PETRARCH
It is hard for people to-day to realize the enormous difference between
the medieval and modern world. The former was full of superstition and
naive belief; authority reigned supreme; in religion no one dreamed of
questioning the decrees of church and pope; in philosophy a question was
settled by a quotation from Aristotle or his scholastic representative,
St. Thomas Aquinas. This same blind following of authority was
exemplified in art--painters imitated slavishly their predecessors, and
up to the appearance of Cimabue and Giotto no one dreamed of improving
on the stiff conventionalities of the Byzantine artists. In scholarship,
criticism--_i. e._, individual judgment--was unknown; in science, all
such old-world fables as the mandragora, dragons, phenix, and unicorn
were devoutly received as true zoology, while the Ptolemaic system of
astronomy was unquestioned. The idea of progress was utterly unknown;
the world had been created exactly as it was, and would remain so till
the coming of Christ, when a new heaven and a new earth would be formed.
So, in the political and social world, the thought that the existing
state of things could change would have seemed absurd. It needs no words
of mine to demonstrate the vast difference between these conceptions
and the present world, with its idea of illimitable progress, its
criticism of all things high and low, its denial that authority in
church and state is just, simply because it is old; its eager
acceptation of all innovations; its cultivation of the individual in all
departments of life; to say nothing of the vast field opened up by the
discoveries of positive science.
Dante stands at the end of the old order of things, rising like a mighty
mountain peak over the dead plain of medieval mediocrity.
Yet he is not an innovator; he does not inaugurate a new period of
civilization. When he died he left no school of followers to carry on
his work; he closed an epoch rather than opened one. It is true that for
a hundred years or more men did imitate his Divine Comedy, but only in
the outward form thereof, neglecting the poetical and aesthetical side,
for which indeed Dante's contemporaries had little or no appreciation.
It is only in the nineteenth century that Dante has become a power in
Italy as voicing the universal desire for a united fatherland.
The man who begins the mighty movement of the Renaissance, from which
modern civilization takes its rise, is Francesco Petrarch. It is strange
to think that he, so utterly different in mental attitude from Dante,
was seventeen years old when the latter died. Yet the change which he
represents was being slowly prepared by his predecessors. As we have
seen, the study of the Latin language and authors had never fully died
out in the Middle Ages; especially in the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries the classic writers--Vergil, Ovid, Statius, Livy--were read
more and more, not, however, as examples of literary excellence, or as
revealing the culture of antiquity, but as mines of practical wisdom, or
as supplying quotations and examples for philosophical and theological
discussions. The classic writers were made to fit in with medieval ways
of thinking, and thus subordinated to the then existing state of
civilization. With Petrarch, however, comes a complete change in all
these respects. For him the classic writers were the _ne plus ultra_ of
elegant form; he strove to penetrate into their spirit, to appreciate
fully the peculiar excellence of each one; and above all to clear
antiquity from its barnacle-like covering of medieval traditions and
superstitions and to present Roman civilization, its learning, science,
and art, as it was. To him the Middle Ages were a period of degradation,
which had long hidden from view the past glories of Rome; and he now,
for the first time in history, broke away from the present and immediate
past, and turned his eyes back to ancient times. In so doing he founded
the Renaissance in Italy, and laid down the lines along which all
subsequent students of classical antiquity were to follow. In all these
respects Petrarch is justly considered, not only the founder of modern
classical scholarship, but the founder of modern civilization as well.
He has been referred to by more than one historian as the Columbus of a
new intellectual world.
The life of Petrarch is intensely interesting, and, contrary to the case
of Dante, the difficulty in giving an outline of it consists not in the
absence of well-ascertained facts, but in an embarrassment of riches.
For we know more of the details of Petrarch's life than we do of any
other ancient writer.
