Nel dolce tempo de la prima etade,
che nascer vide et anchor quasi in herba
la fera voglia che per mio mal crebbe,
perché cantando il duol si disacerba,
canterò com'io vissi in libertade,
mentre Amor nel mio albergo a sdegno s'ebbe.
Poi seguirò sí come a lui ne 'ncrebbe
troppo altamente, e che di ciò m'avvenne,
di ch'io son facto a molta gente exempio:
benché 'l mio duro scempio
sia scripto altrove, sí che mille penne
ne son già stanche, et quasi in ogni valle
rimbombi il suon de' miei gravi sospiri,
ch'aquistan fede a la penosa vita.
E se qui la memoria non m'aita
come suol fare, iscúsilla i martiri,
et un penser che solo angoscia dàlle,
tal ch'ad ogni altro fa voltar le spalle,
e mi face oblïar me stesso a forza:
ché tèn di me quel d'entro, et io la scorza.
I' dico che dal dí che 'l primo assalto
mi diede Amor, molt'anni eran passati,
sí ch'io cangiava il giovenil aspetto;
e d'intorno al mio cor pensier' gelati
facto avean quasi adamantino smalto
ch'allentar non lassava il duro affetto.
Lagrima anchor non mi bagnava il petto
né rompea il sonno, et quel che in me non era,
mi pareva un miracolo in altrui.
Lasso, che son! che fui!
La vita el fin, e 'l dí loda la sera.
Ché sentendo il crudel di ch'io ragiono
infin allor percossa di suo strale
non essermi passato oltra la gonna,
prese in sua scorta una possente donna,
ver' cui poco già mai mi valse o vale
ingegno, o forza, o dimandar perdono;
e i duo mi trasformaro in quel ch'i' sono,
facendomi d'uom vivo un lauro verde,
che per fredda stagion foglia non perde.
Qual mi fec'io quando primier m'accorsi
de la trasfigurata mia persona,
e i capei vidi far di quella fronde
di che sperato avea già lor corona,
e i piedi in ch'io mi stetti, et mossi, et corsi,
com'ogni membro a l'anima risponde,
diventar due radici sovra l'onde
non di Peneo, ma d'un piú altero fiume,
e n' duo rami mutarsi ambe le braccia!
Né meno anchor m' agghiaccia
l'esser coverto poi di bianche piume
allor che folminato et morto giacque
il mio sperar che tropp'alto montava:
ché perch'io non sapea dove né quando
me 'l ritrovasse, solo lagrimando
là 've tolto mi fu, dí e nocte andava,
ricercando dallato, et dentro a l'acque;
et già mai poi la mia lingua non tacque
mentre poteo del suo cader maligno:
ond'io presi col suon color d'un cigno.
Cosí lungo l'amate rive andai,
che volendo parlar, cantava sempre
mercé chiamando con estrania voce;
né mai in sí dolci o in sí soavi tempre
risonar seppi gli amorosi guai,
che 'l cor s'umilïasse aspro et feroce.
Qual fu a sentir? ché 'l ricordar mi coce:
ma molto piú di quel, che per inanzi
de la dolce et acerba mia nemica
è bisogno ch'io dica,
benché sia tal ch'ogni parlare avanzi.
Questa che col mirar gli animi fura,
m'aperse il petto, e 'l cor prese con mano,
dicendo a me: Di ciò non far parola.
Poi la rividi in altro habito sola,
tal ch'i' non la conobbi, oh senso humano,
anzi le dissi 'l ver pien di paura;
ed ella ne l'usata sua figura
tosto tornando, fecemi, oimè lasso,
d'un quasi vivo et sbigottito sasso.
Ella parlava sí turbata in vista,
che tremar mi fea dentro a quella petra,
udendo: I' non son forse chi tu credi.
E dicea meco: Se costei mi spetra,
nulla vita mi fia noiosa o trista;
a farmi lagrimar, signor mio, riedi.
Come non so: pur io mossi indi i piedi,
non altrui incolpando che me stesso,
mezzo tutto quel dí tra vivo et morto.
Ma perché 'l tempo è corto,
la penna al buon voler non pò gir presso:
onde piú cose ne la mente scritte
vo trapassando, et sol d'alcune parlo
che meraviglia fanno a chi l'ascolta.
Morte mi s'era intorno al cor avolta,
né tacendo potea di sua man trarlo,
o dar soccorso a le vertuti afflitte;
le vive voci m'erano interditte;
ond'io gridai con carta et con incostro:
Non son mio, no. S'io moro, il danno è vostro.
Ben mi credea dinanzi agli occhi suoi
d'indegno far cosí di mercé degno,
et questa spene m'avea fatto ardito:
ma talora humiltà spegne disdegno,
talor l'enfiamma; et ciò sepp'io da poi,
lunga stagion di tenebre vestito:
ch'a quei preghi il mio lume era sparito.
