Feda with Other Poems Chiefly Lyrical. By Rennell Rodd ... With an Etching by Harper Pennington |
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| PETRARCH:
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
 | Feda with Other Poems |  |
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PETRARCH:
A Monologue.
“Voi pur forse desidererete di sapere che homo io mi sia
stato.”—Francesco Petrarca: Memorie della sua Vita.
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201
I.—PADUA.
Nay, friend Boccaccio, you do reason well,
The past were all forgotten,—let us leave
All rancorous harbourings to meaner men!
I said the change was sudden, for last year
I made long stay in Florence, in my land,
If lands of sires exiled be fatherland,
Yet found but frosty greeting though I came
With Padua's crown still green upon my brow,—
Disherited and orphaned of my own.
The past were all forgotten,—let us leave
All rancorous harbourings to meaner men!
I said the change was sudden, for last year
I made long stay in Florence, in my land,
If lands of sires exiled be fatherland,
Yet found but frosty greeting though I came
With Padua's crown still green upon my brow,—
Disherited and orphaned of my own.
And now, you bring me greeting in the name
Of Florence, with such honeyed words as these,
With “Master, teacher, glory of our land!”
Such generous liberties, freewill to choose
My chair in your new made Academy,
Such terms of courtesy as never yet
So proud a township humbled to convey:
And I, how shall I answer? Had it been
Mine from the first so, in my father's land,
To wear this robe of honour, mine to watch
The Tuscan students gather to my chair,
To teach communion with the mighty dead,
The hero voices of the hero-time,
In the great Arno city, I had found
The end of all ambitions,—and you come
To bring me this from Florence;—well, well, well.—
The change is somewhat sudden, I have said,
Yet am I not less grateful, who but we
Should be exempt from memories of wrong,
And gladly greet the late return of light
That lifts the shadows of things past and dead.
Of Florence, with such honeyed words as these,
With “Master, teacher, glory of our land!”
Such generous liberties, freewill to choose
My chair in your new made Academy,
Such terms of courtesy as never yet
So proud a township humbled to convey:
And I, how shall I answer? Had it been
202
To wear this robe of honour, mine to watch
The Tuscan students gather to my chair,
To teach communion with the mighty dead,
The hero voices of the hero-time,
In the great Arno city, I had found
The end of all ambitions,—and you come
To bring me this from Florence;—well, well, well.—
The change is somewhat sudden, I have said,
Yet am I not less grateful, who but we
Should be exempt from memories of wrong,
And gladly greet the late return of light
That lifts the shadows of things past and dead.
Yet, friend Boccaccio, I would say, my years
Are measured, and by now the tide of days
Is set to its appointed ebb and flow:
My life has found new havens, and secure
From envious winds and storms that pass the bar.
And most of all my heart's desire is set
Toward my throne of exile, and a grave
Among the low French cypresses; the years
Grow more and many since I sojourned there,
Where all my days of youth were glorified,
Where most of all my name is linked with earth.
Are measured, and by now the tide of days
Is set to its appointed ebb and flow:
My life has found new havens, and secure
From envious winds and storms that pass the bar.
And most of all my heart's desire is set
Toward my throne of exile, and a grave
Among the low French cypresses; the years
Grow more and many since I sojourned there,
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Where most of all my name is linked with earth.
Friend, say in Florence that I thank them well,
And take their late repentance to my heart,
As pledge of labours that were not in vain,
And crown of all my honours, but my years
Are many, and now I go a pilgrimage
To rest awhile by a belovéd grave,
And commune with a presence I shall find
About the the haunted meadows of Vaucluse.
And take their late repentance to my heart,
As pledge of labours that were not in vain,
And crown of all my honours, but my years
Are many, and now I go a pilgrimage
To rest awhile by a belovéd grave,
And commune with a presence I shall find
About the the haunted meadows of Vaucluse.
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II.—AVIGNON.
Still winds the Rhone between the level fields,
And all so changed yet changeless,—the white rocks
Far off the towers of Avignon, and last
The line of broken hill; these many days
I wandered in a dream, until last night
I seemed to stand on some great mountain ridge
High in the twilight glimmering to dawn,
With the mist rolling under and the chasm,
Blue depths unfathomable, and overhead
Pale stars and silence and the infinite.
Then seemed one star to waft down from its place,
Taking a form that floated in the dawn,—
The vision waited for that was to come.
But in her eyes was that eternal calm
Of those that gaze on angels, and her hair
Was rays of moonlight wandering on her brow,
And all so pale and ghostly,—and I stood
Over the slumbering earth, there was no sound,
Only she pointed upwards, and I knew
The sense of something speaking in my soul
Telling of joys transcending human thought,
Foretasting the eternity of Love.
Then right into the dawn she passed and left
The burning of her kiss upon my brow.
