English

That star the highest seen in heaven's expanse
Not yet forsakes me with its lovely light:
It gave me her who from her heaven's pure height
Gives all the grace mine intellect demands.
Thence a new arrow of strength is in my hands
Which bears good will whereso it may alight;
So barbed, that no man's body or soul its flight
Has wounded yet, nor shall wound any man's.
Glad am I therefore that her grace should fall
Not otherwise than thus; whose rich increase
Is such a power as evil cannot dim.

This is the damsel by whom love is brought
To enter aThis eyes that looks on her;
This is the righteous maid, the comforter,
Whom every virtue honours unbesought.
Love, journeying with her, unto smiles is wrought,
Showing the glory which surrounds her there;
Who, when a lowly heart prefers its prayer,
Can make that its trangression come to nought.
And, when she giveth greeting, by Love's rule,
With sweet reserve she somewhat lifts her eyes,
Bestowing that desire which speaks to us.

Love , I demand to have my lady in fee.
Fine balm let Arno be;
The walls of Florence all of silver rear'd,
And crystal pavements in the public way.
With castles make me fear'd,
Till every Latin soul have owned my sway.
Be the world peaceful; safe throughout each path;
No neighbour to breed wrath;
The air, summer and winter, temperate.

A thousand dames and damsels richly clad
Upon my choice to wait,
Singing by day and night to make me glad.

Let me have fruitful gardens of great girth,

If I'd a sack of florins, and all new,
(Packed tight together, freshly coined and fine,)
And Arcidosso and Montegiovi mine,
And quite a glut of eagle-pieces too, —
It were but as three farthings to my view
Without Becchina. Why then all these plots
To whip me, daddy? Nay, but tell me — what's
My sin, or all the sins of Turks, to you?
For I protest (or may I be struck dead!)
My love's so firmly planted in its place,
Whipping nor hanging now could change the grain.
And if you want my reason on this head,

Wonderful countenance and royal neck,
I have not found your beauty's parallel!
Nor at her birth might any yet prevail
The likeness of these features to partake.
Wisdom is theirs, and mildness: for whose sake
All grace seems stol'n, such perfect grace to swell;
Fashioned of God beyond delight to dwell
Exalted. And herein my pride I take
Who of this garden have possession,
So that all worth subsists for my behoof
And bears itself according to my will.
Lady, in thee such pleasaunce hath its fill

A MONG the faults we in that book descry
Which has crowned Dante lord of rhyme and thought,
Are two so grave that some attaint is brought
Unto the greatness of his soul thereby.
One is, that holding with Sordello high
Discourse, and with the rest who sang and taught,
He of Onesto di Boncima nought
Has said, who was to Arnauld Daniel nigh.
The other is, that when he says he came
To see, at summit of the sacred stair,
His Beatrice among the heavenly signs, —
He, looking in the bosom of Abraham,

O POVERTY , by thee the soul is wrapp'd
With hate, with envy, dolefulness, and doubt.
Even so be thou cast out,
And even so he that speaks thee otherwise.
I name thee now, because my mood is apt
To curse thee, bride of every lost estate,
Through whom are desolate
On earth all honourable things and wise.
Within thy power each blest condition dies:
By thee, men's minds with sore mistrust are made
Fantastic and afraid: —
Thou, hated worse than Death, by just accord,
And with the loathing of all hearts abhorr'd.

I COME to thee by daytime constantly,
But in thy thoughts too much of baseness find:
Greatly it grieves me for thy gentle mind,
And for thy many virtues gone from thee.
It was thy wont to shun much company,
Unto all sorry concourse ill inclined:
And still thy speech of me, heartfelt and kind,
Had made me treasure up thy poetry.
But now I dare not, for thine abject life,
Make manifest that I approve thy rhymes;
Nor come I in such sort that thou mayst know.
Ah! prythee read this sonnet many times:

‘Fate gave the word, the arrow sped,’
And pierc'd my Darling's heart;
And with him all the joys are fled,
Life can to me impart.—

By cruel hands the Sapling drops,
In dust dishonor'd laid:
So fell the pride of all my hopes,
My age's future shade.—

The mother-linnet in the brake
Bewails her ravish'd young;
So I, for my lost Darling's sake,
Lament the live day long.—

Death! oft, I've fear'd thy fatal blow;
Now, fond, I bare my breast;
O, do thou come and lay me low,

Farewell , dear scenes, for ever closed to me,
Oh, for what sorrows must I now exchange ye!
Me miserable! how could I escape
Infinite wrath and infinite despair!
Whom Death, Earth, Heaven, and Hell consigned to ruin,
Whose friend was God, but God swore not to aid me!