JACOPO DA LENTINO
I
Sonnet
Of his Lady in Heaven
I have it in my heart to serve God so
That into Paradise I shall repair,—
The holy place through the which everywhere
I have heard say that joy and solace flow.
Without my lady I were loth to go,—
She who has the bright face and the bright hair;
Because if she were absent, I being there,
My pleasure would be less than nought, I know.
Look you, I say not this to such intent
As that I there would deal in any sin:
I only would behold her gracious mien,
And beautiful soft eyes, and lovely face,
That so it should be my complete content
To see my lady joyful in her place.
II
Canzonetta
Of his Lady, and her Portrait
Marvellously elate,
Love makes my spirit warm
With noble sympathies:
As one whose mind is set
Upon some glorious form,
To paint it as it is;—
I verily who bear
Thy face at heart, most fair,
Am like to him in this.
Not outwardly declared,
Within me dwells enclosed
Thine image as thou art.
Ah! strangely hath it fared!
I know not if thou know'st
The love within my heart.
Exceedingly afraid,
My hope I have not said,
But gazed on thee apart.
Because desire was strong,
I made a portraiture
In thine own likeness, love:
When absence has grown long,
I gaze, till I am sure
That I behold thee move;
As one who purposeth
To save himself by faith,
Yet sees not, nor can prove.
Then comes the burning pain:
As with the man that hath
A fire within his breast,—
When most he struggles, then
Most boils the flame in wrath,
And will not let him rest,
So still I burned and shook,
To pass, and not to look
In thy face, loveliest.
For where thou art I pass,
And do not lift mine eyes,
Lady, to look on thee:
But, as I go, alas!
With bitterness of sighs
I mourn exceedingly.
Alas! the constant woe!
Myself I do not know,
So sore it troubles me.
And I have sung thy praise,
Lady, and many times
Have told thy beauties o'er.
Hast heard in anyways,
Perchance, that these my rhymes
Are song-craft and no more?
Nay, rather deem, when thou
Shalt see me pass and bow,
These words I sicken for.
Delicate song of mine,
Go sing thou a new strain:
Seek, with the first sunshine,
Our lady, mine and thine,—
The rose of Love's domain,
Than red gold comelier.
“Lady, in Love's name hark
To Jacopo the clerk,
Born in Lentino here.”
III
Sonnet
No Jewel is worth his Lady
Sapphire, nor diamond, nor emerald,
Nor other precious stones past reckoning,
Topaz, nor pearl, nor ruby like a king,
Nor that most virtuous jewel, jasper call'd,
Nor amethyst, nor onyx, nor basalt,
Each counted for a very marvellous thing,
Is half so excellently gladdening
As is my lady's head uncoronall'd.
All beauty by her beauty is made dim;
Like to the stars she is for loftiness;
And with her voice she taketh away grief.
She is fairer than a bud, or than a leaf.
Christ have her well in keeping, of His grace,
And make her holy and beloved, like Him!
IV
Canzonetta
He will neither boast nor lament to his Lady
Love will not have me cry
For grace, as others do;
Nor as they vaunt, that I
Should vaunt my love to you.
For service, such as all
Can pay, is counted small;
Nor is it much to praise
The thing which all must know;—
Such pittance to bestow
On you my love gainsays.
Love lets me not turn shape
As chance or use may strike;
As one may see an ape
Counterfeit all alike.
Then, lady, unto you
Be it not mine to sue
For grace or pitying.
Many the lovers be
That of such suit are free,—
It is a common thing.
A gem, the more 'tis rare,
The more its cost will mount:
And, be it not so fair,
It is of more account.
So, coming from the East,
The sapphire is increased
In worth, though scarce so bright;
I therefore seek thy face
Not to solicit grace,
Being cheapened and made slight.
So is the colosmine
Now cheapened, which in fame
Was once so brave and fine,
But now is a mean gem.
So be such prayers for grace
Not heard in any place;
Would they indeed hold fast
Their worth, be they not said,
Nor by true lovers made
Before nine years be past.
Lady, sans sigh or groan,
My longing thou canst see;
Much better am I known
Than to myself, to thee.