Francesco Petrarch was born in 1304 at Arezzo, whither his father, a
prominent lawyer of Florence, had gone on being exiled in 1302, at the
same time as Dante. After moving about some time in Italy, the family
finally settled at Avignon, in southern France, then famous as the seat
of the Roman papacy during the so-called Babylonian captivity. From 1315
to 1319 Francesco was sent to school at the neighboring town of
Charpentras; in 1319 he went to the University of Montpellier to study
law, and in 1323 went to the University of Bologna. At the university,
however, he neglected law for the classic writers, and he tells us how
one day his father appeared and burnt all his Latin books, with the
exception of Vergil and Cicero's Rhetoric, which by means of tears and
entreaties he succeeded in saving from the flames.
After the death of his parents, in 1326, Petrarch settled down in
Avignon and devoted himself to his favorite studies. As he was without
means he entered the clergy and henceforth was relieved of all anxiety
in regard to money. From this time on his life was spent in study, in
the collection of a library, in writing books, in travel, and visits to
his friends. Petrarch was very fond of traveling and his letters abound
with interesting descriptions of the places he had seen. Yet, in spite
of this passion for travel, he loved also the quiet and tranquil
existence of country life. Here he could indulge to his heart's content
his love for nature, the beauty of which he was practically the first to
describe in sympathetic language. It was to satisfy this love for
nature and the "quiet life," that Petrarch bought a small property in
Vaucluse, near Avignon, and here he never failed to return from time to
time during all his later life, when tired of travel, weighed down by
care, or depressed by the loss of friends and the "creeping steps of
age."
Petrarch seemed to have had a peculiar faculty for making friends; he
was loved and admired by high and low. Among these countless friends are
worthy of especial mention the powerful Colonna family, father and two
sons, who played so important a part in the history of Italy; King
Robert of Naples; the Emperor Charles IV., who wished to have Petrarch
accompany him to Germany; King John of France, who wished to retain him
in Paris; Pope Urban IV., who offered him the position of papal
secretary. There were scores of others of humbler rank, among them
Boccaccio, his faithful admirer and lifelong friend. Not only kings and
princes lavished honors on Petrarch, but cities as well: Florence
offered to restore his father's property and make him professor at the
university if he would live there; Venice gave him a palace in return
for his library; and in 1340 the cities of Paris and Rome, at the same
time, invited him to receive the laurel crown of poet.
After due deliberation Petrarch accepted the invitation of Rome, and on
Easter Sunday, 1340, in the presence of an immense company of people, he
was crowned at the capitol, amid the blare of trumpets and the
acclamations of the assembled multitudes. This scene may be considered
as the climax of Petrarch's victorious career.
No man outwardly ever had a happier life than he. He was well-to-do; was
handsome and amiable; surrounded by friends; admired and flattered by
all Europe; looked on as a great poet and a prodigy of learning. Surely,
if any man could be content, Petrarch was that man. And yet he was not
happy--owing to his peculiar character, his sensitiveness, his streak of
melancholy, his immense vanity which could never be fully satisfied, and
especially owing to the constant struggle that went on in his soul
between the medieval ascetic view of life (which he could never wholly
shake off) and the more worldly modern view, which he himself
inaugurated. Owing to all these things, I say, there is a tinge of
sadness in all his writings. Perhaps no man ever lived who illustrated
so well the beautiful words of the old Latin poet:
"E'en where the founts of pleasure flow,
A bitter something bubbles up."
Indeed, Petrarch's character presents us with strange contrasts. He who
loved travel so much is constantly writing about the joys of country
life; constantly seen in the gay and often licentious courts of princes,
he wrote a treatise in praise of the solitary life; receiving his living
from the church and naturally religious, many of his acts were contrary
to both religion and morality.
And yet Petrarch was not a hypocrite. No one can doubt his sincerity;
these things are only the outward expression of that struggle which was
constantly going on in his heart. Like St. Paul, he seemed always to be
crying out, "The good that I would I do not, but the evil which I would
not, that I do."
The latter part of his life was thus spent in ever-increasing sadness.
