Petrarch (13 page)

three times triumphing
did adorn his brow—

how often and how generous Rome was

with its own blood
in the defense of others
;

and now why should she be

not generous, but
pious and most grateful

in vengeance of those merciless offenses

against the Virgin Mary’s
glorious son
?

So then how can the enemy have hope

in any human defense

if
Christ is part
of the opposing ranks?

Consider the bold
rashness of a Xerxes
,

who with intentions to tread on our shores

had done the sea an outrage with strange bridges,

and you will see
the many Persian women

all dressed in black because their husbands died,

and
tainted red
the sea of Salamis.

Not only does that miserable ruin

of those unhappy people of the East

vouchsafe your victory
,

but also
Marathon
and the mortal straits

defended by the Lion
with a few men

and a thousand others you have heard and read.

So then it is most fitting that you bend

your knees and heart to God

who has reserved your years for
so much good
.

You will see Italy and
the honored shore
,

my song, denied my eyes and hidden not

by sea or hill or stream,

but only Love
who with his
noble light

attracts me more
where more he does enflame me,

and nature is
not strong enough
for habit.

Now go,
don’t separate
from your companions,

for
not only beneath a veil

does Love that gives us
joy and tears
abide.

Verdi panni sanguigni oscuri o persi

non vesti donna unquanco

né d’or capelli in bionda treccia attorse

si bella corne questa che mi spoglia

d’arbitrio et dal camin de libertade

seco mi tira sì ch’ io non sostegno

alcun giogo men grave.

Et se pur s’arma talor a dolersi

l’anima a cui vien manco

consiglio ove ’l martir l’adduce in forse,

rappella lei da la sfrenata voglia

subita vista, ché del cor mi rade

ogni delira impresa et ogni sdegno

fa ’l veder lei soave.

Di quanto per amor giamai soffersi

et aggio a soffrir anco

fin che mi sani ’l cor colei che ’l morse

rubella di mercé che pur l’envoglia,

vendetta fia; sol che contra umiltade

orgoglio et ira il bel passo ond’ io vegno

non chiuda et non inchiave.

Ma l’ora e ’l giorno ch’ io le luci apersi

nel bel nero et nel bianco

che mi scacciar di là dove Amor corse

novella d’esta vita che m’addoglia

furon radice, et quella in cui l’etade

nostra si mira, la qual piombo o legno

vedendo è chi non pave.

Lagrima dunque che dagli occhi versi—

per quelle che nel manco

lato mi bagna chi primier s’accorse

quadrella—dal voler mio non mi svoglia,

ché ’n giusta parte la sentenza cade;

per lei sospira l’alma, et ella è degno

che le sue piaghe lave.

Da me son fatti i miei pensier diversi:

tal già qual io mi stanco

Green clothes
, bright red or dark or purple ones

no lady ever wore

or
hair of gold
has twisted in blond braid

as beautiful as this one who deprives

me of my will,
and from the path of freedom

draws me to her, so that I cannot bear

a yoke that’s any lighter.

And if sometimes my soul takes arms complaining,

no longer having any

counsel, exposed to doubt through martyrdom,

from its unbridled will the very sight of her

will call it back, for from the heart she strips

all mad desire
, and
all of my disdain

the sight of her
makes sweet
.

All that I ever suffered in love’s name

and all I still must suffer—

until the one who pierced my heart
will cure it
,

rebel of mercy
who still makes it yearn—

shall be revenged
, as long as pride and anger

against humility
does not lock shut

my lovely way to reach her
.

The hour and the day
my eyes were opened

to lovely black and whiteness
,

which drove me from the place
Love ran to take
,

were the
first root
of this, my life of pain,

as well as she in whom
our century marvels
;

and he is made of lead or wood who sees

this one and does not tremble.

No tear, therefore, that from my eyes is shed—

as a result of those

arrows which
in my left side
bloody that

which first felt them—turns me from my desire,

for on the right place the just sentence falls
;

it’s their fault
my soul sighs
, and it is just

for them to wash her wounds.

My thoughts are now like strangers in my mind:

one driven
like me once

l’amata spada in se stessa contorse;

né quella prego che però mi scioglia,

ché men son dritte al ciel tutt’ altre strade

et non s’aspira al glorioso regno

certo in più salda nave.

Benigne stelle che compagne fersi

al fortunato flanco

quando il bel parto giù nel mondo scorse!

ch’ è Stella in terra, et come in lauro foglia

conserva verde il pregio d’onestade,

ove non spira folgore né indegno

vento mai che l’aggrave.

So io ben ch’ a voler chiuder in versi

suo’ laudi fora stanco

chi più degna la mano a scriver porse;

qual celia è di memoria in cui s’accoglia

quanta vede vertù, quanta beltade

chi gli occhi mira d’ogni valor segno,

dolce del mio cor chiave?

Quanto il sol gira, Amor più caro pegno,

Donna, di voi non ve.

had plunged the loving sword into herself;

but I do not beg her
to set me free
,

for other roads to heaven are less straight,

and one cannot hope for the realm of glory

in any ship that’s stronger.

O gracious stars, companions at the time

of that fortunate womb

when its fair fruit descended to the world!

A star on earth, and
as the laurel leaf
,

she keeps the green prize of her chastity,

and lightning never strikes it nor
unworthy

wind ever makes it bend.

How well I know to want to capture all

her praise in verse
would vanquish

whoever put the worthiest hand to writing;

what cell of memory can hold within

all virtue, all the beauty that we see

when looking at her eyes, signs of all worth,

the sweet key to my heart?