Ed io non ritrovando intorno intorno
ombra di lei, né pur de' suoi piedi orma,
come huom che tra via dorma,
gittaimi stancho sovra l'erba un giorno.
Ivi accusando il fugitivo raggio,
a le lagrime triste allargai 'l freno,
et lasciaile cader come a lor parve;
né già mai neve sotto al sol disparve
com'io sentí' me tutto venir meno,
et farmi una fontana a pie' d'un faggio.
Gran tempo humido tenni quel vïaggio.
Chi udí mai d'uom vero nascer fonte?
E parlo cose manifeste et conte.
L'alma ch'è sol da Dio facta gentile,
ché già d'altrui non pò venir tal gratia,
simile al suo factor stato ritene:
però di perdonar mai non è sacia
a chi col core et col sembiante humile
dopo quantunque offese a mercé vène.
Et se contra suo stile essa sostene
d'esser molto pregata, in Lui si specchia,
et fal perché 'l peccar piú si pavente:
ché non ben si ripente
de l'un mal chi de l'altro s'apparecchia.
Poi che madonna da pietà commossa
degnò mirarme, et ricognovve et vide
gir di pari la pena col peccato,
benigna mi redusse al primo stato.
Ma nulla à 'l mondo in ch'uom saggio si fide:
ch'ancor poi ripregando, i nervi et l'ossa
mi volse in dura selce; et così scossa
voce rimasi de l'antiche some,
chiamando Morte, et lei sola per nome.
Spirto doglioso errante (mi rimembra)
per spelunche deserte et pellegrine,
piansi molt'anni il mio sfrenato ardire:
et anchor poi trovai di quel mal fine,
et ritornai ne le terrene membra,
credo per piú dolore ivi sentire.
I' seguí' tanto avanti il mio desire
ch'un dí cacciando sí com'io solea
mi mossi; e quella fera bella et cruda
in una fonte ignuda
si stava, quando 'l sol piú forte ardea.
Io, perché d'altra vista non m'appago,
stetti a mirarla: ond'ella ebbe vergogna;
et per farne vendetta, o per celarse,
l'acqua nel viso co le man' mi sparse.
Vero dirò (forse e' parrà menzogna)
ch'i' sentí' trarmi de la propria imago,
et in un cervo solitario et vago
di selva in selva ratto mi trasformo:
et anchor de' miei can' fuggo lo stormo.
Canzon, i' non fu' mai quel nuvol d'oro
che poi discese in pretïosa pioggia,
sí che 'l foco di Giove in parte spense;
ma fui ben fiamma ch'un bel guardo accense,
et fui l'uccel che piú per l'aere poggia,
alzando lei che ne' miei detti honoro:
né per nova figura il primo alloro
seppi lassar, ché pur la sua dolce ombra
ogni men bel piacer del cor mi sgombra.
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I'll sing of the sweet time of my first youth,
that saw the birth and the first leafing
of fierce desire that blossomed to my hurt,
since grief is rendered less bitter by being sung:
I'll sing of when I lived in liberty,
while Love was disdained in my house.
Then follow it with how I scorned him
too deeply, and say what came of it,
of how I was made an example to many men:
even though my harsh ruin
is written of elsewhere, so that a thousand pens
are not yet weary of it, and almost every valley
echoes again to the sound of my deep sighs
that add credence to my painful life.
And if memory does not aid me
as it once did, blame my sufferings,
and one thought which is anguished
it makes me turn my back on every other,
and by the same light makes me forget myself:
ruling what is inside me, I the shell.
I say that many years had passed
since Love tried his first assault on me,
so that I had lost my juvenile aspect,
and frozen thoughts about my heart
had almost made a covering of enamel,
so that its hardness left nothing lacking.
Still no tears had bathed my cheeks,
my sleep unbroken, and what I could not feel
seemed like a marvel to me in others.
Alas what am I? What was I?
Life is ended, and evening crowns the day.
That savage adversary of whom I speak,
seeing at last that not a single shot
of his had even pierced my clothes,
brought a powerful lady to help him,
against whom intellect, or force,
or asking mercy never were or are of value:
and the two transformed me to what I am,
making green laurel from a living man,
that loses no leaves in the coldest season.
What a state I was in when I first realized
the transfiguration of my person,
and saw my hair formed of those leaves
that I had hoped might yet crown me,
and my feet with which I stand, move, run,
since each member accords with the spirit,
turned into two roots by the water
not of Peneus, but a nobler river,
and both my arms changed to branches!