In 1347 his friend, Colonna, died; in 1348, Laura; in 1347 his high
hopes concerning the restoration of the ancient glory of the Roman
Republic by Rienzi, the "last of the tribunes," were suddenly dashed by
the fall and death of the latter. Henceforth Petrarch spent his life
wandering from city to city, from court to court, surrounded by an
aureole of glory, yet never at rest, except when he retired to the quiet
seclusion of Vaucluse.
In 1370 he went to the university town of Padua, then the center of an
active intellectual life. In the spring of the same year he started for
Rome, in response to an invitation of the pope, but fell so grievously
ill at Ferrara that he gave up his journey and settled down at Arqua, a
village not far from Padua, where he died July 18, 1374. He was found
dead in his library, bending over a folio volume.
As may be supposed from Petrarch's enthusiasm for the Latin authors,
most of his own works were written in that language. It is a generous
trait of literary and scholarly, as well as of religious, enthusiasts
that they are not content to receive the treasures of art and learning,
but feel impelled to impart their own joys to others. Petrarch was not
only an eager student, but devoted his life to making known to others
the riches and glory of ancient Rome. All this he does in his numerous
Latin works. These include, in poetry, bucolics and eclogues, imitated
from Vergil; poetic epistles, imitated from Horace; and especially his
"Africa," from which he expected immortality, an epic poem on the life
of Scipio Africanus. Of especial importance in the development of the
Renaissance and the Revival of Learning are his prose Latin works. Chief
among these we may mention his history of Illustrious Men; his moral and
religious tractates--The Remedy of Fortune, the Solitary Life; and
especially his letters, six hundred in number, written in a Latin style
which infinitely surpassed anything produced till then, and which
founded a branch of literature which was most popular throughout all the
Renaissance.
For our purpose here, however, we can only discuss in detail Petrarch's
Italian poetry--he wrote no Italian prose. It is this which gives him
his place in literature as the first great lyric poet of modern times.
We have seen that Italian lyrical poetry began in Sicily, and that,
carried thence to Bologna and Tuscany, it formed a new school, which
found its highest expression in Dante. Petrarch once more founds a new
school of lyrics, which, while still in some respects recalling the
writings of his predecessors, is yet in spirit far different from them.
With him poetry is no longer a matter of chivalrous ideals, as with the
troubadours, or of symbolism and philosophy, as with Guido Guinicelli
and Dante, but the expression of his own genuine feelings. His Laura is
not like the Beatrice of the Divine Comedy, a mere abstraction, a
personification of virtue and symbol of religion, but is a woman of
flesh and blood, beautiful and virtuous, but not ethereal and
mystical--a woman, in fact,
"Not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food."
In his songs, then, Petrarch describes real things--the beauty of Laura
in all its details; her coldness and his suffering; and especially the
conflicting feelings which tormented his soul. In his subjectivity, his
psychological analysis of feelings, his use of poetry to express his own
mental experiences; in his lovely descriptions of nature; and especially
in his melancholy, the far-off anticipation of the "Weltschmerz,"[19]
Petrarch is indeed the first modern lyrical poet.
He himself confidently expected immortality from his Latin works, which,
alas! for the vanity of human expectations, are now forgotten by all
except special students. He apparently looked with contempt on his
Italian lyrics, yet this was only affectation, for even in his later
years he carefully revised them. These songs and sonnets are still
unsurpassed in Italian literature. Many, it is true, are artificial, and
on account of puns, antitheses, and conceits are repugnant to modern
taste; yet the large number of his best poems are exquisite pictures of
womanly beauty, with a charming landscape as a background, all enveloped
in an atmosphere of lovely poetry, full of tenderness, pathos, and
genuine feeling. Above all, they are written in a style and with a
harmony of numbers unknown till then and not surpassed since.
