POETRY.
PETRARCH
(AS DESCRIBED IN HIS OWN WORDS—Epist. de Rebus Familiaribus, VI. 3).
You shall behold a man from morn till eve Roaming alone, turf, hill, and fountain haunting, Shy of man's foot, the pathless turns pursuing And shadows wooing ; In dewy cave or greener meadow flaunting : Cursing the cares of Court, aloof from loud Business of cities, and eschewing The doorsteps of the proud : Mocking the eager factions of the crowd: Midway remote from such as joy or grieve ; Daylong and nightlong indolent : most vaunting Communion with his Muses held alone, With song of birds and the brook's undertone.
His servants few, his books an ample train, To-day at home, to-morrow forth again ; Now halting ; now on some repining merge Or dainty lawn, his weary limbs at large He flings, and droops his overburdened brain.
Not least of all his comfort—none comes here That ever yet divined A thousandth morsel of what's in his mind, Be't hope or fear.
Therewith, anon, in solitary walks, Braced forward, eyes on gaze, He holds his peace ; anon to himself he talks : And, chiefly, scorns himself, the world, and all its ways.
JOHN SWINNERTON PHILLIMORE.
Previous page
