PETRARCH'S CONTEMPLATIONS OF DEATH IN THE BOWER OF LAURA. Clear, fresh, and dulcet streams, Which the fair shape who seems To me sole woman, haunted at noontide; (I sigh to think of it) Which lent a pillar to her lovely side; And turf and flowers bright-eyed, O'er which her folded gown Flowed like an angel's down; And you, O holy air and hushed, Where first my heart at her sweet glances gushed, Give ear, give ear, with one consenting, To my last words, my last, and my lamenting. If 'tis my fate below, And heaven will have it so, That love must close these dying eyes in tears, May my poor dust be laid In middle of your shade, While my soul, naked, mounts to its own spheres. The thought would calm my fears When taking, out of breath, The doubtful step of death; For never could my spirit find A stiller port after the stormy wind; Nor in more calm abstracted bourne Slip from my travelled flesh, and from my bones outworn. Perhaps, some future hour, To her accustomed bower Might come the untamed, and yet gentle she; And where she saw me first, Might turn with eyes athirst And kinder joy to look again for me; Then, oh the charity! Seeing amidst the stones The earth that held my bones, A sigh for very love at last Might ask of heaven to pardon me the past; As with her gentle veil she wiped the tears away. How well I call to mind, When from those boughs the wind Shook down upon her bosom flower on flower; In midst of all that pride, Sprinkled and blushing through an amorous shower. And seemed to dress the curls Queenlike with gold and pearls ; Some snowing on her drapery stopped, Some on the earth, some on the water dropped; While others, fluttering from above, Seemed wheeling round in pomp and saying, “Here reigns love." How often then I said, Inward, and filled with dread, "Doubtless this creature came from paradise!" For at her look the while, Her voice, and her sweet smile And heavenly air, truth parted from mine eyes; So that, with long-drawn sighs, I said, as far from men, "How came I here, and when ?" I had forgotten; and, alas! Fancied myself in heaven, not where I was; And from that time till this, I bear Such love for the green bower, I cannot rest elsewhere. In justice to Mr. Leigh Hunt, I add to these fine translations, of which every lover of Italian literature will perceive the merit, some extracts from his original poems. Except Chaucer himself, no painter of processions has excelled the entrance of Paulo to Ravenna, in the story of Rimini. 'Tis morn, and never did a lovelier day For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night, "Tis nature, full of spirits, waked and loved. The road that way is lined with anxious eyes, And who shall tell the drive there and the din? With tapestries bright the windows overflow At length the approaching trumpets, with a start On the smooth wind come dancing to the heart. The crowd are mute; and from the southern wall A lordly blast gives answer to the call. Then comes the crush; and all who best can strive In shuffling struggle toward the palace drive, Where balustered and broad, of marble fair, Its portico commands the public square: For there Count Guido is to hold his state With his fair daughter, seated o'er the gate. But far too well the square has been supplied: And, after a rude heave from side to side, With angry faces turned and nothing gained. The order first found easiest is maintained; Leaving the pathways only for the crowd, The space within for the procession proud. VOL. II. D For in this manner is the square set out :- The seats with boughs are shaded from above It shakes its loosening silver in the sun. Another start of trumpets with reply; And round she looks and breathes as best befits the day. What need I tell of cheeks and lips and eyes |