And is there nothing else
That in my heart avails
For love but groan and sigh?
And wilt thou have it thus,
This love betwixen us?—
Much rather let me die.
V
Canzonetta
Of his Lady, and of his making her Likeness
My Lady mine,
I send
These sighs in joy to thee;
Though, loving till the end,
There were no hope for me
That I should speak my love;
And I have loved indeed,
Though, having fearful heed,
It was not spoken of.
Thou art so high and great
That whom I love I fear;
Which thing to circumstate
I have no messenger:
Wherefore to Love I pray,
On whom each lover cries,
That these my tears and sighs
Find unto thee a way.
Well have I wished, when I
At heart with sighs have ach'd,
That there were in each sigh
Spirit and intellect,
The which, where thou dost sit,
Should kneel and sue for aid,
Since I am thus afraid
And have no strength for it.
Thou, lady, killest me,
Yet keepest me in pain,
For thou must surely see
How, fearing, I am fain.
Ah! why not send me still
Some solace, small and slight,
So that I should not quite
Despair of thy good will?
Thy grace, all else above,
Even now while I implore,
Enamoureth my love
To love thee still the more.
Yet scarce should I know well—
A greater love to gain,
Even if a greater pain,
Lady, were possible.
Joy did that day relax
My grief's continual stress,
When I essayed in wax
Thy beauty's life-likeness.
Ah! much more beautiful
Than golden-haired Yseult,—
Who mak'st all men exult,
Who bring'st all women dule.
And certes without blame
Thy love might fall to me,
Though it should chance my name
Were never heard of thee.
Yea, for thy love, in fine,
Lentino gave me birth,
Who am not nothing worth
If worthy to be thine.
VI
Sonnet
Of his Lady's face
Her face has made my life most proud and glad;
Her face has made my life quite wearisome;
It comforts me when other troubles come,
And amid other joys it strikes me sad.
Truly I think her face can drive me mad;
For now I am too loud, and anon dumb.
There is no second face in Christendom
Has a like power, nor shall have, nor has had.
What man in living face has seen such eyes,
Or such a lovely bending of the head,
Or mouth that opens to so sweet a smile?
In speech, my heart before her faints and dies,
And into Heaven seems to be spirited;
So that I count me blest a certain while.
VII
Canzone
At the end of his Hope
Remembering this—how Love
Mocks me, and bids me hoard
Mine ill reward that keeps me nigh to death,—
How it doth still behove
I suffer the keen sword,
Whence undeplor'd I may not draw my breath;
In memory of this thing
Sighing and sorrowing,
I am languid at the heart
For her to whom I bow,
Craving her pity now,
And who still turns apart.
I am dying, and through her—
This flower, from paradise
Sent in some wise, that I might have no rest.
Truly she did not err
To come before his eyes
Who fails and dies, by her sweet smile possess'd;
For, through her countenance
(Fair brows and lofty glance!)
I live in constant dule.
Of lovers' hearts the chief
For sorrow and much grief,
My heart is sorrowful.
For Love has made me weep
With sighs that do him wrong,
Since, when most strong my joy, he gave this woe.
I am broken, as a ship
Perishing of the song,
Sweet, sweet and long, the songs the sirens know.
The mariner forgets,
Voyaging in those straits,
And dies assuredly.
Yea, from her pride perverse,
Who hath my heart as hers,
Even such my death must be.
I deemed her not so fell
And hard but she would greet,
From her high seat, at length, the love I bring;
For I have loved her well;—
Nor that her face so sweet
In so much heat would keep me languishing;
Seeing that she I serve
All honour doth deserve
For worth unparallel'd.
Yet what availeth moan
But for more grief alone?
O God! that it avail'd!
Thou, my new song, shalt pray
To her, who for no end
Each day doth tend her virtues that they grow,—
Since she to love saith nay;—
(More charms she had attain'd
Than sea hath sand, and wisdom even so);—
Pray thou to her that she
For my love pity me,
Since with my love I burn,—
That of the fruit of love,
While help may come thereof,
She give to me in turn.
