Petrarch - Canzone XIII lyrics

HE SEEKS IN VAIN TO MITIGATE HIS WOE Oh! that my cheeks were taught By the fond, wasting thought To wear such hues as could its influence speak; Then the dear, scornful fair Might all my ardour share; And where Love slumbers now he might awake! Less oft the hill and mead My wearied feet should tread; Less oft, perhaps, these eyes with tears should stream; If she, who cold as snow, With equal fire would glow— She who dissolves me, and converts to flame. Since Love exerts his sway, And bears my sense away, I chant uncouth and inharmonious songs: Nor leaves, nor blossoms show, Nor rind, upon the bough, What is the nature that thereto belongs. Love, and those beauteous eyes, Beneath whose shade he lies, Discover all the heart can comprehend: When vented are my cares In loud complaints, and tears; These harm myself, and others those offend. Sweet lays of sportive vein, Which help'd me to sustain Love's first a**ault, the only arms I bore; This flinty breast say who Shall once again subdue, That I with song may soothe me as before? Some power appears to trace Within me Laura's face, Whispers her name; and straight in verse I strive To picture her again, But the fond effort's vain: Me of my solace thus doth Fate deprive. E'en as some babe unties Its tongue in stammering guise, Who cannot speak, yet will not silence keep: So fond words I essay; And listen'd be the lay By my fair foe, ere in the tomb I sleep! But if, of beauty vain, She treats me with disdain; Do thou, O verdant shore, attend my sighs: Let them so freely flow, That all the world may know, My sorrow thou at least didst not despise! And well art thou aware, That never foot so fair The soil e'er press'd as that which trod thee late; My sunk soul and worn heart Now seek thee, to impart The secret griefs that on my pa**ion wait. If on thy margent green, Or 'midst thy flowers, were seen Some traces of her footsteps lingering there. My wearied life 'twould cheer, Bitter'd with many a tear: Ah! now what means are left to soothe my care? Where'er I bend mine eye, What sweet serenity I feel, to think here Laura shone of yore. Each plant and scented bloom I gather, seems to come From where she wander'd on the custom'd shore: Ofttimes in this retreat A fresh and fragrant seat She found; at least so fancy's vision shows: And never let truth seek Th' illusion dear to break— O spirit blest, from whom such magic flows! To thee, my simple song, No polish doth belong; Thyself art conscious of thy little worth! Solicit not renown Throughout the busy town, But dwell within the shade that gave thee birth. Nott.