Petrarch’s odes and sonnets are but parts of one symphony, leading us through a passion strengthened by years and only purified by death, until at last the graceful lay becomes an anthem and a ‘Nunc dimittis.’ In the closing sonnets Petrarch withdraws from the world, and they seem like voices from a cloister, growing more and more solemn till the door is closed. This is one of the last ([Dicemi spesso]). How true is its concluding line! Who can wonder that women prize beauty, and are intoxicated by their own fascinations, when these fragile gifts are yet strong enough to outlast all the memories of statesmanship and war? Next to the immortality of genius is that which genius may confer upon the object of its love. Laura, while she lived, was simply one of a hundred or a thousand beautiful and gracious Italian women; she had her loves and aversions, joys and griefs; she cared dutifully for her household, and embroidered the veil which Petrarch loved; her memory appeared as fleeting and unsubstantial as that of woven tissue. After five centuries we find that no armor of that iron age was so enduring. The kings whom she honored, the popes whom she revered are dust, and their memory is dust, but literature is still fragrant with her name. An impression which has endured so long is ineffaceable; it is an earthly immortality.

“Time is the chariot of all ages to carry men away, and beauty cannot bribe this charioteer.” Thus wrote Petrarch in his Latin essays; but his love had wealth that proved resistless, and for Laura the chariot stayed.

[SONNETS]

I

Lieti fiori e felici, e ben nate erbe,
Che Madonna, pensando, premer sole;
Piaggia ch’ascolti sue dolci parole,
E del bel piede alcun vestigio serbe;
Schietti arboscelli, e verdi frondi acerbe;
Amorosette e pallide viole;
Ombrose selve, ove percote il Sole,
Che vi fa co’ suoi raggi alte e superbe;
O soave contrada, o puro fiume,
Che bagni ’l suo bel viso e gli occhi chiari,
E prendi qualità dal vivo lume;
Quanto v’invidio gli atti onesti e cari!
Non fia in voi scoglio omai che per costume
D’arder con la mia fiamma non impari.