Petrarch Page 30
to her by mixing their two styles in one;
this would have made Aeneas sad, and troubled
Achilles, Ulysses, and the other demigods,
and him who ruled for fifty and six years
the world so well, and him Aegisthus killed.
That ancient flower of virtue and of arms,
how similar was his star of fate to this
new flower of all honesty and beauty!
Ennius sang of him in verse that’s rough,
and I of her, and, oh, I hope my wit
will please her and that she not hate my praises!
187
Giunto Alessandro a la famosa tomba
del fero Achille, sospirando disse:
“O fortunato che sì chiara tromba
trovasti et chi di te sì alto scrisse!”
Ma questa pura et candida colomba
a cui non so s’ al mondo mai par visse
nel mio stil frale assai poco rimbomba.
Così son le sue sorti a ciascun fisse;
ché d’Omero dignissima e d’Orfeo
o del pastor ch’ ancor Mantova onora,
ch’ andassen sempre lei sola cantando,
stella difforme et fato sol qui reo
commise a tal che ’l suo bel nome adora
ma forse scema sue Iode parlando.
188
Almo sol, quella fronde ch’ io sola amo
tu prima amasti, or sola al bel soggiorno
verdeggia et senza par poi che l’adorno
suo male et nostro vide in prima Adamo.
Stiamo a mirarla, i’ ti pur prego et chiamo,
o sole; et tu pur fuggi et fai dintorno
ombrare i poggi et te ne porti il giorno,
et fuggendo mi tòi quel ch’ i’ più bramo.
L’ombra che cade da quell’umil colle
ove favilla il mio soave foco,
ove ’l gran lauro fu picciola verga,
crescendo mentr’ io parlo, agli occhi tolle
la dolce vista del beato loco
ove ’l mio cor con la sua donna alberga.
187
When Alexander reached the famous tomb
of fierce Achilles, sighing he announced:
“Fortunate one, who found so clear a trumpet
and one who wrote so loftily of you!”
But this immaculate and pure white dove
whose equal, I think, never walked this earth,
in these frail words of mine resounds too little—
and so the destiny of each is fixed;
of Homer she’s most worthy and of Orpheus
and of the shepherd Mantua still honors,
that they sing only constantly of her,
but star deformed and fate—their only error—
gave her to one who loves her lovely name
but mars, perhaps, her praise in poetry.
188
Sustaining sun, that branch alone I love
and you first loved, alone in her sweet home
now flourishes, unrivaled, since the time
Adam first saw his own and our fair fall.
Let’s stay to gaze at her, I beg of you,
O sun; but still you flee and cast your shade
on every hillside carrying off the day,
and in your flight you take what I most yearn for.
The shadow falling from that low hillside
there where my gentle fire was a spark,
where the great laurel was a little sapling,
growing as I speak, takes from my eyes
the lovely sight of that place which is blessed
and where my heart is dwelling with his lady.
189
Passa la nave mia colma d’oblio
per aspro mare a mezza notte il verno
enfra Scilla et Caribdi, et al governo
siede ’l signore anzi ’l nimico mio;
à ciascun remo un penser pronto et rio
che la tempesta e ’l fin par ch’ abbi a scherno;
la vela rompe un vento umido eterno
di sospir, di speranze et di desio;
pioggia di lagrimar, nebbia di sdegni
bagna et rallenta le già stanche sarte
che son d’error con ignoranzia attorto.
Celansi i duo mei dolci usati segni,
morta fra l’onde è la ragion et l’arte
tal ch’ incomincio a desperar del porto.
190
Una candida cerva sopra l’erba
verde m’apparve con duo corna d’oro,
fra due riviere all’ombra d’un alloro,
levando ’l sole a la stagione acerba.
Era sua vista sì dolce superba
ch’ i’ lasciai per seguirla ogni lavoro,
come l’avaro che ’n cercar tesoro
con diletto l’affanno disacerba.
“Nessun mi tocchi,” al bel collo d’intorno
scritto avea di diamanti et di topazi.
“Libera farmi al mio Cesare parve.”
Et era ’l sol già vòlto al mezzo giorno,
gli occhi miei stanchi di mirar, non sazi,
quand’ io caddi ne l’acqua et ella sparve.
189
My ship full of forgetful cargo sails
through rough seas at the midnight of a winter
between Charybdis and the Scylla reef,
my master, no, my foe, is at the helm;
at each oar sits a quick and insane thought
that seems to scorn the storm and what it brings;
the sail, by wet eternal winds of sighs,
of hopes and of desires blowing, breaks;
a rain of tears, a mist of my disdain
washes and frees those all too weary ropes
made up of wrong entwined with ignorance.
Hidden are those two trusty signs of mine;
dead in the waves is reason as is skill,
and I despair of ever reaching port.