As long as sun turns, lady, Love has not

a dearer pledge
than you.

Giovene donna sotto un verde lauro

vidi più bianca et più fredda che neve

non percossa dal sol molti et molt’anni;

e ’l suo parlare e ’l bel viso et le chiome

mi piacquen sì ch’ i’ l’ ò dinanzi agli occhi

ed avrò sempre ov’ io sia in poggio o ’n riva.

Allor saranno i miei pensieri a riva

che foglia verde non si trovi in lauro;

quando avrò queto il cor, asciutti gli occhi,

vedrem ghiacciare il foco, arder la neve;

non ò tanti capelli in queste chiome

quanti vorrei quel giorno attender anni.

Ma perché vola il tempo et fuggon gli anni

sì ch’ a la morte in un punto s’arriva

o colle brune o colle bianche chiome,

seguirò l’ombra di quel dolce lauro

per lo più ardente sole et per la neve,

fin che l’ultimo dì chiuda quest’occhi.

Non fur giamai veduti sì begli occhi

o. ne la nostra etade o ne’ prim’ anni

che mi struggon così come ’l sol neve,

onde procede lagrimosa riva

ch’ Amor conduce a pie’ del duro lauro

ch’ à i rami di diamante et d’or le chiome.

I’ temo di cangiar pria volto et chiome

che con vera pietà mi mostri gli occhi

l’idolo mio scolpito in vivo lauro,

ché s’ al contar non erro oggi à sett’ anni

che sospirando vo di riva in riva

la notte e ’l giorno, al caldo ed a la neve.

Dentro pur foco et for candida neve,

sol con questi pensier, con altre chiome,

sempre piangendo andrò per ogni riva,

per far forse pietà venir ne gli occhi

di tal che nascerà dopo mill’ anni,

se tanto viver po ben coito lauro.

A young maiden
beneath the green of laurel

I saw
, more white, more cold than all that snow

unstruck by sun
for many, many years;

those words of hers, her lovely face, her hair

I loved so much—
I keep her in my eyes

and always shall, whether on hill or shore.

But only then will my thoughts
reach the shore

when no green leaf
is found upon the laurel,

when my heart is at peace and dry my eyes:

we’ll see
the fire freeze and blazing snow
;

upon my head
there is not as much hair

as years I would await the longed-for day.

But since time flies and fleeting are the years

that bring us rapidly upon death’s shore,

whether it be
with dark or with white hair

I’ll chase the shadow
of that lovely laurel

throughout the hottest day and through the snow

until the final day closes my eyes.

Never have there been seen such lovely eyes

now in our time or
in the world’s first years

as those
that melt me
as the sun does snow,

and from which springs a flow to
tearful shore

that Love leads to the foot of the hard laurel

that’s made of
diamond branches and golden hair
.

I fear that I will change
in face and hair

before she shows true mercy in her eyes,

my idol who is carved
in living laurel,

for if I do not err, it’s
seven years

today that I go sighing shore to shore,

both night and day and in the heat and snow.

Ablaze within but outside white as snow,

with thoughts like these alone and with changed hair,

I’ll always go in tears on every shore,

to stir, perhaps, some pity in the eyes

of someone born
here in a thousand years,

if for so long can live the
cared-for laurel
.

L’auro e i topacii al sol sopra la neve

vincon le bionde chiome presso a gli occhi

che menan gli anni miei sì tosto a riva.

Questa anima gentil che si diparte

anzi tempo chiamata a l’altra vita,

se lassuso è quanto esser de’ gradita,

terrà del ciel la più beata parte;

s’ ella riman fra ’l terzo lume et Marte

fia la vista del sole scolorita,

poi ch’ a mirar sua bellezza infinita

l’anime degne intorno a lei fien sparte;

se si posasse sotto al quarto nido

ciascuna de le tre saria men bella,

et essa sola avria la fame e ’l grido;

nel quinto giro non abitrebbe ella,

ma se vola più alto, assai mi fido

che con Giove sia vinta ogni altra Stella.

All gold and topaz
in sun above the snow

are spent by the gold hair next to those eyes

that lead my years so quickly to the shore.

This gracious soul that takes its leave of us,

called to the other life before its time,

if she’s as dear as she must be up there,

will occupy
heaven’s most blessed part
.

Should she dwell
between Mars and the third light,

the bright face of the sun
would lose its color
,

for
in admiration of her
endless beauty

the blessed souls will gather all around her;

if
under the fourth nest
she came to rest,

each of the three
would look less beautiful

and
she alone would have fame and renown
;

she would not make her home in the
fifth sphere
,

but
should she fly up higher
, I am sure

that Jove and all the other stars would lose.

Quanto più m’avicino al giorno estremo

che l’umana miseria suol far breve,

più veggio il tempo andar veloce et leve

e ’l mio di lui sperar fallace et scemo.

I’ dico a’ miei pensier: “Non molto andremo

d’amor parlando omai, ché ’l duro et greve

terreno incarco come fresca neve

si va struggendo, onde noi pace avremo;

“perché con lui cadrà quella speranza

che ne fe’ vaneggiar sì lungamente,

e ’l riso e ’l pianto, et la paura et l’ira:

“sì vedrem chiaro poi come sovente

per le cose dubbiose altri s’avanza,

et come spesso indarno si sospira.”

Già fiammeggiava l’amorosa Stella

per l’oriente, et l’altra che Giunone

suol far gelosa nel settentrione

rotava i raggi suoi lucente et bella;

levata era a filar la vecchiarella

discinta et scalza, et desto avea ’l carbone,

et gli amanti pungea quella stagione