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النشر الإلكتروني

No shade so calm-serene,

My weary spirit finds on earth below;

No grave so still-so green,

In which my o'er-toil'd frame may rest from mortal woe!

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We think these English lines, so full of pathos and melody, fully justify the estimate we have given above of the remarkable success of the ladies in their renderings of Petrarch's amatory outpourings.

It is difficult to select where there is such a profusion of beauties; it is particularly so when only a very limited space can be devoted to specimens, for it must be remembered that

*S' egli è pur mio destino

(E' 1 Cielo in ciò s' adopra)

Ch' Amor quest' occhi lagrimando chiuda,

Qualche grazio il meschino

Corpo fra voi ricopra,

E torni l'alma al proprio albergo ignuda,

La morte fia men cruda,

Se questa speme porto

A quel dubbioso passo;
Che lo sperito lasso

Non poria mai in più riposato porto,
Nè 'n più tronguilla fossa,

Fuggir la carne travagliata, e l' ossa.

Tempo verrà ancor forse

Ch' all' usato soggiorno

Torni la fera bella e mansueta;

E là 'v' ella mi scorse

Nel benidetto giorno,

Volga la vista desiosa e lieta,
Cercandomi; ed, o pieta!
Giù terra infra le pietre
Vedendo, Amor l' inspiri
In guisa che sospiri

Sì dolcemente che mercè m' im-
petre,

E faccia forza al Cielo, Asciugandosi gli occhi col bel velo.

to do justice to the lover of Laura as a minstrel alone would require a volume. To discuss the merits of his three Triumphs (Trionfi) would require more space than we can devote to his whole works in this article. We must, therefore, pass over two of the "Triumphs," and confine ourselves to a few brief observations on the third, the "Triumph of Death." There is nothing in the whole range of amatory poetry more beautiful, chaste and affecting than this. It represents the beloved one returning from her victory over love. A black flag suddenly appears to her, followed by a woman of gigantic size in black apparel, and of threatening aspect, who stops the gloomy procession and strikes her. The blow she gives is death. The poet describes Laura in her last moments. She falls into a gentle slumber, in which she retains all her beauty. In the second part of the canzon she comes to him in a dream, holds out her hand, and invites him to sit by her side on the bank of a rivulet, under the shade of a beach and a laurel. She discourses with him on death, telling him it need be feared only by the wicked. Finally, he asks her a question which he admits would not have been proper before she had attained her present state of purity and bliss. The dialogue which ensues has been admired for centuries among nations the most dissimilar in their tastes, habits and feelings :

"She sighed and said, 'No; nothing could dissever
My heart from thine, and nothing shall there ever.
If, thy fond ardor to repress,

I sometimes frown'd (and how could I do less?)
If, now and then, my look was not benign,
'Twas but to save my fame, and thine.
And, as thou knowest, when I saw thy grief,
A glance was ready with relief.'

Scarce with dry cheek

These tender words I heard her speak.

'Were they but true!' I cried.

She bent the head,

Not unreproachfully, and said,

'Yes, I did love thee; and whene'er

I turn'd away my eyes, 'twas shame and fear.

A thousand times to thee did they incline,

But sank before the flame that shot from thine.'"

VOL. XXVII.-NO. LIII.

66

PETRARCH AND HIS LAURA.

[June,

The Abbé de Sade claims that this stanza would prove by itself that Laura was a married lady, and there are few intelligent, impartial readers who will not admit that he is fully justified in doing so. But whether the beloved one was married or not is a question of only secondary importance after the dust of so many centuries have accumulated on the graves of both mistress and lover. It is not for us of the present day to pass a harsh judgment on whatever relations may have subsisted between Petrarch and Laura, nearly five centuries ago. Still less should we feel justified in doing so when we find that there is really no evidence that Laura, whether married or single, was ever otherwise than chaste and virtuous. The world has now to do only with the results of Petrarch's passion for Laura. That these results have been a source of delight to millions in a long series of ages is universally admitted. Those who afford us harmless pleasure have a claim on our gratitude in proportion to the amount of that pleasure. If instead of awarding them that gratitude we pursue them to their grave, and try to exaggerate their frailties, or attribute to them frailties from which they were, perhaps, entirely exempt, then, in the minds of all good men who reason, we exhibit ourselves in a most odious light. If either Petrarch or Laura had any grave faults the world of their day was evidently very willing to overlook them, and think only of the virtues of both. Ought we of the present day be less generous?