And all so changed yet changeless,—the white rocks
Far off the towers of Avignon, and last
The line of broken hill; these many days
I wandered in a dream, until last night
I seemed to stand on some great mountain ridge
High in the twilight glimmering to dawn,
With the mist rolling under and the chasm,
Blue depths unfathomable, and overhead
Pale stars and silence and the infinite.
Then seemed one star to waft down from its place,
Taking a form that floated in the dawn,—
The vision waited for that was to come.
But in her eyes was that eternal calm
Of those that gaze on angels, and her hair
Was rays of moonlight wandering on her brow,
And all so pale and ghostly,—and I stood
205
Only she pointed upwards, and I knew
The sense of something speaking in my soul
Telling of joys transcending human thought,
Foretasting the eternity of Love.
Then right into the dawn she passed and left
The burning of her kiss upon my brow.
Then all the day grew round me where I stood,
And far across the sundering vales it broke
On peaks of morning very near the sky,
Still dark between us lay the sundering deep
With twilight heavy on the town of towers,
The sleeping and the watchers in the world.
And then it seemed from yonder hills her voice
Mixed with innumerable harmonies
Wafted toward me on the wave of dawn,
Leading a quire of voices in the height
That died in music with the waning star,
Saying, “go down, though it be twilight yet,
“For where is life is ever need of love,
“Go down and work a little while, and wait,
“The suns are measured and the days are told,
“But time is shoreless, after life is life,
“And after travail rest, and surely light
“Better than sun and moon and all the stars,
“And finding after seeking, and for love
“One home to which the many ways converge.”
And far across the sundering vales it broke
On peaks of morning very near the sky,
Still dark between us lay the sundering deep
With twilight heavy on the town of towers,
The sleeping and the watchers in the world.
And then it seemed from yonder hills her voice
Mixed with innumerable harmonies
Wafted toward me on the wave of dawn,
Leading a quire of voices in the height
That died in music with the waning star,
Saying, “go down, though it be twilight yet,
“For where is life is ever need of love,
“Go down and work a little while, and wait,
“The suns are measured and the days are told,
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“And after travail rest, and surely light
“Better than sun and moon and all the stars,
“And finding after seeking, and for love
“One home to which the many ways converge.”
207
III.-ARQUA.
I am an old man now, my life has been
Endowed beyond my fellows—honours, fame,
And good report in store above my due.
And I have written many books; explored
The ancient wisdom of the mighty dead,
Through me regenerate; philosopher,
Poet, and scholar, pattern to the youth
In all the schools from Avignon to Rome;
The friend of Popes and Princes—styled, in short,
Boccaccio says, the “glory of our age”
He brought that word from Florence—from my land!
Therefore, as one who laboured not in vain,
Have I bequeathed my riches to the world.
There lie my songs, themes, epics—one word more,
Here at the last, when I record my gain,
The best, the harvest, and the truth I found,
The soul of my philosophy remains
Love only: first, the one, the spiritual love,
That is the loadstar and the light of life,
And the hereafter haply—as I deem,
Since love at highest needs no earthly hope;
And then that other love inspired of this,
The all-embracing, all-forgiving love;
The love that labours for the rest, endures,
And gives the world its earnest, that is all
Doubt has no part in, when we stand for truth,
And every heart is great enough for love,
As every soul is for eternity.
Endowed beyond my fellows—honours, fame,
And good report in store above my due.
And I have written many books; explored
The ancient wisdom of the mighty dead,
Through me regenerate; philosopher,
Poet, and scholar, pattern to the youth
In all the schools from Avignon to Rome;
The friend of Popes and Princes—styled, in short,
Boccaccio says, the “glory of our age”
He brought that word from Florence—from my land!
Therefore, as one who laboured not in vain,
Have I bequeathed my riches to the world.
There lie my songs, themes, epics—one word more,
Here at the last, when I record my gain,
The best, the harvest, and the truth I found,
The soul of my philosophy remains
Love only: first, the one, the spiritual love,
That is the loadstar and the light of life,
And the hereafter haply—as I deem,
208
And then that other love inspired of this,
The all-embracing, all-forgiving love;
The love that labours for the rest, endures,
And gives the world its earnest, that is all
Doubt has no part in, when we stand for truth,
And every heart is great enough for love,
As every soul is for eternity.
Now I will tell my story in few words,
In life's young spring there met me on my way
A spirit fashioned in no mortal mould,
But one whose earthly sojourn seemed to me
A revelation of the holier life,
A benediction from the home of heaven.
It was at morning song on the sixth day
Of the fourth month, the spring of year and youth,
In Santa Chiara's church, at Avignon,
I saw my lady of the blessed name,
And on the pulseless current of my thought
There flashed the change, the glory, and the doom.
And that same hour, the hour of morning song,
The same sixth day of that same April tide,
Twice ten years after, was she taken hence.
Her stainless body on the day she died
They laid to rest in its appointed place,
And her pure spirit I am bold to say
Went back to God, by whose good gift it came;
But I misfortuned then to be from home
And in Verona, knowing not my loss.
