Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH: CHAPTER 2, by PETRARCH


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH: CHAPTER 2, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: That night, which did the dreadfull happ ensue
Last Line: Thou without me long time on earth shalt staie.
Alternate Author Name(s): Petrarca, Francesco


That night, which did the dreadfull happ ensue
That quite eclips't; Naie rather did replace
The Sunne in skyes, and me bereave of view
Did sweetlie sprintle through the ayrie space
The Summer frost which with Tithon's bryde
Cleereth of dreame the darke-confused face,
When loe, a Ladie, lyke unto the tyde
with Orient jewells crown'd, from thousands moe
Crouned as she; to me, I comming spyde:
And first hir hand, somtime desyred so
Reaching to me; at-once she sygh't and spake:
whence endlesse joyes yett in my heart doe growe
And know'st thou hir, who made thee first forsake
The vulgar path, and ordinarie trade?
while hir, their marke, thy youthfull thoughts did make?
Then doune she sate, and me sitt-doune she made,
Thought, wisedom, Meekenesse in one grace did strive,
Unpleasing bank in bay, and beeches shade.
My Goddesse, who me did and doeth revive,
Can I but knowe? (I sobbing answered)
But art thou dead? Ah speake, or yett alive?
Alive am I: And thou as yett art dead,
And as thou art shalt so continue still
Till by thy ending hower, thou hence be led.
Short is our time to live, and long our will:
Then lett with heede, thy deedes and speaches goe.
Ere that approaching terme his course fullfill.
Quoth I, when this our light to end doeth growe,
which we calle life (for thou by proofe hast tryde)
Is it such payne to dye? That, make me knowe.
While thou (quoth she) the vulgar make thy guide,
And on their judgements (all obscurlie blynde)
Doest yett relye; no blisse can thee betyde.
Of lothsom prison to eache gentle mynde
Death is the end; And onelie who employe
Their cares on mudd, therin displeasure finde.
Even this my death, which yealds thee such annoye
Would make in thee farre greater gladnesse ryse,
Couldst thou but taste least portion of my joye.
So spake she with devoutlie-fixed eyes
Upon the Heavens: then did in silence foulde
Those rosie lips, attending there replyes;
Torments, invented by the Tyrrants olde;
Diseases, which each parte torment and tosse,
Causes, that death we most bitter houlde.
I not denye (quoth she) but that the crosse
Preceeding death, extreemlie martireth,
And more the feare of that eternall losse.
But when the panting soule in God takes breath;
And wearie heart affecteth heavenlie rest,
An unrepented syghe, not els, is death.
With bodie, but with spirit readie prest,
Now at the furthest of my living wayes,
There sadlie-uttered sounds my eare possest.
Oh happless he; who counting times and dayes
Thinks eache a thousand yeares, and lives in vayne
No more to meete hir while on earth he stayes.
And on the water now, now on the Maine
Onelie on hir doeth think, doeth speake, doeth write,
And in all times one manner still retaine.
Heere-with, I thither cast my failing-sight,
And soone espyde, presented to my view,
who oft did thee restraining, me encyte.
Well, I hir face, and well hir voice I knewe,
Which often did my heart reconsolate;
Now wiselie grave, then beawtifulie true.
And sure, when I, was in my fairest state,
My yeares most greene, my self to thee most deare,
whence manie much did think, and much debate.
That life's best joye, was all most bitter cheere,
Compared to that death, most myldlie sweete,
which coms to men, but coms not everie-where.
For I, that journie past with gladder feete,
Then he from hard exile, that homeward goes,
(But onelie ruth of thee) without regreete.
For that faith's sake, time once enough did shewe,
yett now to thee more manifestlie plaine,
In face of him, who all doeth see and knowe,
Saie Ladie, did you ever entretaine
Motion or thought more lovinglie to rue
(Not loving honor's-height) my tedious paine?
For those sweete wraths, those sweete disdaines in you,
In those sweete peaces written in your eye,
Diverslie manie yeares my fanzies drewe.
Scarce had I spoken, but in lightning wise
Beaming, I saw that gentle smile appeare,
Somtimes the Sunne of my woe-darkned skyes.
Then sighing, thus she answered: Never were
Our hearts but one, nor never two shall be:
Onelie thy flame I tempred with my cheere;
This onelie way could save both thee and me;
Our tender fame did this supporte require,
The mother hath a rodd, yett kinde is she.