The memory still chills me,
of being clothed then in white plumage,
when my hope that had tried to climb too high
was lightning-struck and lying dead,
and I, who had no idea where or when
I might retrieve it, went weeping alone
day and night where I had lost it,
searching the banks and beneath the water:
and while I might my tongue was never silent
from that moment about hope's evil fall:
until I took on, with its voice, the colour of a swan.
So I went along the pleasant stream,
and wishing to speak I found I always sang,
calling for mercy in a strange voice,
but never making my loving sorrows echo
in so sweet or in so soft a mode
as to make that harsh and savage heart relent.
What was it to feel so? How the memory burns me:
but I need to say more than this
of my sweet and bitter enemy,
more than ever before,
though she is such as is beyond all telling.
She who maddens men with her gaze,
opened my chest, and took my heart in her hand,
saying to me: 'Speak no word of this.'
Then I saw her alone, in a different dress,
so that I did not know her, oh human senses,
and full of fear told her the truth:
and she turning quickly back
to her usual guise, made me, alas,
semi-living and dumb stone.
She spoke to me, so angered in aspect
that she made me tremble inside the rock,
saying: 'Perhaps I am not what you believe.'
And I said to myself: 'If only she releases me
from the rock, no life will make me troubled or sad:
return, my lord, and let me weep.'
I moved my feet then, I don't know how,
still blaming no-one but my own self,
between living and dying, all that day.
But because the time is short
my pen cannot keep pace with my true will:
I must pass over many more things
inscribed in my mind, and only speak of those
that will seem marvellous to those who hear.
Death circled round about my heart,
which I could not rescue by being silent,
nor could I help my afflicted senses:
a living voice was forbidden me:
so I cried out with paper and ink:
'I am not my own. If I die the loss is yours.'
I truly thought I could turn myself in her eyes
from worthlessness to a thing of worth,
and that hope had made me eager:
but hope at times is quenched by disdain
at times takes fire: and so I found it then,
placed in the shadows for so long,
for at my prayers my true light had left me.
And not finding a shadow of her, her or there,
nor even the print of her foot,
one day I flung myself down on the grass
like a traveller who sleeps on the way.
Accusing the fugitive ray of light, from there,
I loosed the reins of my sad tears,
and let them fall as they wished,
I felt myself melt wholly, as snow
never vanished so in the sun,
becoming a fount at a beech-tree's foot.
I held that moist course for a length of time.
Who ever heard of fountains born of men?
Yet I tell you something manifest and known.
The soul whose gentleness is all from God,
since such grace could come from nowhere else,
holds a virtue like that of its maker:
it grants pardon, and never wearies,
to him of humble face and heart,
whatever sins he comes to mercy with.
And if contrary to its nature it suffers
being prayed to often, it mirrors Him,
and so makes the sin more fearful:
for he does not truly repent
who prepares for one sin with another.
So my lady moved by pity
deigned to look down on me, and seeing
I revealed a punishment matched to the sin,
she kindly returned me to my first state.
But there's nothing a man can trust to in this world:
praying to her still, I felt my bone and nerves
turn to hard flint: and only a voice shaken
from my former being remained,
calling on Death, and calling her by name.
A grieving spirit (I recall) I wandered
through empty and alien caverns,
weeping my errant ardour for many years:
and at least reached its end,
and I returned to my earthly limbs,
I think in order to suffer greater pain.
I followed my desire so closely
that hunting one day as was my custom,
I saw that creature, wild and beautiful,
standing naked
in a pool, when the sun shone most brightly.
I, because no other sight so pleases me,
stood and gazed: she covered in her shame:
and for revenge or to hide herself,
she splashed water in my face, with her hand.
I speak the truth (though I may seem to lie)
that I felt myself altered from my true form,
and swiftly transmuted to a lonely stag,
wandering from wood to wood:
and fleeing from my own pack of hounds.
Song, I was never that golden cloud
that once fell as a precious shower,
so that Jove's flame was quenched a little:
but I have been the fire that a lovely look kindled,
and the bird that rises highest in the air,
exalting her with my words in honour:
nor could I leave the highest laurel
for some new shape, for by its sweet shade
all lesser beauties that please the heart are scattered.
Note:
Daphne was changed to a laurel on the banks
of the Peneus. Petrarch compares it with the Sorgue,
Durance, or Rhone. Cycnus was changed into a swan
mourning for Phaethon. Battus revealed a secret,
to Mercury in disguise, and was turned to flint.
Byblis was turned into a fountain, after rejecting
her brother's love. Echo turned into a voice echoing
Narcissus. Actaeon saw Diana bathing and was turned
into a stag and hunted to death by his hounds. Jupiter
raped Danae in a shower of gold, and as an eagle
carried off Ganymede. See Ovid's Metamorphoses
for all these references.
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