Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH: THE TRIUMPHS OF LOVE, CHASTITY, DEATH. ARGUMENT, by PETRARCH


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH: THE TRIUMPHS OF LOVE, CHASTITY, DEATH. ARGUMENT, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The glorious maid, whose soule to heaven is gone
Last Line: Death seem'd in her exceeding faire to be.
Alternate Author Name(s): Petrarca, Francesco
Subject(s): Death; Life; Religion; Soul; Dead, The; Theology


The glorious Maid, whose soule to Heaven is gone
And left the rest cold earth, she who was growne
A pillar of true vallour, and had gain'd
Much honour by her victory, and chain'd
That God which doth the world with terrour binde,
Using no armour but her own chaste minde:
A faire aspect, coy thoughts, and words well weigh'd,
Sweet modestie to these gave friendly aid.
It was a miracle on earth to see
The bow and arrowes of the Deitie,
And all his armour broke, who erst had slain
Such numbers, and so many captive tain:
The faire Dame from the noble fight withdrew
With her choise company, they were but few,
And made a little troup, true vertu's rare,
Yet each of them did by her selfe appeare
A theame for Poems, and might well incite
The best Historian: they bore a white
Unspotted Ermine, in a field of green,
About whose neck a Topas chain was seen
Set in pure gold; their heavenly words and gate
Exprest them blest were borne for such a fate.
Bright stars they seem'd, she did a Sun appeare,
Who darkned not the rest, but made more cleare
Their splendour; honour in brave minds is found:
This troup with Violets and Roses crown'd,
Chearfully march't, when lo, I might espie
Another ensigne dreadfull to mine eye,
A Ladie cloth'd in blacke, whose stern looks were
With horrour fill'd, and did like hell appeare,
Advanc't, and said, You who are proud to be
So fair and young, yet have no eyes to see
How neare you are your end, behold, I am
She, whom they, fierce, and blinde, and cruell name,
Who meet untimely deaths; 'twas I did make
Greece subject, and the Romane Empire shake;
My piercing sword sack't Troy, how many rude
And barbarous people are by me subdu'd?
Many ambitious, vaine, and amarous thought
My unwisht presence hath to nothing brought:
Now am I come to you, whiles yet your state
Is happy, ere you feel a harder fate.
On these you have no power, she then replide,
Who had more worth then all the world beside,
And little over me; but there is one
Who will be deeply griev'd when I am gone,
His happinesse doth on my life depend,
I shall finde freedome in a peacefull end.
As one who glancing with a sudden eye
Some unexpected object doth espie;
Then lookes again, and doth his owne haste blame:
So in a doubting pause, this cruell dame
A little staid, and said, The rest I call
To minde, and know I have o'recome them all:
Then with lesse fierce aspect, she said, Thou guide
Of this faire crew, hast not my strength assaid,
Let her advise, who may command, prevent
Decrepit age, 'tis but a punishment;
From me this honour thou alone shalt have,
Without or feare or paine, to finde thy grave,
As he shall please, who dwelleth in the Heaven
And rules on earth, such portion must be given
To me, as others from thy hand receive:
She answered then; a farre we might perceave
Millions of dead heapt on th'adjacent plain,
No verse nor prose may comprehend the slain
Did on deaths Triumph wait, from India,
From Spain, and from Morocco, from Cathai,
And all the skirts of th'earth they gathred were,
Who had most happy liv'd, attended there;
Popes, Emperours, nor Kings, no ensignes wore
Of their past height, but naked shew'd and poore.
Where be their riches, where their precious jems,
Their Miters, Scepters, Roabs and Diadems? ...

The fatall houre of her short life drew neare,
That doubtfull passage which the world doth feare;
Another company, who had not beene
Freed from their earthy burden there were seene,
To try if prayers could appease the wrath,
Or stay th' inexorable hand of death.
That beauteous croude conveen'd to see the end
Which all must taste, each neighbor, every friend
Stood by, when grim death with her hand tooke hold,
And pull'd away one onely haire of gold.
Thus from the world this fairest flower is tane
To make her shine more bright, not out of spleen:
How many moaning plaints, what store of cries
Were uttered there, when fate shut those faire eyes
For which so oft I sung; whose beautie burn'd
My tortur'd heart so long; whiles others mourn'd
She pleas'd, and quiet did the fruit enjoy
Of her blest life, farewell, without annoy,
True Saint on earth, said they; so might she be
Esteem'd, but nothing bates deaths crueltie.
What shall become of others, since so pure
A body did such heats and colds endure,
And chang'd so often in so little space?
Ah wordly hopes, how blinde you be, how base?
If since I bathe the ground with flowing teares
For that milde soule, who sees it witnesse bears;
And thou who read'st maist judge she fetter'd me.
The sixt of April, and did set me free
On the same day and moneth: O! how the way
Of fortune is unsure, none hates the day
Of slavery, or of death, so much as I
Abhorre the time which wrought my liberty,
And my too-lasting life; it had been just
My greater age had first been turn'd to dust,
And paid to time, and to the world the debt
I ow'd, then earth had kept her glorious state:
Now at what rate I should the sorrow prise
I know not, nor have Art that can suffise
The sad affliction, to relate in verse
Of these fair Dames, that wept about her herse;
Courtesie, Vertue, Beautie, all are lost,
What shall become of us? none else can boast
Such high perfection, no more we shall
Heare her wise words, nor the Angelicall
Sweet musick of her voyce; whiles thus they cride
The parting spirit doth it selfe divide
With every vertue from the noble brest,
As some grave Hermite, seeks a lonely rest:
The Heav'ns were cleare, and all the ambient Aire
Without a threatning Cloud, no adversaire
Durst once appeare, or her calme minde affright;
Death singly did her selfe conclude the fight;
After, when feare, and the extreamest plaint
Were ceast, th'attentive eyes of all were bent
On that faire face, and by despaire became
Secure; she who was spent, not like a flame
By force extinguisht, but as lights decay,
And undiscerned waste themselves away:
Thus went the soule in peace, so lamps are spent,
As the oyle fails which gave them nourishment;
In summe, her countenance you still might know
The same it was, not pale, but white as snow,
Which on the tops of hills in gentle fleakes
Fals in a calme, or as a man that takes
Desired rest, as if her lovely sight
Were clos'd with sweetest sleep, after the spright
Was gone. If this be that fooles call to die,
Death seem'd in her exceeding faire to be.





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