III.

The heavenly branches did I see arise

Out of the fresh and lustie lawrell tree,

Amidst the yong greene wood of Paradise;

Some noble plant I thought my selfe to see,

Such store of birds therein yshrowded were,

Chaunting in shade their sundrie melodie,

That with their sweetness I was ravisht nere.

While on this lawrell fixed was mine eie,

The skie gan everie where to overcast,

And darkened was the welkin all about,

When sudden flash of heaven’s fire out brast,

And rent this royall tree quite by the roote;

Which makes me much, and ever, to complaine,

For no such shadowe shal be had againe.

IV.

Within this woode, out of a rocke, did rise

A spring of water, mildly rumbling downe,

Wherto approched not in anie wise

The homely shepherd nor the ruder clowne,

But manie muses, and the nymphes withall,

That sweetly in accord did tune their voyce

To the soft sounding of the water’s fall,

That my glad heart thereat did much reioyce.

But, while herein I tooke my chiefe delight,

I saw (alas!) the gaping earth devoure

The spring, the place, and all cleane out of sight;

Which yet aggrieves my hart even to this houre,

And wounds my soul with ruefull memorie,

To see such pleasures gon so suddenly.

V.

I saw a phœnix in the wood alone,

With purple wings and crest of golden hewe;

Strange bird he was, whereby I thought anone,

That of some heavenly wight I had the viewe;

Untill he came unto the broken tree,

And to the spring, that late devoured was.

What say I more? Each thing at last we see

Doth passe away; the phœnix there, alas!

Spying the tree destroid, the water dride,

Himself smote with his beake, as in disdaine,

And so forthwithe in greate despight he dide;

That yet my heart burns in exceeding paine,

For ruth and pitie of so haples plight;

O! let mine eyes no more see such a sight.

VI.

At last so faire a ladie did I spie,

That thinking yet on her I burn and quake;

On hearts and flowres she walked pensively

Milde, but yet love she proudly did forsake;

White seem’d her robes, yet woven so they were

As snow and golde together had beene wrought;

Above the waste a darke cloude shrouded her,

A stinging serpent by the heele her caught;

Wherewith she languish’d as the gathered flowre;

And, well assured, she mounted up to ioy.

Alas, on earth no nothing doth endure

But bitter griefe and sorrowful annoy;

Which make this life wretched and miserable,

Tossed with stormes of fortune variable.

VII.

When I beheld this tickle trustles state

Of vaine worlde’s glorie, flitting to and fro,

And mortall men tossed by troublous fate

In restless seas of wretchednesse and woe,

I wish I might this wearie life foregoe,

And shortly turn into my happie rest,

Where my free spirit might not anie moe

Be vext with sights that doo her peace molest.

And ye, faire ladie, in whose bounteous brest

All heavenly grace and vertue shrined is,

When ye these rymes doe read, and vow the rest,

Loath this base world, and thinke of heaven’s bliss;

And though ye be the fairest of God’s creatures,

Yet thinke that Death shall spoyle your goodly features.

Translation of Edmund Spenser.      Francesco Petrarca, 1304–1374.