190
A doe of purest white upon green grass
wearing two horns of gold appeared to me
between two streams beneath a laurel’s shade
at sunrise in that season not yet ripe.
The sight of her was so sweetly austere
that I left all my work to follow her,
just like a miser who in search of treasure
with pleasure makes his effort bitterless.
“No one touch me,” around her lovely neck
was written out in diamonds, and in topaz:
“It pleased my Caesar to create me free.”
The sun by now had climbed the sky midway,
my eyes were tired but not full from looking
when I fell in the water and she vanished.
191
Sì come eterna vita è veder Dio
né più si brama né brama più lice,
cosi me, Donna, il voi veder felice
fa in questo breve et fraile viver mio.
Né voi stessa com’ or bella vid’ io
giamai, se vero al cor l’occhio ridice,
dolce del mio penser ora beatrice
che vince ogni alta speme, ogni desio!
Et se non fusse il suo fuggir sì ratto,
più non demanderei; ché s’ alcun vive
sol d’odore et tal fama fede acquista,
alcun d’acqua o di foco, e ’l gusto e ’l tatto
acquetan cose d’ogni dolzor prive,
i’ perché non de la vostra alma vista?
192
Stiamo, Amor, a veder la gloria nostra,
cose sopra Natura altere et nove.
Vedi ben quanta in lei dolcezza piove,
vedi lume che ’l Cielo in terra mostra;
vedi quant’arte dora e ’mperla e ’nostra
l’abito eletto et mai non visto altrove,
che dolcemente i piedi et gli occhi move
per questa di bei colli ombrosa chiostra!
L
’erbetta verde e i fior di color mille
sparsi sotto quell’elce antiqua et negra
pregan pur che ’l bel pe’ li prema o tocchi,
e ’l ciel di vaghe et lucide faville
s’accende intorno e ’n vista si rallegra
d’esser fatto seren da si belli occhi.
191
Just as eternal life is seeing God,
no greater wish is there nor wish more right,
so, lady, to behold you makes me happy
during this short and fragile life of mine.
I’ve never seen you look more beautiful
than now, if my eyes tell my heart the truth,
sweet time of day that blesses all my thoughts,
surpassing all high hope, every desire.
And were it not so quick to run away,
I would not ask for more; for if some live
on smell alone (and this has gained belief),
on water or on fire, their taste and touch
appeased by things deprived of every sweetness,
why cannot I on your sustaining sight?
192
Let us stay, Love, and gaze upon our glory
on high and wondrous things surpassing Nature.
Look well how much sweetness rains down on her,
you see the light that shows earth what is heaven;
see how much skill empearls and gilds and colors
that noble bearing never seen before,
which sweetly puts in motion feet and eyes
through shady cloisters of these lovely hills.
Green grass and flowers of a thousand colors
scattered beneath that oak ancient and black
beg for her lovely feet to touch or press them;
and all the sky with bright and loving sparks
is set ablaze and visibly rejoices
to have been made serene by eyes so lovely.
193
Pasco la mente dun sì nobil cibo
ch’ ambrosia et nettar non invidio a Giove,
ché sol mirando, oblio ne l’alma piove
d’ogni altro dolce, et Lete al fondo bibo.
Talor ch’ odo dir cose e ’n cor describo
per che da sospirar sempre ritrove,
ratto per man d’Amor (né so ben dove)
doppia dolcezza in un volto delibo;
ché quella voce infin al ciel gradita
suona in parole sì leggiadre et care
che pensar nol poria chi non l’à udita.
Allor inseme in men d’un palmo appare
visibilmente quanto in questa vita
Arte, Ingegno, et Natura e ’l Ciel po fare.
194
L’aura gentil che rasserena i poggi,
destando i fior per questo ombroso bosco,
al soave suo spirto riconosco
per cui conven che ’n pena e ’n fama poggi.
Per ritrovar ove ’l cor lasso appoggi,
fuggo dal mi’ natio dolce aere tosco;
per far lume al penser torbido et fosco
cerco ’l mio sole et spero vederlo oggi;
nel qual provo dolcezze tante et tali
ch’ Amor per forza a lui mi riconduce,
poi sì m’abbaglia che ’l fuggir m’è tardo.
I’ chiedrei a scampar non arme, anzi ali,
ma perir mi dà ’l ciel per questa luce,
ché da lunge mi struggo et da presso ardo.
193
My mind is nourished by a food so noble
I do not envy Jove his sweet ambrosia:
just seeing her my soul rains with oblivion
of other sweetness—I drink up all of Lethe.
When I hear things I write them in my heart
to have them always there to sigh about;
rapt by the hand of Love, I know not where,
I taste a double sweetness at one time:
that voice which pleases even high as Heaven
resounds in words so charming and so cherished,
who has not heard it cannot understand.