Petrarch's Italian poetry consists of some 375 sonnets, ballads, and
songs (of which the vast majority are sonnets), and in the twelve
chapters, or books, of the so-called Triumphs. These are, with but few
exceptions, consecrated to the story of his love for a certain woman
named Laura, concerning whose actual existence as much contest has been
waged as over that of Beatrice. It seems now pretty definitely
ascertained that Laura was no mere fancy-picture, but a real being. She
was the daughter of Audibert de Noves, and the wife of Ugo de Sade, to
whom she bore eleven children. She died April 6, 1348, probably of the
pest, which then was raging. Petrarch saw her for the first time April
6, 1327, and for twenty-one years worshiped her from a respectful
distance. There is little story or event in all these sonnets.
Petrarch's love is not returned by Laura, he makes no progress in her
affections, and his poems are devoted for the most part to descriptions
of her beauty, coldness, and indifference, and his own state of
wretchedness.
Among the many sonnets descriptive of Laura's beauty we may take the
following, in which she is declared to be the most perfect example of
Nature's handiwork:
"The stars, the elements, and Heaven have made
With blended powers a work beyond compare;
All their consenting influence, all their care,
To frame one perfect creature lent their aid.
Whence Nature views her loveliness displayed
With sun-like radiance sublimely fair;
Nor mortal eye can the pure splendor bear:
Love, sweetness, in unmeasured grace arrayed.
The very air illumed by her sweet beams
Breathes purest excellence; and such delight
That all expression far beneath it gleams.
No base desire lives in that heavenly light,
Honor alone and virtue!--fancy's dreams
Never saw passion rise refined by rays so bright."
Capel Lofft.
In another sonnet he tells how he was affected the first time he saw
her:
"Sun never rose so beautiful and bright
When skies above most clear and cloudless showed,
Nor, after rain, the bow of heaven e'er glowed
With tints so varied, delicate, and light,
As in rare beauty flash'd upon my sight,
The day I first took up this am'rous load,
That face whose fellow ne'er on earth abode--
Even my praise to paint it seems a slight!
Then saw I Love, who did her fine eyes bend
So sweetly, every other face obscure
Has from that hour till now appeared to me.
The boy-god and his bow, I saw them, friend,
From whom life since has never been secure,
Whom still I madly yearn again to see."
Macgregor.
Yet Laura is not only beautiful, but good; she unites in herself the
highest excellencies of virtue as well as of beauty:
"High birth in humble life, reserved yet kind,
On youth's gay flower ripe fruits of age and rare,
A virtuous heart, therewith a lofty mind,
A happy spirit in a pensive air;
Her planet, nay, heaven's king, has fitly shrined
All gifts and graces in this lady fair,
True honor, purest praises, worth refined,
Above what rapt dreams of best poets are.
Virtue and Love so rich in her unite,
With natural beauty dignified address.
Gestures that still a silent grace express,
And in her eyes I know not what strange light,
That makes the noonday dark, the dusk night clear,
Bitter the sweet, and e'en sad absence dear."
Macgregor.
Petrarch not only gives general descriptions of the beauty of his lady
and of its effect, as his predecessors had done, but he gives over and
over again details thereof, especially her eyes and hair:
"Say, from what vein did Love procure the gold
To make those sunny tresses? From what thorn
Stole he the rose, and whence the dew of morn,
Bidding them breathe and live in Beauty's mold?
What depth of ocean gave the pearls that told
Those gentle accents sweet, though rarely born?
Whence came so many graces to adorn
That brow more fair than summer skies unfold?
Oh! say what angels lead, what spheres control
The song divine which wastes my life away?
(Who can with trifles now my senses move?)
What sun gave birth unto the lofty soul
Of those enchanting eyes, whose glances stray
To burn and freeze my heart--the sport of Love?"
Wrottesley.