It is because we think not that we have undertaken this discussion, and we shall regard our reward for doing so as ample if we can only induce a dozen persons now unacquainted with the lyrical poetry of Petrarch to examine its claims to admiration. Then, before long, we would take up the Latin poems of Petrarch, including his epic entitled Africa, feeling sure that, although these are scarcely referred to at the present day, many of our readers would thank us for calling their attention to some of the exquisite gems of thought which all who have adequately examined them readily admit they contain.

It is, however, the Sonnets of Petrarch which place him in

the first rank among the popular poets of the world—it is the story of Laura as told in those beautiful and melodious fragments that render his laurel crown as fresh and green to-day as when it was first placed on his brow by the common con sent of poets and historians, kings, emperors, and popes.

ART. IV.-1. The Sun, Ruler of the Planetary System. By RICHARD A. PROCTOR. London.

1871.

2. The Fuel of the Sun. By W. MATTIEN WILLIAMS. London. 1870.

3. Le Soleil. Par LE PÈRE A. SECCHI, S. J. Paris. 1870.

4. Le Ceil, Notions D'Astronomie. Par AMADÉE GUILLEMIN. Paris.

1870.

CHIEF among the objects of human interest, through all the ages of man's existence, stands forth the glowing centre of our planetary system-that wondrous sphere which kindles. the day and sets a limit to the kingdom of night—to which summer owes its glory, and winter its alleviation; whose fervent beams clothe the earth in its spring-tide vesture, lend their magical hues to the petals of flowers, and round the luscious globes of the fruit and the golden grains of the harvest.

Under its burning kiss the waters of the ocean rise in vapor, float on the wings of the wind over the land, and are showered down in vivifying rains, bringing forth a multitudinous life where all else would be the desolation of the desert.

To its generous rays all light, heat, life itself is due. The grand forces and phenomena of the earth, from the overwhelming rage of the tempest to the silent fall of the snow flake, from the fierce flash of the lightning to the tender glow of the aurora, are alike the work of these strong beams.

Our opening eyes salute this mighty orb, rising in glory from his nightly slumbers; with gladness we behold his beams breaking through the gloom of the clouds; with regret we see him glide below the western horizon, laying a splendor of farewell on the evening skies. Of all objects of human contemplation, this regal orb stands forth as the most sublime—a source of admiration alike to the savage and the civilized-the supreme object of research in the noblest of the sciences-a sphere whose intense glow drowns the light of myriads of distant suns which gem the sky when the veil of night shuts out the solar splendor.

But there is an essential difference in character between the savage and the civilized admiration for this shining sphere. To the early nations, the solar orb became an object of worship-a great self-luminous deity, the lord of the heavens, and the beneficent ruler over the earth. The ancestors of the Aryan race-the forefathers of the civilized world-made the sun the prime object of their worship, weaving into intricate myths all its movements—the dawn, its strivings with the clouds, its setting, its victories and defeats, forming the woof of a varied web of theological conceptions.

All the mythologies of Europe rise from this well-spring of astronomical religion, the sun gods being at the basis of European paganism. In the palmy days of Greece, the Hellenic race worshipped, in their Zeus, Apollo, and other deities, the legendary deeds of the sun as handed down from their Aryan ancestors. While Hipparchus and Ptolemy were originating mathematical astronomy, their countrymen were worshipping, without knowing it, as their supreme god, the same grand object which these early scientists were observing as the supreme physical phenomenon.

In modern times we have got the sun out of our religions, and the earth out of our systems as the centre of the universe. Our planet has fallen into its native insignificance in scientific eyes; the sun remains the most interesting object in the visible universe, though it is now known to be but one of uncounted myriads of similar orbs, so immensely distant that their luminous beams, winging their way with inconceivable

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