Then all together, in less than a span,
appears to sight all that which in this life
Nature and Art, Heaven and Wit can do.
194
The gracious breeze that clears the hills again
awakening flowers through this shady woods,
I recognize by its soft flowing breath,
which makes me rise in labor and in fame.
To find a place to lean my weary heart
I flee my sweet and native Tuscan air;
to give light to my dark and turbid thought
I seek and hope to see my sun today;
in it I find so much and such a sweetness
that Love is forced to lead me back to her,
and then she dazzles me, and fleeing is slow.
Not arms but wings I would need to escape,
but Heaven would have me perish in this light;
I suffer when I’m far and burn when close.
195
Di dì in dì vo cangiando il viso e ’l pelo,
né però smorso i dolci inescati ami
né sbranco i verdi et invescati rami
de l’arbor che né sol cura né gelo.
Senz’ acqua il mare et senza stelle il cielo
fia innanzi ch’ io non sempre tema et brami
la sua bell’ombra, et ch’ i’ non odi’ et ami
l’alta piaga amorosa che mal celo.
Non spero del mio affanno aver mai posa
infin ch’ i’ mi disosso et snervo et spolpo,
o la nemica mia pietà n’avesse.
Esser po in prima ogni impossibil cosa
ch’ altri che Morte od ella sani ’l colpo
ch’ Amor co’ suoi belli occhi al cor m’impresse.
196
L’aura serena che fra verdi fronde
mormorando a ferir nel volto viemme
fammi risovenir quand’ Amor diemme
le prime piaghe sì dolci profonde,
e ’l bel viso veder ch’ altri m’asconde,
che sdegno o gelosia celato tiemme,
et le chiome, or avolte in perle e ’n gemme,
allora sciolte et sovra or terso bionde,
le quali ella spargea sì dolcemente
et raccogliea con sì leggiadri modi
che ripensando ancor trema la mente.
Torsele il tempo poi in più saldi nodi
et strinse ’l cor d’un laccio sì possente
che Morte sola fia ch’ indi lo snodi.
195
From day to day my face and hair are changing,
but I still bite the sweetly baited hook
and hold tight to the green and enlimed branches
of the tree that has no care of cold or heat.
The sea will lose its water, sky its stars
before I fear no longer and desire
her lovely shade, and I not love and hate
the deep and loving wound I hide so badly.
I do not hope to ever rest my labors
until I am deboned, defleshed, demuscled,
or till my enemy shows me her pity.
All things that cannot be will be before
another or she or Death will heal the wound
that Love with her fair eyes made in my heart.
196
The tranquil aura that comes murmuring
through the green leaves and strikes against my brow
makes me remember when Love gave to me
for the first time his wounds so sweet and deep,
and lets me see the lovely face she hides
which jealousy or anger keeps from me,
and her hair, gathered now in pearls and gems
and flowing then more blonde than furbished gold,
which she was wont to loosen with such sweetness
and gather up again so charmingly—
that thinking of it makes my mind still t
remble.
Then in still tighter knots time wound her hair
and bound my heart with cord that is so strong
that only Death can free it from such ties.
197
L’aura celeste che ’n quel verde lauro
spira ov’ Amor ferì nel flanco Apollo
et a me pose un dolce giogo al collo,
tal che mia libertà tardi restauro,
po quello in me che nel gran vecchio mauro
Medusa quando in selce transformollo;
né posso dal bel nodo omai dar crollo
là ’ve il sol perde, non pur l’ambra o l’auro,
dico le chiome bionde e ’l crespo laccio
che sì soavemente lega et stringe
l’alma, che d’umiltate et non d’altro armo.
L’ombra sua sola fa ’l mio cor un ghiaccio
et di bianca paura il viso tinge,
ma gli occhi ànno vertù di farne un marmo.
198
L’aura soave al sole spiega et vibra
l’auro ch’ Amor di sua man fila et tesse;
là da’ belli occhi et de le chiome stesse
lega ’l cor lasso e i lievi spirti cribra.
Non ò medolla in osso o sangue in fibra
ch’ i’ non senta tremar pur ch’ i’ m’apresse
dove è chi morte et vita inseme, spesse
volte, in fraie bilancia appende et libra,
vedendo ardere i lumi ond’ io m’accendo,
et folgorare i nodi ond’ io son preso
or su l’omero destro et or sul manco.
I’ nol posso ridir, ché nol comprendo,
da ta’ due luci è l’intelletto offeso
et di tanta dolcezza oppresso et stanco.
197
The heavenly aura breathing in that green laurel
where Love wounded Apollo in his side,
and placed a yoke of sweetness on my neck
from which it is too late to free myself,
has power like Medusa’s when the old
and famous Moor she transformed into rock;
nor can I now break loose the lovely knot