He is especially fond of describing the scenes where she is, thus
combining with her own charms those of lovely nature. Thus he sees her
on the banks of clear streams, sitting on the green grass, with blossoms
falling upon her from the trees in springtime, as in the following lines
from one of his most beautiful songs:
"Clear, fresh, and dulcet streams,
Which the fair shape, who seems
To me sole woman, haunted at noontide;
Fair bough, so gently fit,
(I sigh to think of it),
Which lent a pillar to her lovely side;
And turf, and flowers bright-eyed,
O'er which her folded gown
Flow'd like an angel's down;
And you, O holy air and hushed,
Where first my heart at her sweet glances gushed:
Give ear, give ear, with one consenting,
To my last words, my last and my lamenting.
* * * * *
"How well I call to mind,
When from those boughs the wind
Shook down upon her bosom flower on flower;
And there she sat, meek-eyed,
In midst of all that pride,
Sprinkled and blushing through an amorous shower
Some to her hair paid dower,
And seemed to dress the curls,
Queenlike, with gold and pearls;
Some, snowing, on her drapery stopped,
Some on the earth, some on the water dropped;
While others, fluttering from above,
Seemed wheeling round in pomp, and saying, 'Here reigns Love.'
How often then I said,
Inward, and filled with dread,
'Doubtless this creature came from Paradise!'
For at her look the while,
Her voice, and her sweet smile,
And heavenly air, truth parted from mine eyes;
So that, with long-drawn sighs,
I said, as far from men,
'How came I here, and when?'
I had forgotten; and alas!
Fancied myself in heaven, not where I was;
And from that time till this, I bear
Such love for the green bower, I cannot rest elsewhere."
Leigh Hunt.
Yet, in spite of all her beauty, he is not happy; the thought of her
never leaves him. When absent from her he is most miserable:
"Never was bird, spoiled of its young, more sad,
Nor wild beast in his lair more lone than me,
Now that no more that lovely face I see,
The only sun my fond eyes ever had.
In ceaseless sorrow is my chief delight:
My food to poison turns, to grief my joy;
The night is torture, dark the clearest sky,
And my lone pillow a hard field of fight.
Sleep is indeed, as has been well expressed,
Akin to death, for it the heart removes
From the dear thought in which alone I live.
Land above all with plenty, beauty blessed!
Ye flowery plains, green banks, and shady groves!
Ye hold the treasure for whose loss I grieve!"
Macgregor.
Above all, his torment is increased by the contest between his religious
feelings and his love, which, earthly as it was, seemed to be
inconsistent with his duty as a Christian. Yet he cannot tear his heart
away from the object of his affection. Hence arises a constant warring
of the flesh against the spirit, and a vacillation which finds
expression in sentiments diametrically opposite. Thus at times he
declares that his love for Laura is a blessing to him, leading him to a
virtuous and religious life:
"Lady, in your bright eyes
Soft glancing round, I mark a holy light,
Pointing the arduous way that heavenward lies;
And to my practised sight,
From thence, where Love enthroned, asserts his might,
Visibly, palpably, the soul beams forth.
This is the beacon guides to deeds of worth,
And urges me to seek the glorious goal;
This bids me leave behind the vulgar throng,
Nor can the human tongue
Tell how those orbs divine o'er all my soul
Exert their sweet control,
Both when hoar winter's frosts around are flung,
And when the year puts on his youth again,
Jocund, as when this bosom first knew pain."
Dacre.
Then comes another mood, in which his love seems sinful and he prays God
to lead him to a better life:
"Father of heaven! after the days misspent,
After the nights of wild tumultuous thought,
In that fierce passion's strong entanglement,
One, for my peace too lovely fair, had wrought;
Vouchsafe that, by thy grace, my spirit bent
On nobler aims, to holier ways be brought;
That so my foe, spreading with dark intent
His mortal snares, be foiled, and held at nought.
E'en now th' eleventh year its course fulfils,
That I have bowed me to the tyranny
Relentless most to fealty most tried.
Have mercy, Lord! on my unworthy ills:
Fix all my thoughts in contemplation high;
How on the cross this day a Savior died."
