Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH: CHAPTER 1, by PETRARCH


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH: CHAPTER 1, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: That gallant ladie, gloriouslie bright
Last Line: Death faire did seeme to be in hir faire face.
Alternate Author Name(s): Petrarca, Francesco


That gallant Ladie, gloriouslie bright,
The statelie piller once of worthinesse,
And now, a little dust, a naked spright:
Turn'd from hir warres a joyefull Conqueresse:
Hir warres, where she had foyl'd the mightie foe,
whose wylie stratagems the world distresse.
And foyl'd him, not with sword, with speare or bowe,
But with chaste heart, faire visage, upright thought,
wise speache, which did with honor linked goe:
And love's new plight to see strange wonders wrought
with shivered bowe, chaste arrowes, quenched flame,
while-here som slaine, and there laye others caught.
She, and the rest, who in the glorious fame
Of the exploit, hir chosen mates, did share,
All in one squadronet close ranged came.
A few, for nature makes true glorie rare,
But eache alone (so each alone did shine)
Claym'd whole Historian's, whole Poete's care.
Borne in greene field, a snowy Ermiline
Colored with topaces, sett in fine golde
was this faire companies unfoyled signe.
No earthlie march, but heavenly, did they hould;
Their speaches holie were, and happie those,
who so are borne, to be with them enroll'd.
Cleare starrs they send, which did a Sunne unclose,
who hyding none, yett all did beawtifie
with Coronets deckt with violet and rose;
And as gain'd honor, filled with jollitie
Eache gentle heart, so made they merrie cheere,
when loe, an ensigne sad I might descrie,
Black, and in black, a woman did appeere,
Furie with hir, such as I scarcelie knowe
If lyke at Phlegra with the Giants were.
Thou Dame, quoth she, that doeth so proudlie goe,
Standing upon thy youth, and beawties state,
And of thy life, the limits doest not knowe,
Loe, I am shee, so fierce, importunate,
And deafe, and blinde, entytled oft by you,
you, whom with night ere evening I awate.
I, to their end, the Greekish nation drewe,
The Trojan first, the Romane afterward,
with edge and point of this my blade I slewe.
And no Barbarian my blowe could warde,
who stealing on with unexpected wound,
Of idle thoughts have manie thousand marr'd.
And now no lesse to you-ward am I bound
while life is dearest, ere to cause you moane.
Fortune som bitter with your sweetes compound
To this, thou right or interrest hast none,
Little to me, but onelie to this spoile,
Replide then she, who in the world was one.
This charge of woe on others will recoyle,
I know, whose safetie on my life depends:
For me, I thank who shall me hence assoile.
As one whose eyes som noveltie attend,
And what it mark't not first, it spyde at last,
New wonders with it-self, now comprehends.
So far'd the cruell, deeplie over-gast
with doubt awhile, then spake, I know them now.
I now remember when my teethe they past.
Then with lesse frowning, and lesse darkned browe,
But thou that lead'st this goodlie companie,
Didst never yett unto my scepter bowe.
But on my counsell if thou wilt relye,
who maie inforce thee; better is by farre
From age and ages lothsomenesse to flye.
More honored by me, then others are
Thou shalt thee finde; and neither feare nor paine
The passage shall of thy departure barre.
As lykes that Lord, who in the heav'n doeth raigne,
And thence, this All, doeth moderatlie guide:
As others doe, I shall thee entretaine:
So answered she, and I with-all descryde
Of dead appeere a never-numbred summe,
Pestring the plaine, from one to th'other side.
From India, Spaine, Gattay, Marocco, Coome,
So manie Ages did together falle.
That worlds were fill'd, and yett they wanted roome.
There sawe I, whom their times did happie calle,
Popes, Emperors, and kings, but strangelie growen,
All naked now, all needie, beggars all.
Where is that wealth? where are those honors gonne?
Scepters, and crounes, and roabes, and purple dye?
And costlie myters, sett with pearle and stone?
O wretch, who doest in mortall things affye:
(yett who but doeth) and if in end they dye
Them-selves beguil'd, they find but right, saie I.
What meanes this toyle? Oh blinde, oh more then blinde:
you all returne, to your greate Mother, olde,
And hardlie leave your verie names behinde.
Bring me, who doeth your studies well behoulde,
And of your cares not manifestlie vaine,
One lett him tell me, when he all hath tolde.
So manie lands to winne, what bootes the payne?
And on strange lands, tributes to impose,
With hearts still griedie, their oune losse to gaine,
After all theise, wherin you winning loose
Treasures and territories deere bought with blood;
water, and bread hath a farre sweeter close.
And golde, and gemme gives place to glasse and wood:
But leaste I should too-long degression make
To turne to my first talke I think it good.
Now that short-glorious life hir leave to take
Did neere unto the uttmost instant goe,
And doubtfull stepp, at which the world doeth quake.
An other number then themselves did shewe
Of Ladies, such as bodies yett did lade,
If death could pitious be, they faine would knowe.
And deepe they did in contemplacion wade
Of that colde end, presented there to view,
which must be once, and must but once be made.
All friends and neighbors were this carefull crue
But death with ruthlesse hand on golden haire
Chosen from-out those amber-tresses drewe.
So cropt the flower, of all this world most faire,
To shewe upon the excellentest thing
Hir supreame force, and for no hate she bare.
How manie dropps did flowe from brynie spring
In who there sawe those sightfull fountaines drye,
For whom this heart so long did burne and spring.
For his in midst of moane and miserie,
Now reaping once what vertues life did sowe,
With joye she sate retired silentlie.
In peace cryde they, right mortall Goddesse goe,
And so she was, but that in noe degree
Could death entreate, hir comming to forslowe.
What confidence for others? if that she
Could frye and freese in few nights changing cheere:
Oh humane hopes, how fond and false yow bee.
And for this gentle Soule, if manie a teare
By pittie shed, did bathe the ground and grasse,
who sawe, doeth knowe; think thou, that doest but heare.
The sixt of Aprill, one a clock it was
That tyde me once, and did me now untye,
Changing hir copie; Thus doeth fortune passe.
None so his thralle, as I my libertie;
None so his death, as I my life doe rue,
Staying with me, who faine from it would flye.
Due to the world, and to my yeares was due,
That I, as first I came, should first be gonne,
Not hir leafe quail'd, as yett but freshlie newe.
Now for my woe, guesse not by't, what is showne,
For I dare scarce once cast a thought there-too,
So farre I am of, in words to make it knowne.
Vertue is dead; and dead is beawtie too,
And dead is curtesie, in mournefull plight,
The ladies saide; And nowe, what shall we doe?
Never againe such grace shall blesse our sight;
Never lyke witt, shall we from woman heare,
And voice, repleate with Angell-lyke delight.
The Soule now prest to leave that bosome deare
Hir vertues all uniting now in one,
There, where it past did make the heavens cleare.
And of the enemies so hardlie none,
That once before his shew'd his face obscure
with hir assault, till death had thorough gonne.
Past plaint and feare when first they could endure
To hould their eyes on that faire visage bent,
And that dispaire had made them now secure.
Not as greate fyers violently spent,
But in them-selves consuming, so hir flight
Tooke that sweete spright, and past in peace content.
Right lyke unto som lamp of cleerest light,
Little and little wanting nutriture,
Houlding to end a never-changing plight.
Pale? no, but whitelie; and more whitelie pure,
Then snow on wyndless hill, that flaking falles:
As one, whom labor did to rest allure.
And when that heavenlie guest those mortall walles
Had leaft: it nought but sweetlie sleeping was
In hir faire eyes: what follie dying calles
Death faire did seeme to be in hir faire face.





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