O eternal beam!
(Whose height what reach of mortal thought may soar?)Yield me again some little particle Of what thou then appearedst; give my tongue Power' but to leave one sparkle of thy glory, Unto the race to come' that shall not lose Thy triumph wholly, if thou waken aught Of memory in me, and endure to hear The record sound in this unequal strain.
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O grace, unenvying of thy boon! that gavest Boldness to fix so earnestly my ken On the everlasting splendour, that I look'd, While sight was unconsumed; and, in that depth, Saw in one volume clasp'd of love, whate'er The universe unfolds; all properties Of substance and of accident, beheld, Compounded, yet one individual light The whole.
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In that abyss Of radiance, clear and lofty, seem'd, methought, Three orbs of triple hue, clipt in one bound:
And, from another, one reflected seem'd, As rainbow is from rainbow: and the third Seem'd fire, breathed equally from both.
O speech! How feeble and how faint art thou, to give Conception birth.Yet this to what I saw Is less than little.
O eternal light!
Sole in thyself that dwell'st; and of thyself Sole understood' past' present, or to come;Thou smile'st, on that circling, which in thee Seem'd as reflected splendour, while I mused;For I therein, methought, in its own hue Beheld our image painted: stedfastly I therefore pored upon the view.As one, Who versed in geometric lore, would fain Measure the circle; and, though pondering long And deeply, that beginning, which he needs, Finds not: e'en such was I, intent to scan The novel wonder, and trace out the form, How to the circle fitted, and therein How placed: but the flight was not for my wing:
Had not a flash darted athwart my mind, And, in the spleen, unfolded what is sought.
Here vigour fail'd the towering fantasy:
But yet the will roll'd onward, like a wheel In even motion' by the love impell'd, That moves the sun in heaven and all the stars.
Three orbs of triple hue.The Trinity.
Next after Dante, the first name of importance in Italian literature is that of Francesca Petrarca, called Petrarch in English.He was the son of a Florentine exile, was born at Aruzzo in 1304, and died at Padua in 1374.He was a scholar and a diplomat, and was entrusted with many public services.Most of his active life he spent at Avignon, at the papal court, or in Vaucluse near by.When he was twenty-three, he met Laura, the beautiful woman with whom he was always after in love, and who was the inspiration of all his lyric poetry.She was the daughter of a citizen of Avignon, and was married, probably to Ugo de Sade of Avignon.She was a good woman whose character was ever above reproach.Petrarch was a very industrious writer.He produced many letters and treatises in Latin, besides a long Latin epic Africa.But his great and deserved fame rests upon his Italian lyric poetry--the Canzoniere.The Canzoniere is divided into three parts: the poems to Laura in life; to Laura in death; and the Triumphs.The Triumphs are inferior in merit to the other two parts.He had studied closely the Provencall poets, and had something of their spirit.
I.To Laura in Life.
SONNET III.HE BLAMES LOVE FOR WOUNDING HIM ON A HOLY DAY (GOODFRIDAY).
'Twas on the morn' when heaven its blessed ray In pity to its suffering master veil'd, First did I, Lady, to your beauty yield, Of your victorious eyes th' unguarded prey.
Ah! little reck'd I that, on such a day, Needed against Love's arrows any shield;And trod' securely trod, the fatal field:
Whence, with the world's, began my heart's dismay.
On every side Love found his victim bare, And through mine eyes transfix'd my throbbing heart;Those eyes, which now with constant sorrows flow:
But poor the triumph of his boasted art, Who thus could pierce a naked youth nor dare To you in armour mail'd even to display his bow!--Wrangham.
SONNET XIV.HE COMPARIES HIMSELF TO A PILGRIM.
The palmer bent, with locks of silver gray, Quits the sweet spot where he has pass'd his years, Quits his poor family, whose anxious fears Paint the loved father fainting on his way;And trembling, on his aged limbs slow borne, In these last days that close his earthly course, He, in his soul's strong purpose, finds new force, Though weak with age, though by long travel worn:
Thus reaching Rome, led on by pious love, He seeks the image of that Saviour Lord Whom soon he hopes to meet in bliss above:
So, oft in other forms I seek to trace Some charm, that to my heart may yet afford A faint resemblance of thy matchless grace.--Dacre SONNET XCVIII.LEAVE-TAKING.
There was a touching paleness on her face, Which chased her smiles, but such sweet union made Of pensive majesty and heavenly grace, As if a passing cloud had veil'd her with its shade;Then knew I how the blessed ones above Gaze on each other in their perfect bliss, For never yet was look of mortal love So pure, so tender, so serene as this.
The softest glance fond woman ever sent To him she loved, would cold and rayless be Compared to this, which she divinely bent Earthward, with angel sympathy, on me, That seem'd with speechless tenderness to say, "Who takes from me my faithful friend away?"-E.(New Monthly Magazine.)
SESTINA VII.HE DESPAIRS OF ESCAPING FROM HIS TORMENTS.
Count the ocean's finny droves;
Count the twinkling host of stars, Round the night's pale orb that moves;Count the groves' wing'd choristers;
Count each verdant blade that grows;
Counted then will be my woes.
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Sad my nights; from morn till eve, Tenanting the woods, I sigh:
But, ere I shall cease to grieve, Ocean's vast bed shall be dry, Suns their light from moons shall gain, And spring wither on each plain.
Pensive, weeping, night and day, From this shore to that I fly, Changeful as the lunar ray;And, when evening veils the sky, Then my tears might swell the floods, Then my sighs might bow the woods!
Towns I hate, the shades I love;
For relief to yon green height, Where the rill resounds, I rove At the grateful calm of night;There I wait the day's decline, For the welcome moon to shine.
