The Life of Petrarch

After having passed the summer of 1330 at Lombes, the Bishop returned toAvignon, in order to meet his father, the elder Stefano Colonna, and hisbrother the Cardinal.

The Colonnas finally returned to their dignities and property, andafterwards made successful war against the house of their rivals, theOrsini.

Stefano, nevertheless, seems to have been a man formed for better times.He improved in the school of misfortune--the serenity of his temperremained unclouded by adversity, and his faculties unimpaired by age.

Petrarch shortened his excursion that he might return the sooner toAvignon, where the Bishop of Lombes had promised to await his return,and take him to Rome.

This lovely spirit, if ordain'd to leaveIts mortal tenement before its time,Heaven's fairest habitation shall receiveAnd welcome her to breathe its sweetest clime.If she establish her abode betweenMars and the planet-star of Beauty's queen,The sun will be obscured, so dense a cloudOf spirits from adjacent stars will crowdTo gaze upon her beauty infinite.Say that she fixes on a lower sphere,Beneath the glorious sun, her beauty soonWill dim the splendour of inferior stars--Of Mars, of Venus, Mercury, and the Moon.She'll choose not Mars, but higher place than Mars;She will eclipse all planetary light,And Jupiter himself will seem less bright.

Gilbert Correggio left at his death a widow, the sister of Cane de laScala, and four sons, Guido, Simone, Azzo, and Giovanni. It is only withAzzo that we are particularly concerned in the history of Petrarch.

Meanwhile, Italy had no repose more than the rest of Europe, but itstroubles gave a happy occasion to Petrarch to see once more his friend,Guglielmo Pastrengo, who, in 1338, came to Avignon, from Mastino dellaScala, lord of Verona.

Tired, did you say, of loving you? Oh, no!I ne'er shall tire of the unwearying flame.But I am weary, kind and cruel dame,With tears that uselessly and ceaseless flow,Scorning myself, and scorn'd by you. I longFor death: but let no gravestone hold in viewOur names conjoin'd: nor tell my passion strongUpon the dust that glow'd through life for you.And yet this heart of amorous faith demands,Deserves, a better boon; but cruel, hardAs is my fortune, I will bless Love's bandsFor ever, if you give me this reward.

Amidst all the incidents of this period of his life, the attachment ofPetrarch to Laura continued unabated. It appears, too, that, since hisreturn from Parma, she treated him with more than wonted complacency. Hepassed the greater part of the year 1342 at Avignon, and went toVaucluse but seldom and for short intervals.

"I reached Palestrina that night, and was kindly received by your nephewJohn. He is a young man of great hopes, and follows the steps of hisancestors.

Petrarch, wearied with the delays of business, sought relief inexcursions to the neighbourhood. Of these he writes an account toCardinal Colonna.

Voltaire has asserted that the young Queen of Naples was the pupil ofPetrarch; "but of this," as De Sade remarks, "there is no proof." Itonly appears that the two greatest geniuses of Italy, Boccaccio andPetrarch, were both attached to Giovanna, and had a more charitableopinion of her than most of their contemporaries.

In July, 1346, Charles was elected, and, in derision, was called "theEmperor of the Priests." The death of his rival, Lewis of Bavaria,however, which happened in the next year, prevented a civil war, andCharles IV. remained peaceable possessor of the empire.

"Soleo onde, e 'n rena fondo, e serivo in vento."I plough in water, build on sand, and write on air.

However impatient Petrarch might be to look once more on the beauties ofRome, and to join in the jubilee, he was obliged to keep his bed formany days.

"In great affairs I have always dreaded the counsels of the young.Youthful ignorance and inexperience have been the ruin of many empires.I, therefore, learn with pleasure that you have named a council ofelders, to whom you have confided this affair. I expected no less thanthis from your wisdom, which is far beyond your years.

"'Impius haec tam culta novalia miles habebit,Barbarus has segetes.'