In life's young spring there met me on my way
A spirit fashioned in no mortal mould,
But one whose earthly sojourn seemed to me
A revelation of the holier life,
A benediction from the home of heaven.
It was at morning song on the sixth day
Of the fourth month, the spring of year and youth,
In Santa Chiara's church, at Avignon,
I saw my lady of the blessed name,
And on the pulseless current of my thought
There flashed the change, the glory, and the doom.
And that same hour, the hour of morning song,
The same sixth day of that same April tide,
209
Her stainless body on the day she died
They laid to rest in its appointed place,
And her pure spirit I am bold to say
Went back to God, by whose good gift it came;
But I misfortuned then to be from home
And in Verona, knowing not my loss.
Now here make I my record, in my love
For Laura was no one base thought, nor vile;
I think not anything a man might blame,
Unless it were that love's excess; this much
Let no man doubt, whate'er my life hath been,
All that I am that by her grace am I,
Nor have I looked for other praise than hers
Who drew my spirit to her own pure light,
And stayed my gaze upon abiding things;
And there was never one I cared to please
Save her alone, whose fair ensample stands
Like the saint's lily in a stormy world,
Changeless and sweet and loveable and white,
Whom envy found no fault in to assail,
And faith assigns the circle of the saints.
For Laura was no one base thought, nor vile;
I think not anything a man might blame,
Unless it were that love's excess; this much
Let no man doubt, whate'er my life hath been,
All that I am that by her grace am I,
Nor have I looked for other praise than hers
Who drew my spirit to her own pure light,
And stayed my gaze upon abiding things;
And there was never one I cared to please
Save her alone, whose fair ensample stands
Like the saint's lily in a stormy world,
Changeless and sweet and loveable and white,
Whom envy found no fault in to assail,
And faith assigns the circle of the saints.
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Therefore, I say, love only; life shall prove
The need of loving. Many a man sees truth,
Knows the sheer way he half would choose to climb,
But little needs and fleeting aims withhold
The still strong step should mount to meet the dawn.
To see the truth is somewhat,—just to guage
The reach and effort, but to be the man
One would have men be, seek no meaner gains
But make the ideal real—this to do
She shewed me, having that great love for hope,
Through chance and change to glorify the end.
Who loves not pity, for none loves in vain,
Though here on earth it must suffice to know
Love is the lover's first, and the beloved's
In less degree, so incomplete at best.
But after, he who saw life's end in love,
Shall he not find the need he recognized
In some divine, unfathomable way
Returning and enfolding him at last?
I have my hope, I reason not with faith.—
If love be life's end, then the end of love
Remains, is surely to be loved again.
The need of loving. Many a man sees truth,
Knows the sheer way he half would choose to climb,
But little needs and fleeting aims withhold
The still strong step should mount to meet the dawn.
To see the truth is somewhat,—just to guage
The reach and effort, but to be the man
One would have men be, seek no meaner gains
But make the ideal real—this to do
She shewed me, having that great love for hope,
Through chance and change to glorify the end.
Who loves not pity, for none loves in vain,
Though here on earth it must suffice to know
Love is the lover's first, and the beloved's
In less degree, so incomplete at best.
But after, he who saw life's end in love,
Shall he not find the need he recognized
In some divine, unfathomable way
Returning and enfolding him at last?
I have my hope, I reason not with faith.—
If love be life's end, then the end of love
Remains, is surely to be loved again.
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My best on earth was out of reach for me,
Past striving for and only all life long
A far-off benediction and a hope:
But this I know, so much of mine was hers,
Clasped close, so close, no other life shall mark
Its seal on hers to hold our souls apart
When soul meets soul with nothing more between,
Till then I tarry and abide my doom.
Past striving for and only all life long
A far-off benediction and a hope:
But this I know, so much of mine was hers,
Clasped close, so close, no other life shall mark
Its seal on hers to hold our souls apart
When soul meets soul with nothing more between,
Till then I tarry and abide my doom.
Therefore, I would that in far years to be,
When great things grow forgotten, tides of change,
Events of import shadow-like and dim,
If aught that sounds on many tongues to-day
Of all I strove to make abiding here,
Should find a corner in men's hearts and breathe
Among hereafter voices, they should tell
Not of my epic that they crowned me for,
Not of the kinship with the hero-time,
But how once lived a lover in the world
Who prized the myrtle better than the bay,
Who sang one master-song to many keys,
Whose faith this was, and, loving once and well,
He gave his lady all a poet may,
The glory of an everlasting name.
When great things grow forgotten, tides of change,
Events of import shadow-like and dim,
If aught that sounds on many tongues to-day
Of all I strove to make abiding here,
Should find a corner in men's hearts and breathe
Among hereafter voices, they should tell
Not of my epic that they crowned me for,
Not of the kinship with the hero-time,
But how once lived a lover in the world
Who prized the myrtle better than the bay,
Who sang one master-song to many keys,
Whose faith this was, and, loving once and well,
He gave his lady all a poet may,
The glory of an everlasting name.
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