How oft this saide my thoughts: In love, naie fire
Is he: now to provide must I beginne,
And ill providers are feare and desire.
Thou sawe'st what was without, not what within.
And as the brake the wanton steede doeth tame,
So this did thee from thy disorders winne.
A thousand times wrath in my face did flame,
My heart meane-while with love did inlie burne,
But never will my reason overcame:
For, if woe-vanquisht once, I sawe thee mourne;
Thy life, or honor, joyntlie to preserve,
Myne eyes to thee sweetelie did I turne.
But if thy passion did from reason swarve,
Feare in my words, and sorrowe in my face
Did then to thee for salutation serve.
Theis artes I us'd with thee; thou ran'st this race
With kinde acceptance; now sharp disdaine,
Thou know'st, and hast it sung in manie a place.
Somtimes thine eyes pregnant with tearie rayne
I sawe, and at the sight; Behould he dyes;
But if I help, saide I, the signes are plaine.
Vertue for ayde, did then with love advise:
If spurr'd by love, thou took'st som running toye,
So soft a bitt (quoth I) will not suffice.
Thus glad, and sad, in pleasure, and annoye;
whot red, colde pale: thus farre I have thee brought
wearie, but safe, to my no little joye.
Then I with teares, and trembling; what it sought
My faith hath found, whose more then equall meede
were this: if this, for truth could passe my thought.
Of little faith (quoth she) should this proceede,
If false if were, or if unknowne from me;
The flames withall seem'd in hir face to breede.
If lyking in myne eyes the world did see
I saie not, now, of this, right faine I am,
Those cheines that tyde my heart well lyked me.
And well me lykes (if true it be) my flame,
which farre and neere by thee related goes,
Nor in thy love could ought but measure blame.
That onelie fail'd; and while in acted woes
Thou needes wouldst shewe, what I could not but see,
Thou didst thy heart to all the world disclose.
Hence sprang my zeale, which yett distempreth thee,
Our concord such in everie thing beside,
As when united love and vertue be.
In equale flames our loving hearts were tryde,
At leaste when once thy love had notice gott,
But one to shewe, the other sought to hyde.
Thou didst for mercie calle with wearie throte
In feare and shame, I did in silence goe,
So much desire became of little note.
But not the less becoms concealed woe,
Nor greater growes it uttered, then before
Through fiction, Truth will neither ebbe nor flowe.
But clear'd I not the darkest mists of yore?
when I thy words alone did entertaine
Singing for thee? my love dares speake no more.
With thee my heart, to me I did restraine
Myne eyes; and thou thy share canst hardlie brooke
Lessing by me the lesse, the more to gayne.
Not thinking if a thousand times I tooke
Myne eyes from thee; I manie thousands cast
Myne eyes on thee; and still with pittying looke.
Whose shine no clowd had ever over-cast:
Had I not fear'd in thee those coles to fyre
I thought would burne too-dangerouslie fast.
But to content thee more ere I retyre
For end of this, I somthing will thee tell,
Perchance agreable to thy desire:
In all things fullie blest, and pleased well,
Onelie in this I did my-self displease;
Borne in too-base a towne for me to dwell:
And much I grieved, that for thy greater ease,
At leaste, it stood not neere thy flowrie nest.
Els farre-enough, from whence I did thee please.
So might the heart on which I onelie rest
Not knowing me, have fitt it-self elswhere,
And I lesse name, lesse notice have possest.
Oh no (quoth I) for, me, the heavens third spheare
To so high love advanc't by speciall grace,
Changelesse to me, though chang'd thy dwelling were.
Be as it will, yett my greate Honor was,
And is as yett (she saide) but thy delight
Makes thee not mark how fast the howers doe passe.
See from hir golden bed Aurora bright
To mortall eyes returning sunne and daye
Breast-high above the Ocean bare to sight.
Shee to my sorrowe, calles me hence awaie,
Therfore thy words in times short limits binde,
And saie in-brief, if more thou have to saie.
Ladie (quoth I) your words most sweetlie kinde
Have easie made, what ever erst I bare,
But what is left of you to live behinde,
Therfore to knowe this, my onlie care,
If sloe or swift shall com our meeting-daye.
She parting saide, As my conjectures are,
Thou without me long time on earth shalt staie.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net