My first fond laurel, 'neath whose welcome shade
Ever from my firm heart all meaner pleasures fade.

MACGREGOR.




SONNET XX.

_Se l' onorata fronde, che prescrive. _

TO STRAMAZZO OF PERUGIA, WHO INVITED HIM TO WRITE POETRY.


If the world-honour'd leaf, whose green defies
The wrath of Heaven when thunders mighty Jove,
Had not to me prohibited the crown
Which wreathes of wont the gifted poet's brow,
I were a friend of these your idols too,
Whom our vile age so shamelessly ignores:
But that sore insult keeps me now aloof
From the first patron of the olive bough:
For Ethiop earth beneath its tropic sun
Ne'er burn'd with such fierce heat, as I with rage
At losing thing so comely and beloved.
Resort then to some calmer fuller fount,
For of all moisture mine is drain'd and dry,
Save that which falleth from mine eyes in tears.

MACGREGOR.




SONNET XXI.

_Amor piangeva, ed io con lui talvolta. _

HE CONGRATULATES BOCCACCIO ON HIS RETURN TO THE RIGHT PATH.
Love grieved, and I with him at times, to see
By what strange practices and cunning art,
You still continued from his fetters free,
From whom my feet were never far apart.
Since to the right way brought by God's decree,
Lifting my hands to heaven with pious heart,
I thank Him for his love and grace, for He
The soul-prayer of the just will never thwart:
And if, returning to the amorous strife,
Its fair desire to teach us to deny,
Hollows and hillocks in thy path abound,
'Tis but to prove to us with thorns how rife
The narrow way, the ascent how hard and high,
Where with true virtue man at last is crown'd.

MACGREGOR.




SONNET XXII.

_Piu di me lieta non si vede a terra. _

ON THE SAME SUBJECT.


Than me more joyful never reach'd the shore
A vessel, by the winds long tost and tried,
Whose crew, late hopeless on the waters wide,
To a good God their thanks, now prostrate, pour;
Nor captive from his dungeon ever tore,
Around whose neck the noose of death was tied,
More glad than me, that weapon laid aside
Which to my lord hostility long bore.
All ye who honour love in poet strain,
To the good minstrel of the amorous lay
Return due praise, though once he went astray;
For greater glory is, in Heaven's blest reign,
Over one sinner saved, and higher praise,
Than e'en for ninety-nine of perfect ways.

MACGREGOR.




SONNET XXIII.

_Il successor di Carlo, che la chioma. _

ON THE MOVEMENT OF THE EMPEROR AGAINST THE INFIDELS, AND THE RETURN OF
THE POPE TO ROME.


The high successor of our Charles,[P] whose hair
The crown of his great ancestor adorns,
Already has ta'en arms, to bruise the horns
Of Babylon, and all her name who bear;
Christ's holy vicar with the honour'd load
Of keys and cloak, returning to his home,
Shall see Bologna and our noble Rome,
If no ill fortune bar his further road.
Best to your meek and high-born lamb belongs
To beat the fierce wolf down: so may it be
With all who loyalty and love deny.
Console at length your waiting country's wrongs,
And Rome's, who longs once more her spouse to see,
And gird for Christ the good sword on thy thigh.

MACGREGOR.