Dacre.
This state of his mind, divided against itself, finds its best
expression in the song which is regarded as one of the most beautiful of
his poems. In the various strophes conflicting sentiments arise,
develop, and reach a climax, only to be overthrown by a sudden revulsion
of feeling; fame, happiness, the sweetness of love beckon the poet on;
then comes the chilling thought of death to show that all things earthly
are nothing but vanity. Unfortunately this song is too long to be quoted
here entire. We give the first strophe and the refrain:
"Ceaseless I think, and in each wasting thought
So strong a pity for myself appears,
That often it has brought
My harass'd heart to new yet natural tears;
Seeing each day my end of life draw nigh,
Instant in prayer, I ask of God the wings
With which the spirit springs,
Freed from its mortal coil, to bliss on high;
But nothing, to this hour, prayer, tear, or sigh,
Whatever man could do, my hopes sustain:
And so indeed in justice should it be;
Able to stay, who went and fell, that he
Should prostrate, in his own despite, remain.
But, lo! the tender arms
In which I trust are open to me still,
Though fears my bosom fill
Of other's fate, and my own heart alarms,
Which worldly feelings spur, haply, to utmost ill.
* * * * *
"Song! I am here, my heart the while more cold
With fear than frozen snow,
Feels in its certain core death's coming blow;
For thus, in weak self-communing, has roll'd
Of my vain life the better portion by:
Worse burden surely ne'er
Tried mortal man than that which now I bear;
Though death be seated nigh,
For future life still seeking councils new,
I know and love the good, yet, ah! the worse pursue."
Macgregor.
The finest of Petrarch's sonnets are those written after the death of
Laura. With this dread event he loses all joy in life; thought of her
beauty returns softened by memory and the lapse of time:
"Where is the brow whose gentlest beckonings led
My raptured heart at will, now here, now there?
Where the twin stars, lights of this lower sphere,
Which o'er my darkling path their radiance shed?
Where is true worth, and wit, and wisdom fled?
The courteous phrase, the melting accent, where?
Where, grouped in one rich form, the beauties rare,
Which long their magic influence o'er me shed?
Where is the shade, within whose sweet recess
My wearied spirit still forgot its sighs,
And all my thoughts their constant record found?
Where, where is she, my life's sole arbitress?--
Ah, wretched world! and wretched ye, mine eyes
(Of her pure light bereft) which aye with tears are drowned."
Wrangham.
Yet, in his affliction there is a certain comfort, for now that she is
dead she seems no longer cold to him, and he often sees and converses
with her in heaven:
"Fond fancy raised me to the spot, where strays
She, whom I seek but find on earth no more:
There, fairer still and humbler than before,
I saw her, in the third heaven's blessed maze.
She took me by the hand, and 'Thou shalt trace,
If hope not errs,' she said, 'this happy shore;
I, I am she, thy breast with slights who tore,
And ere its evening closed my day's brief space.
What human heart conceives, my joys exceed:
Thee only I expect, and (what remain
Below) the charms, once objects of thy love,'
Why ceased she? Ah! my captive hand why freed?
Such of her soft and hallowed tones the chain,
From that delightful heaven my soul could scarcely move."
Wrangham.
But, when spring returns, it brings a renewal of his grief:
"The spring returns, with all her smiling train;
The wanton Zephyrs breathe along the bowers,
The glistening dewdrops hang on bending flowers,
And tender green light-shadows o'er the plain:
And thou, sweet Philomel, renew'st thy strain,
Breathing thy wild notes to the midnight grove:
All nature feels the kindling fire of love,
The vital force of spring's returning reign.
But not to me returns the cheerful spring!
O heart! that know'st no period to thy grief,
Nor nature's smiles to thee impart relief,
Nor change of mind the varying seasons bring:
She, she is gone! All that e'er pleased before,
Adieu! ye birds, ye flowers, ye fields, that charm no more!"
