My song! with fearless feet
The field I keep, for death
in flight were shame.
Myself I needs must blame
For these laments; tears,
sighs, and death to meet,
Such fate for her is sweet.
Own, slave of Love, whose
eyes these rhymes may catch,
Earth has no good that with
my grief can match.
MACGREGOR.
[Illustration: AVIGNON.]
SONNET CLXXIII.
Rapido fiume che d’ alpestra vena.
JOURNEYING ALONG THE RHONE TO AVIGNON, PETRARCH BIDS
THE RIVER KISS
LAURA’S HAND, AS IT WILL ARRIVE AT HER DWELLING
BEFORE HIM.
Impetuous flood,
that from the Alps’ rude head,
Eating around thee, dost thy
name obtain;[V]
Anxious like me both night
and day to gain
Where thee pure nature, and
me love doth lead;
Pour on: thy course nor
sleep nor toils impede;
Yet, ere thou pay’st
thy tribute to the main,
Oh, tarry where most verdant
looks the plain,
Where most serenity the skies
doth spread!
There beams my radiant sun
of cheering ray,
Which deck thy left banks,
and gems o’er with flowers;
E’en now, vain thought!
perhaps she chides my stay:
Kiss then her feet, her hand
so beauteous fair;
In place of language let thy
kiss declare
Strong is my will, though
feeble are my powers.
NOTT.
O rapid flood!
which from thy mountain bed
Gnawest thy shores, whence
(in my tongue) thy name;[V]
Thou art my partner, night
and day the same,
Where I by love, thou art
by nature led:
Precede me now; no weariness
doth shed
Its spell o’er thee,
no sleep thy course can tame;
Yet ere the ocean waves thy
tribute claim,
Pause, where the herb and
air seem brighter fed.
There beams our sun of life,
whose genial ray
With brighter verdure thy
left shore adorns;
Perchance (vain hope!) e’en
now my stay she mourns.
Kiss then her foot, her lovely
hand, and may
Thy kiss to her in place of
language speak,
The spirit is willing, but
the flesh is weak.
WOLLASTON.
[Footnote V: Deriving it from rodere, to gnaw.]
SONNET CLXXIV.
I’ dolci colli ov’ io lasciai me stesso.
HE LEAVES VAUCLUSE, BUT HIS SPIRIT REMAINS THERE WITH LAURA.
The loved hills
where I left myself behind,
Whence ever ’twas so
hard my steps to tear,
Before me rise; at each remove
I bear
The dear load to my lot by
Love consign’d.
Often I wonder inly in my
mind,
That still the fair yoke holds
me, which despair
Would vainly break, that yet
I breathe this air;
Though long the chain, its
links but closer bind.
And as a stag, sore struck