Petrarch - Canzone XVI lyrics

TO THE PRINCES OF ITALY, EXHORTING THEM TO SET HER FREE O my own Italy! though words are vain The mortal wounds to close, Unnumber'd, that thy beauteous bosom stain, Yet may it soothe my pain To sigh forth Tyber's woes, And Arno's wrongs, as on Po's sadden'd shore Sorrowing I wander, and my numbers pour. Ruler of heaven! By the all-pitying love That could thy Godhead move To dwell a lowly sojourner on earth, Turn, Lord! on this thy chosen land thine eye: See, God of Charity! From what light cause this cruel war has birth; And the hard hearts by savage discord steel'd, Thou, Father! from on high, Touch by my humble voice, that stubborn wrath may yield! Ye, to whose sovereign hands the fates confide Of this fair land the reins,— (This land for which no pity wrings your breast)— Why does the stranger's sword her plains invest? That her green fields be dyed, Hope ye, with blood from the Barbarians' veins? Beguiled by error weak, Ye see not, though to pierce so deep ye boast, Who love, or faith, in venal bosoms seek: When throng'd your standards most, Ye are encompa**'d most by hostile bands. O hideous deluge gather'd in strange lands, That rushing down amain O'erwhelms our every native lovely plain! Alas! if our own hands Have thus our weal betray'd, who shall our cause sustain? Well did kind Nature, guardian of our state, Rear her rude Alpine heights, A lofty rampart against German hate; But blind ambition, seeking his own ill, With ever restless will, To the pure gales contagion foul invites: Within the same strait fold The gentle flocks and wolves relentless throng, Where still meek innocence must suffer wrong: And these,—oh, shame avow'd!— Are of the lawless hordes no tie can hold: Fame tells how Marius' sword Erewhile their bosoms gored,— Nor has Time's hand aught blurr'd the record proud! When they who, thirsting, stoop'd to quaff the flood, With the cool waters mix'd, drank of a comrade's blood! Great Cæsar's name I pa**, who o'er our plains Pour'd forth the ensanguin'd tide, Drawn by our own good swords from out their veins; But now—nor know I what ill stars preside— Heaven holds this land in hate! To you the thanks!—whose hands control her helm!— You, whose rash feuds despoil Of all the beauteous earth the fairest realm! Are ye impell'd by judgment, crime, or fate, To oppress the desolate? From broken fortunes, and from humble toil, The hard-earn'd dole to wring, While from afar ye bring Dealers in blood, bartering their souls for hire? In truth's great cause I sing. Nor hatred nor disdain my earnest lay inspire. Nor mark ye yet, confirm'd by proof on proof, Bavaria's perfidy, Who strikes in mockery, keeping d**h aloof? (Shame, worse than aught of loss, in honour's eye!) While ye, with honest rage, devoted pour Your inmost bosom's gore!— Yet give one hour to thought, And ye shall own, how little he can hold Another's glory dear, who sets his own at nought O Latin blood of old! Arise, and wrest from obloquy thy fame, Nor bow before a name Of hollow sound, whose power no laws enforce! For if barbarians rude Have higher minds subdued, Ours! ours the crime!—not such wise Nature's course. Ah! is not this the soil my foot first press'd? And here, in cradled rest, Was I not softly hush'd?—here fondly rear'd? Ah! is not this my country?—so endear'd By every filial tie! In whose lap shrouded both my parents lie! Oh! by this tender thought, Your torpid bosoms to compa**ion wrought, Look on the people's grief! Who, after God, of you expect relief; And if ye but relent, Virtue shall rouse her in embattled might, Against blind fury bent, Nor long shall doubtful hang the unequal fight; For no,—the ancient flame Is not extinguish'd yet, that raised the Italian name! Mark, sovereign Lords! how Time, with pinion strong, Swift hurries life along! E'en now, behold! d**h presses on the rear. We sojourn here a day—the next, are gone! The soul disrobed—alone, Must shuddering seek the doubtful pa** we fear. Oh! at the dreaded bourne, Abase the lofty brow of wrath and scorn, (Storms adverse to the eternal calm on high!) And ye, whose cruelty Has sought another's harm, by fairer deed Of heart, or hand, or intellect, aspire To win the honest meed Of just renown—the noble mind's desire! Thus sweet on earth the stay! Thus to the spirit pure, unbarr'd is Heaven's way! My song! with courtesy, and numbers sooth, Thy daring reasons grace, For thou the mighty, in their pride of place, Must woo to gentle ruth, Whose haughty will long evil customs nurse, Ever to truth averse! Thee better fortunes wait, Among the virtuous few—the truly great! Tell them—but who shall bid my terrors cease? Peace! Peace! on thee I call! return, O heaven-born Peace! Dacre. See Time, that flies, and spreads his hasty wing! See Life, how swift it runs the race of years, And on its weary shoulders d**h appears! Now all is life and all is spring: Think on the winter and the darker day When the soul, naked and alone, Must prove the dubious step, the still unknown, Yet ever beaten way. And through this fatal vale Would you be wafted with some gentle gale? Put off that eager strife and fierce disdain, Clouds that involve our life's serene, And storms that ruffle all the scene; Your precious hours, misspent in others' pain, On nobler deeds, worthy yourselves, bestow; Whether with hand or wit you raise Some monument of peaceful praise, Some happy labour of fair love: 'Tis all of heaven that you can find below, And opens into all above. Basil Kennet.