Woodhouselee.
His only comfort now is in thinking that he, too, must soon die:
"Oh! swifter than the hart my life hath fled,
A shadow'd dream; one winged glance hath seen
Its only good; its hours (how few serene!)
The sweet and bitter tide of thought have fed:
Ephemeral world! in pride and sorrow bred,
Who hope in thee, are blind as I have been;
I hoped in thee, and thus my heart's loved queen
Hath borne it mid her nerveless, kindred dead.
Her form decayed--its beauty still survives,
For in high heaven that soul will ever bloom,
With which each day I more enamored grow:
Thus though my locks are blanched, my hope revives
In thinking on her home--her soul's high doom:
Alas! how changed the shrine she left below!"
Wollaston.
Weary of life, now that he is left alone, he devotes himself to God; he
directs all his thought to heaven, where Laura awaits and beckons him:
"The chosen angels, and the spirits blest,
Celestial tenants, on that glorious day
My lady joined them, thronged in bright array
Around her, with amaze and awe imprest.
'What splendor, what new beauty stands confest
Unto our sight?'--among themselves they say;
'No soul, in this vile age, from sinful clay
To our high realms has risen so fair a guest.'
Delighted to have changed her mortal state,
She ranks amid the purest of her kind;
And ever and anon she looks behind,
To mark my progress and my coming wait;
Now my whole thought, my wish to heaven I cast;
'Tis Laura's voice I hear, and hence she bids me haste."
Nott.
His love thus purified and his thoughts now turned to God alone, the
poet awaits in resignation the coming of the inevitable hour of death.
The "Book of Songs and Sonnets," as his Italian poetry may be called,
ends in a beautiful hymn to the Virgin Mary, in which the poet breathes
forth all his chastened sorrow and hopes. From this we select the
following lines:
"Bright Virgin! and immutable as bright,
O'er life's tempestuous ocean the sure star
Each trusting mariner that truly guides,
Look down, and see amid this dreadful storm
How I am tost at random and alone,
And how already my last shriek is near,
Yet still in thee, sinful although and vile,
My soul keeps all her trust;
Virgin! I thee implore
Let not thy foe have triumph in my fall;
Remember that our sin made God himself,
To free us from its chain,
Within thy virgin womb our image on Him take!
"Virgin! what tears already have I shed,
Cherished what dreams and breathed what prayers in vain,
But for my own worse penance and sure loss;
Since first on Arno's shore I saw the light
Till now, whate'er I sought, wherever turn'd,
My life has passed in torment and in tears,
For mortal loveliness in air, act, speech,
Has seized and soiled my soul:
O Virgin! pure and good,
Delay not till I reach my life's last year;
Swifter than shaft and shuttle are, my days
'Mid misery and sin
Have vanished all, and now Death only is behind!
SUMMARY AND QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW
Difference between the Medieval and Modern World--Dante's
position between the two--Petrarch, 1304-74, the real founder of
modern civilization--Latin works--Fame rests on his Italian
poetry--How this differed from the Sicilian and Tuscan
schools--Laura and Petrarch's love--Her influence upon his life.
1. How does the medieval world differ from the modern?
2. Why is Petrarch called the founder of modern
civilization?
3. Give a brief sketch of his life.
4. What kind of character did he have?
5. Name some of his Latin works.
6. What were his services to classical scholarship?
7. On what does his fame as a poet rest?
8. How does his lyrical poetry differ from that of his
predecessors?
9. Tell the story of his love for Laura, as seen in his
poetry.
10. How is his character illustrated in his poetry?
BIBLIOGRAPHY
A collection of translations of Petrarch's Italian poems,
together with an extended life of the poet, is published in the
Bohn Library. Very important are the Latin letters of Petrarch;
an English translation of a number of these was published a
short time ago by Putnam & Co., of New York.
FOOTNOTES:
[19] Best translated literally, "world pain."