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The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
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And mark'd my toils through many hard campaigns
And wounds, whose scars my memory yet retains.
Blest is the pile that marks the hallow'd dust!—
There, at the resurrection of the just,
When the last trumpet with earth-shaking sound
Shall wake her sleepers from their couch profound;
Then, when that spotless and immortal mind
In a material mould once more enshrined,
With wonted charms shall wake seraphic love,
How will the beatific sight improve
Her heavenly beauties in the climes above!
Boyd.
[LINES 82-99.]
Happy those souls who now are on their way,
Or shall hereafter, to attain that end,
Theme of my argument, come when it will;
And, 'midst the other fair, and fraught with grace,
Most happy she whom Death has snatch'd away,
On this side far the natural bound of life.
The angel manners then will clearly shine,
The meet and pure discourse, the chasten'd thought,
Which nature planted in her youthful breast.
Unnumber'd beauties, worn by time and death,
Shall then return to their best state of bloom;
And how thou hast bound me, love, will then be seen,
Whence I by every finger shall be shown!—
Behold who ever wept, and in his tears
Was happier far than others in their smiles!
And she, of whom I yet lamenting sing,
Shall wonder at her own transcendant charms,
Seeing herself far above all admired.
Charlemont.
SONNET FOUND IN LAURA'S TOMB
Qui reposan quei caste e felice ossa
Here peaceful sleeps the chaste, the happy shade
Of that pure spirit, which adorn'd this earth:
Pure fame, true beauty, and transcendent worth,
Rude stone! beneath thy rugged breast are laid.
Death sudden snatch'd the dear lamented maid!
Who first to all my tender woes gave birth,
Woes! that estranged my sorrowing soul to mirth,
While full four lustres time completely made.
Sweet plant! that nursed on Avignon's sweet soil,
There bloom'd, there died; when soon the weeping Muse
Threw by the lute, forsook her wonted toil.
Bright spark of beauty, that still fires my breast!
What pitying mortal shall a prayer refuse,
That Heaven may number thee amid the blest?
Anon. 1777.
Here rest the chaste, the dear, the blest remains
Of her most lovely; peerless while on earth:
What late was beauty, spotless honour, worth,
Stern marble, here thy chill embrace retains.
The freshness of the laurel Death disdains;
And hath its root thus wither'd.—Such the dearth
O'ertakes me. Here I bury ease and mirth,
And hope from twenty years of cares and pains.
This happy plant Avignon lonely fed
With Life, and saw it die.—And with it lies
My pen, my verse, my reason;—useless, dead.
O graceful form!—Fire, which consuming flies
Through all my frame!—For blessings on thy head
Oh, may continual prayers to heaven rise!
Capel Lofft.
Here now repose those chaste, those blest remains
Of that most gentle spirit, sole in earth!
Harsh monumental stone, that here confinest
True honour, fame, and beauty, all o'erthrown!
Death has destroy'd that Laurel green, and torn
Its tender roots; and all the noble meed
Of my long warfare, passing (if aright
My melancholy reckoning holds) four lustres.
O happy plant! Avignon's favour'd soil
Has seen thee spring and die;—and here with thee
Thy poet's pen, and muse, and genius lies.
O lovely, beauteous limbs! O vivid fire,
That even in death hast power to melt the soul!
Heaven be thy portion, peace with God on high!
Woodhouselee.
notes
1
Before the publication of De Sade's "Mémoires pour la vie de Petrarque" the report was that Petrarch first saw Laura at Vaucluse. The truth of their first meeting in the church of St. Clara depends on the authenticity of the famous note on the M.S. Virgil of Petrarch, which is now in the Ambrosian Library at Milan.
2
And wounds, whose scars my memory yet retains.
Blest is the pile that marks the hallow'd dust!—
There, at the resurrection of the just,
When the last trumpet with earth-shaking sound
Shall wake her sleepers from their couch profound;
Then, when that spotless and immortal mind
In a material mould once more enshrined,
With wonted charms shall wake seraphic love,
How will the beatific sight improve
Her heavenly beauties in the climes above!
Boyd.
[LINES 82-99.]
Happy those souls who now are on their way,
Or shall hereafter, to attain that end,
Theme of my argument, come when it will;
And, 'midst the other fair, and fraught with grace,
Most happy she whom Death has snatch'd away,
On this side far the natural bound of life.
The angel manners then will clearly shine,
The meet and pure discourse, the chasten'd thought,
Which nature planted in her youthful breast.
Unnumber'd beauties, worn by time and death,
Shall then return to their best state of bloom;
And how thou hast bound me, love, will then be seen,
Whence I by every finger shall be shown!—
Behold who ever wept, and in his tears
Was happier far than others in their smiles!
And she, of whom I yet lamenting sing,
Shall wonder at her own transcendant charms,
Seeing herself far above all admired.
Charlemont.
SONNET FOUND IN LAURA'S TOMB
Qui reposan quei caste e felice ossa
Here peaceful sleeps the chaste, the happy shade
Of that pure spirit, which adorn'd this earth:
Pure fame, true beauty, and transcendent worth,
Rude stone! beneath thy rugged breast are laid.
Death sudden snatch'd the dear lamented maid!
Who first to all my tender woes gave birth,
Woes! that estranged my sorrowing soul to mirth,
While full four lustres time completely made.
Sweet plant! that nursed on Avignon's sweet soil,
There bloom'd, there died; when soon the weeping Muse
Threw by the lute, forsook her wonted toil.
Bright spark of beauty, that still fires my breast!
What pitying mortal shall a prayer refuse,
That Heaven may number thee amid the blest?
Anon. 1777.
Here rest the chaste, the dear, the blest remains
Of her most lovely; peerless while on earth:
What late was beauty, spotless honour, worth,
Stern marble, here thy chill embrace retains.
The freshness of the laurel Death disdains;
And hath its root thus wither'd.—Such the dearth
O'ertakes me. Here I bury ease and mirth,
And hope from twenty years of cares and pains.
This happy plant Avignon lonely fed
With Life, and saw it die.—And with it lies
My pen, my verse, my reason;—useless, dead.
O graceful form!—Fire, which consuming flies
Through all my frame!—For blessings on thy head
Oh, may continual prayers to heaven rise!
Capel Lofft.
Here now repose those chaste, those blest remains
Of that most gentle spirit, sole in earth!
Harsh monumental stone, that here confinest
True honour, fame, and beauty, all o'erthrown!
Death has destroy'd that Laurel green, and torn
Its tender roots; and all the noble meed
Of my long warfare, passing (if aright
My melancholy reckoning holds) four lustres.
O happy plant! Avignon's favour'd soil
Has seen thee spring and die;—and here with thee
Thy poet's pen, and muse, and genius lies.
O lovely, beauteous limbs! O vivid fire,
That even in death hast power to melt the soul!
Heaven be thy portion, peace with God on high!
Woodhouselee.
notes
1
Before the publication of De Sade's "Mémoires pour la vie de Petrarque" the report was that Petrarch first saw Laura at Vaucluse. The truth of their first meeting in the church of St. Clara depends on the authenticity of the famous note on the M.S. Virgil of Petrarch, which is now in the Ambrosian Library at Milan.
2
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