_Through wild inhospitable woods I rove Where fear attends even on the soldier’s way, Dreadless of ill; for nought can me affray Saving that Sun which shines by light of Love: And chant, as idly carolling I move, Her, whom not Heaven itself can keep away, Borne in my eyes; and ladies I survey Encircling her, who oaks and beeches prove. Her voice in sighing breeze and rustling bough And leaf I seem to hear, and birds, and rills Murmuring the while they slip through grassy green. Rarely have silences and lonely thrills Of overshadowing forests pleased as now, Except for my own Sun too little seen._ In the same year Petrarch graduated as a patriotic poet by composing his fine Latin metrical epistle on the woes of Italy. In 1335 he received from the Pope a canonry in the cathedral of his patron the Bishop of Lombès. In 1336 he achieved his celebrated ascent of Mount Ventoux, which marks an era as the inauguration of mountain-climbing for pleasure’s sake. In 1336 and 1337 he undertook his first journey to Rome, which he found in a most lamentable condition from rapine and civil war. Attributing this to the absence of the Popes in France, he began his long series of exhortations to them to return, to which, being throughout his lifetime Frenchmen, they naturally turned deaf ears. Hence in a measure the disgust with Avignon which led him to seclude himself more and more in Vaucluse (_shut valley_), the picturesque retreat on the Sorga whither he betook himself in 1337, a beautiful description of which by Ugo Foscolo may be read in Reeve’s biography. His adoration of Laura had not prevented his contracting less spiritual ties, for two children were born to him about this time. Petrarch’s rural leisure was largely employed in the composition of a Latin history of Rome, which can have had no critical value, but would have been deeply interesting as exhibiting the classical feeling of the representative of the early Renaissance. He ultimately destroyed it, and turned to the composition of his Latin epic on the Punic war, _Africa_, for and from which he long expected immortality. His detestation of the Papal Court breaks out about this time in some powerful sonnets. His Italian poems, meanwhile, had made their way with the world to a degree surprising in an age unacquainted with printing. In 1340 he received on the same day the offer of the poetic laurel from the cities of Paris and Rome. Deciding for the latter, he embarked at Marseilles in February 1341, voyaged to Naples, received signal marks of favour from the King, and, repairing to Rome, was invested with the laurel by the Senator of the city, April 8, 1341. From this day the history of modern literature as a recognised power may be said to date. Ere his return at the beginning of 1342, he had finished his _Africa_, and bought a house at Parma to give himself a footing in his native land.