The Poetry of Petrarch by David Young

Author:David Young
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9781466872899
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux

184

Nature, and Love, and that sweet, humble soul

where all high virtues congregate and rule,

contrive to thwart me: Love intends to kill me,

promptly, ingeniously, as is his style;

Nature sustains that soul by just a thread,

so delicate that it can bear no strain;

she’s shy and shows no tendency to dwell

in this fatiguing life, so low and vile.

And thus the spirit’s failing, hour by hour,

within that graceful body that has been

the mirror and the mood of loveliness;

unless, alas, Pity can rein in Death,

I see how vain the state of hope has grown

on which I have been trying to survive.

185

The golden feathers that surround her white

and noble throat array this artless phoenix

with such a precious necklace that each heart

is sweetened by it, though my own’s consumed;

they make a kind of natural diadem

that lights the air all round; Love’s soundless flint

draws out of it a subtle, liquid fire

that burns me even in the coldest frost.

A scarlet dress, hemmed with cerulean

and scattered roses, veils her lovely shoulders:

new garment for a beauty without equal!

Fame says the phoenix lives in distant mountains

among the spicy reaches of Arabia,

but this one’s cruising proudly through our skies.

186

If Homer and then Virgil had but seen

that sun my eyes are able to enjoy,

they would have bent their skill to make her famous,

mingling their separate styles into one:

that would enrage Aeneas; and Achilles,

Ulysses, all the demigods make sad;

and he who ruled the world so well for six

and fifty years, and whom Aegisthus killed.

That ancient flower of virtue and of arms,

how similar his star was to this new one

that now embodies chastity and beauty!

Ennius praised him with a clumsy song,

and I praise her; oh, may I not displease,

and may she not despise my celebration!

187

When Alexander saw the famous tomb

of fierce Achilles, we are told he sighed:

“Oh, lucky man, who found so clear a trumpet

to write so splendidly of your great deeds!”

But this dove, pure and white, whose living equal

has not existed ever in this world,

is barely echoed in my feeble style.

That’s how our destinies are various;

for she deserves an Orpheus or Homer

or homage from the shepherd Mantua loves,

she’s worth their singing, always, just of her;

a crooked star, determining her fate,

made her unlucky: to have one adore her

who sings her praise, but mars it by his crudeness.

188

Life-giving sun, you loved that branch at first

which I love now: it’s she who thrives alone

in her sweet place, who has no equal since

Adam first saw his lovely curse, and ours.

Let’s stay and gaze at her, I beg of you,

oh, sun, for you still run away and darken

the hillsides all around, take out the day,

and take from me what I desire most.

The shadow growing from that sloping hill

there where my gentle fire glows and sparks,

where this great laurel was a little sapling,

grows longer as I speak, steals from my eyes

the happy sight of that most blessed place

there where my heart is dwelling with his lady.

189

My galley, loaded with forgetfulness,

rolls through rough seas, at midnight, during winter,

aiming between Charybdis and sharp Scylla;

my lord, ah no, my foe, sits at the tiller;

each

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