On the 6th of January, the festival of Epiphany, Charles received atMilan the iron crown, in the church of St. Ambrosio, from the hands ofRobert Visconti, Archbishop of Milan. They gave the Emperor fiftythousand florins in gold, two hundred beautiful horses, covered withcloth bordered with ermine, and six hundred horsemen to escort him toRome.

Petrarch made but a short stay at Prague, notwithstanding his Majesty'swish to detain him. The Emperor, though sorely exasperated against theVisconti, had no thoughts of carrying war into Italy. His affairs inGermany employed him sufficiently, besides the embellishment of the cityof Prague. At the Bohemian court our poet renewed a very amicableacquaintance with two accomplished prelates, Ernest, Archbishop ofPardowitz, and John Oczkow, Bishop of Olmuetz. Of these churchmen hespeaks in the warmest terms, and he afterwards corresponded with them.We find him returned to Milan, and writing to Simonides on the 20th ofSeptember.

Ah meretrix oblique tuens, ait Articus illi--Immemorem sponsae cupidus quam mungit adulter!Haec tua tota fides, sic sic aliena ministras!Erubuit nihil ausa palam, nisi mollia pacisVerba, sed assuetis noctem complexibus egit--

Ah, harlot! squinting with lascivious browsUpon a hapless wife's adulterous spouse,Is this thy faith, to waste another's wealth.The guilty fruit of perfidy and stealth!She durst not be my foe in open light.But in my foe's embraces spent the night.

It is probable that these disasters were among the causes of Petrarch'sleaving Milan. He settled at Padua, when the plague had not reached it.At this time, Petrarch lost his son John. Whether he died at Milan or atPadua is not certain, but, wherever he died, it was most probably of theplague. John had not quite attained his twenty-fourth year.

During the February of 1366 there was great joy in the house ofPetrarch, for his daughter, Francesca, the wife of Francesco diBrossano, gave birth to a boy, whom Donato degli Albanzani, apeculiarly-favoured friend of the poet's, held over the baptismal font,whilst he was christened by the name of Francesco.

Ye who shall hear amidst my scatter'd laysThe sighs with which I fann'd and fed my heart.When, young and glowing, I was but in partThe man I am become in later days;Ye who have mark'd the changes of my styleFrom vain despondency to hope as vain,From him among you, who has felt love's pain,I hope for pardon, ay, and pity's smile,Though conscious, now, my passion was a theme,Long, idly dwelt on by the public tongue,I blush for all the vanities I've sung,And find the world's applause a fleeting dream.

In what ideal world or part of heavenDid Nature find the model of that faceAnd form, so fraught with loveliness and grace,In which, to our creation, she has givenHer prime proof of creative power above?What fountain nymph or goddess ever letSuch lovely tresses float of gold refinedUpon the breeze, or in a single mind,Where have so many virtues ever met,E'en though those charms have slain my bosom's weal?He knows not love who has not seen her eyesTurn when she sweetly speaks, or smiles, or sighs,Or how the power of love can hurt or heal.

Time was her tresses by the breathing airWere wreathed to many a ringlet golden bright,Time was her eyes diffused unmeasured light,Though now their lovely beams are waxing rare,Her face methought that in its blushes show'dCompassion, her angelic shape and walk,Her voice that seem'd with Heaven's own speech to talk;At these, what wonder that my bosom glow'd!A living sun she seem'd--a spirit of heaven.Those charms decline: but does my passion? No!I love not less--the slackening of the bowAssuages not the wound its shaft has given.

In solitudes I've ever loved to abideBy woods and streams, and shunn'd the evil-hearted,Who from the path of heaven are foully parted;Sweet Tuscany has been to me denied,Whose sunny realms I would have gladly haunted,Yet still the Sorgue his beauteous hills amongHas lent auxiliar murmurs to my song,And echoed to the plaints my love has chanted.Here triumph'd, too, the poet's hand that wroteThese lines--the power of love has witness'd this.Delicious victory! I know my bliss,She knows it too--the saint on whom I dote.

His life was gentle, and the elementsSo mix'd in him that Nature might stand upAnd say to all the world, "This was a man!"