It was here that Petrarch hoped to subdue his passion, and to forget Laura. "Fool that I was!" he exclaims in after-life, "not to have remembered the first schoolboy lesson--that solitude is the nurse of love!" How, with his thoughts for his sole companions, preying perpetually on his own heart, could he forget her who occupied him exclusively in courts and cities? And thus he tells, in musical and thrilling accents, how, amidst woods, and hills, and murmuring waves, her image was painted on every object, and contemplated by him till he forgot himself to stone, more dead than the living rocks among which he wandered. It is almost impossible to translate Petrarch's poetry; for his subtle and delicate thoughts, when generalised, seem common-place; and his harmony and grace, which have never been equalled, are inimitable. The only translations which retain the spirit of the original, are by lady Dacre; and we extract her version of one of the canzoni, as a specimen of his style, and as affording a vivid picture of his wild melancholy life among the solitary mountains. "From hill to hill I roam, from thought to thought, With Love my guide; the beaten path I fly, For there in vain the tranquil life is sought: If 'mid the waste well forth a lonely rill, Or deep embosom'd a low valley lie, In its calm shade my trembling heart is still; And there, if Love so will, I smile, or weep, or fondly hope or fear, While on my varying brow, that speaks the soul, The wild emotions roll, Now dark, now bright, as shifting skies appear; That whosoe'er has proved the lover's state Would say, 'He feels the flame, nor knows his future fate.' "On mountains high, in forests drear and wide, I find repose, and from the throng'd resort Of man turn fearfully my eyes aside; At each lone step thoughts ever new arise Of her I love, who oft with cruel sport Will mock the pangs I bear, the tears, the sighs; Yet e'en these ills I prize, Though bitter, sweet--nor would they were removed; For my heart whispers me, 'Love yet has power To grant a happier hour: Perchance, though self-despised, thou yet art loved.' E'en then my breast a passing sigh will heave, Ah! when, or how, may I a hope so wild believe? "Where shadows of high rocking pines dark wave, I stay my footsteps; and on some rude stone, With thought intense, her beauteous face engrave: Roused from the trance, my bosom bathed I find With tears, and cry, 'Ah! whither thus alone Hast thou far wander'd? and whom left behind?' But as with fixed mind On this fair image I impassion'd rest, And, viewing her, forget awhile my ills, Love my rapt fancy fills; In its own error sweet the soul is blest, While all around so bright the visions glide; O! might the cheat endure,--I ask not aught beside.