CANZONE XVI.

Perchè nel tempo rio.

SINCE here in evil days

I live, in expectation of still worse,
I know not how to hope

For consolation ever, if the aid

Of heaven relieve me not,

In sending death; for which I do implore.
But wretches, such as I,

Are ever scorned, as now I see and prove.
Of her I will not plain who causes this;
Since peace I yet expect

From her, when my last hour of life arrives ;
Because, alas! I trust

To serve her by my death,

Whom living I but injure and displease.

O would that I by Love

Had instantly been slain when first I saw him! For blame of such a wrong

Would then have honour brought to her and me: Such is the shame I feel

Of this my life, which will not quickly die,

That it is worse to bear

Than is my woe, which frights Love's followers:

For Love is one thing, Fortune is another,

Which nature overrules;

The one by habit, and by force the other,
And me they both controul;

Whence, as a smaller ill,

I nature's will oppose and wish to die.

This my unnatural wish

Has strength so great, that many times I would,

Swayed by another's power,

Inflict death's lighter blow upon my heart;

But pity of the soul,

Alas! lest it should perish, nor return

To God the same it was,

Lets it not die; but heavily it mourns:
Not that I deem it possible to hold
My purpose to the end,

So that excess of woe may not prevail

Over compassion new:

Haply the mighty lord

Who views this wretched state may pity me.

My Song, I shall detain thee with me here,
That I may weep with thee;

For I have no safe refuge where to go:
Compared with what I feel

All other pain is joy.

I would not thou shouldst any one offend.

CANZONE XVII.

Poscia ch'i'ho perduta ogni speranza.

SINCE every hope is lost of my return
To you, Madonna, nothing now remains,
Nor ever can arrive,

To bring alleviation to my grief.

Hope there is none that I shall more behold
Your countenance, for fortune has cut off
The way by which alone

I could return to your exalted worth.
Hence is my lonely heart so sorrowful
That I consume in weeping and in sighs:
And I am grieved to endure

So long, that death hath not extinguished life.
Ah me! What shall I do, my love still grows,
And hope falls off from me on every side.
I see not in what robe

To wrap myself, for everything torments;
Unless, to kill me I should call on death,
And every spirit loudly joins my cry.

That hope which at far distance made me leave
Thy presence, which delighteth more and more,
Hath cruelly deceived me,

Through death, the enemy of all that's good;
For love, which had conferred all gifts on you,
Had promised to console my cares in peace :
With counsel strong and true,

He healed the destitute and wretched mind,

And urged it to a toil of pure delight:
In quest of honour made me part from you;
Filled with desire to win

Esteem, and higher rank at my return.

A prince I served, of whom if man shall say
A better sovereign ever was on earth,
He vouches not the truth;

For never was there one so wisely brave,
So bounteous, prudent, temperate, and firm,
And just, beyond all men that ever died.

This sovereign, by the hand of Justice formed,
Elected for his worth from all mankind,
More nobly exercised

Greatness of mind than ever prince before.
He never bowed to avarice nor pride,
And even in adversity grew strong;
For magnanimity

Made him stand firm, whoever might assail.
Then reason and good-will just motives were
That I should serve a sovereign so beloved.
And if his foes have sinned,

Who harmed him to the utmost of their power,
Duty forbade that I should aid their wrong.
Shunning his opposite, to him I came ;

Nor ever shall repent;

Though death hath turned the sweet to bitterness:

For good is to be done because 'tis good;
And who does what becomes him cannot err.

There are who rest their honour and esteem
On gifts alone which they to Nature owe ;
Whence these with little care

Pursue, as seems to me, the path of life;
For 'tis not other's gifts can deck the breast;
Except the honour man may gain by deeds
Performed in rectitude;

This is his own, and pleasing is the work.

What glory then was raised, and brought to nought,
By death of such a prince, so loved and prized.
Not fancy's lofty flight,

Nor judgment sound, nor truth beholds his like.
Oh saintly soul, now raised to highest heaven,
Thy subjects and thy foes should weep o'er thee;
And if this world were ruled

By men of virtue and of noble hearts,

He who hath erred 'gainst thee would weep his fault, And all thy followers weep to be alive.

I weep that I still live; for thou art dead,

My sovereign, whom I loved more than myself,
And by whose aid I hoped

To be restored where I should rest content.

And now, bereft of every cheering hope,
My life, beyond all else, is burdensome.

Oh guilty, cruel death!

How hast thou robbed me of the sweet intent,

To view again the loveliest countenance

That nature's mighty power ever formed

In lady of high worth,

Whose beauty is the plenitude of virtue.

This hast thou robbed me of, whence such my pain That never was there grief of heart so deep

As my far absence brings.

Safety while life remains is past my hope,
For he is dead, and I am not restored,
And hence I languish living in despair.

My song, to fair Etruria straight depart,
Unto the land of pleasure most refined;
And, at thy journey's end,

Relate in plaintive notes my torturing grief.
But ere thou leavest the rich Lunigian lands,
Fail not to find the Marquis Franceschino ;
And with sweet eloquence

Tell him, that still in him I place some hope;
Tell him, how distance is consuming me,
And pray him that he send me his reply.

CANZONE XVIII.

Io non posso celar il mio dolore.

I AM unable to conceal my grief,
Hence must my outward aspect mourn,
As the soul does within its dwelling place;
For when Love took his station in my heart,
He stood before me and suggested thoughts
Unto my mind which since have seldom slept ;

But oft have added strength unto my flame,

By converse on the griefs to which they are heirs,
With those unhappy sighs,

Disconsolate, which flow so copiously

That they exhaust my powers,

And cause a trembling as they hurry forth,
When Love recalls the memory of Madonna.

Imagination filled with sorrow wounds me,
Picturing before me every torturing ill
That I must suffer while my life endures.
My nature is distracted and assailed
By Death, whom I behold where'er I turn,
And the soul longs to bear him company;
For Love hath cruelly contrived to wound
My heart in such a way that it hath died;
Nor left the soul a wish

That ever can afford it consolation;
For when I looked around,

I saw my lady, who compassion slew,

And Death then placed himself within my eyes.

By an effect attendant on the strife

Of Love, nature is conquered, and I find
My virtue helpless and discomfited.

A colouring new into my darkened visage

Enters, and from my eyes the tears are thrown.
The soul desires to pass to another's reign.
Alas! perceiving this, I oft become

The perfect likeness of a person dead ;
Weeping, that death should be

The only comfort offered to the mind;
For nature's dictates still,

And reason's too, said I should grieve to die ;
Yet in that grief I seemed to feel a joy.

At times, when confidence the mind resumes,
Madonna takes possession of my thoughts;
Then instantly the sighs begin to flow;
Love is awakened, and exclaims aloud :
O fly, my Spirits all, behold the lady
Through whom you must be pained in every limb.
The Spirits all obey and fly in terror.

He who should hear from one who had escaped
His tale of miseries,

How they remain in life companionless,