So strongly it had mounted to my face, O let us comfort him, Said each one to the other tenderly. And oft they said to me, What hast thou seen that has unmanned thee thus? Whilst I lay pondering on my ebbing life, And saw how brief its tenure and how frail, My lady too most certainly shall die. Such consternation then my reason seized, That my eyes closed through fear, and heaviness; My spirits fled, and each in error strayed: Imagination then, Bereft of understanding and of truth, Showed me the forms of ladies in distress, Who said to me, Thou die'st, ay, thou shalt die. Many the doubtful things which next I saw, While wandering in imagination's maze; Birds flying through the dusky air drop down, And then appeared a man, feeble, and pale, Saying, What dost thou here? Hast thou not heard? I raised mine eyes, oppressed and bathed in tears, And spread before them was a little cloud, Deceitful fancy then Conducted me to see my lady dead: And while I gazed, I saw That ladies with a veil were covering her; And in her face humility so true There was, it seemed to say, I am in peace. So humble in my sorrow I became, Seeing such humbleness in her expressed, And pity thou should'st have, and not disdain : Of thine, that I resemble thee in faith: Come, for the heart entreats thee. Then, all sad rites being o'er, I went my way; I said, with eyes upraised to realms above; Say, pilgrims, ye who go thus pensively, Musing, perchance, on things that distant are, ye As by your outward mien ye show to us, Seeming as persons who have never heard 8 со LOVES AND HEROINES. If ye remain and have the will to hear, This heart of sighs assures me ye will then And in the tale that may be told of her Remembrance had brought back into my mind Had waked from slumber in my wretched heart, But those which issued forth with greater pain Completes the year since thy ascent to heaven. Farewell, alas! farewell those tresses bright, From whence the hills around Drew and reflected tints of shining gold; By those fair eyes on that thrice happy day; Farewell the graceful bloom Of sparkling countenance; Farewell the soft sweet smile, Disclosing pearls of snowy white, between Roses of vermeil hue, throughout the year; Why without me, O Death, These hast thou carried off in beauty's spring? Farewell the endearing mirth, and wise reserve, The prudent mind, and well-directed heart; All baseness to detest, and greatness love. Of beauty so abounding; Farewell the aspiring hope, Which every other made me leave behind, And rendered light to me Love's heaviest load; These hast thou broken, Death, As glass and me to living death exposed. Lady, farewell! Of every virtue queen, I have refused all others to adore; To build thy fane, and lift thee high in air? Farewell! thou vessel filled With nature's miracles. By fortune's evil turn High on the rugged mountains thou wast led, And of my eyes hath formed Two fountains wearied with incessant tears. Farewell! and O unpardonable Death, Pity these sorrowing eyes, and own at least, Endless should be my cry, Alas! Farewell! FRANCESCO PETRARCH. 1304-1374. LAURA. As Petrarch was at his devotions in the church of Santa Clara of Avignon, on the morning of the 6th of April, 1327, he saw a lady near him in a green mantle sprinkled with violets. Her youth and beauty impressed him; he forgot the sacredness of the time and place, and, giving himself up to the feelings which she inspired, was soon in love with her. He awoke from his reverie when the service was over, and finding her gone, followed her and learned her name. It was Laura de Sade. She belonged to a noble Provençal family, and was the wife of Hugo de Sade, a rich citizen of Avignon. This last intelligence, which ought to have discouraged Petrarch, does not seem to have affected him much, for he was a priest, and could not have married her, even if she had been free. We are not told what her emotions were when she discovered, as she soon did, that she was loved by another than her husband, but considering the character of that gentleman, who had a habit of scolding her until she wept, it could not have grieved her very deeply. She did not exactly encourage Petrarch, for she was a good wife and mother, with a keen eye to the proprieties of life; but neither did she discourage him. As long as he kept within bounds, she admitted him to her society and friendship, but when he forgot himself, as he sometimes did, and devoured her with passionate looks, her virtue took the alarm, and she withdrew; or, if that were not always practicable, covered her face with a veil. Their meetings were probably few and far between, or we should have heard more of them from Petrarch, who was as communicative in all that related to her as he well could be. It was her absence that made him a lover and a poet; in her presence he was a silent madman. He poured out his soul in song in the solitude of his study, ransacking heaven and earth for metaphors and comparisons. Her eyes were. stars, her hair sunbeams. She was the Air; she was the Laurel. Her smile was his life, her frown his death. He ran up and down the gamut of passion as no poet before had ever done, and made himself and Laura famous, wherever the Italian language was spoken or read. Some of his friends doubted the reality of his passion, as they well might after reading some of his glittering conceits; others even questioned the existence |