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When we turn from this glorious spectacle to the private chamber of
the poet；when we contemplate the struggle of passion and virtue；the
eye dimmed； the cheek furrowed； by the tears of sinful and hopeless
desire；when we reflect on the whole history of his attachment； from the
gay fantasy of his youth to the lingering despair of his age； pity and
affection mingle with our admiration。 Even after death had placed the
last seal on his misery； we see him devoting to the cause of the human
mind all the strength and energy which love and sorrow had spared。 He
lived the apostle of literature；he fell its martyr：he was found dead with
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his head reclined on a book。
Those who have studied the life and writings of Petrarch with attention；
will perhaps be inclined to make some deductions from this panegyric。 It
cannot be denied that his merits were disfigured by a most unpleasant
affectation。 His zeal for literature communicated a tinge of pedantry to
all his feelings and opinions。 His love was the love of a sonnetteer：his
patriotism was the patriotism of an antiquarian。 The interest with which
we contemplate the works； and study the history； of those who； in former
ages； have occupied our country； arises from the associations which
connect them with the community in which are comprised all the objects
of our affection and our hope。 In the mind of Petrarch these feelings
were reversed。 He loved Italy； because it abounded with the monuments
of the ancient masters of the world。 His native citythe fair and glorious
Florencethe modern Athens； then in all the bloom and strength of its
youth； could not obtain； from the most distinguished of its citizens； any
portion of that passionate homage which he paid to the decrepitude of
Rome。 These and many other blemishes； though they must in candour be
acknowledged； can but in a very slight degree diminish the glory of his
career。 For my own part； I look upon it with so much fondness and
pleasure that I feel reluctant to turn from it to the consideration of his
works； which I by no means contemplate with equal admiration。
Nevertheless； I think highly of the poetical powers of Petrarch。 He did
not possess； indeed； the art of strongly presenting sensible objects to the
imagination；and this is the more remarkable； because the talent of which
I speak is that which peculiarly distinguishes the Italian poets。 In the
Divine Comedy it is displayed in its highest perfection。 It characterises
almost every celebrated poem in the language。 Perhaps this is to be
attributed to the circumstance； that painting and sculpture had attained a
high degree of excellence in Italy before poetry had been extensively
cultivated。 Men were debarred from books； but accustomed from
childhood to contemplate the admirable works of art； which； even in the
thirteenth century； Italy began to produce。 Hence their imaginations
received so strong a bias that； even in their writings； a taste for graphic
delineation is discernible。 The progress of things in England has been in
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all respects different。 The consequence is； that English historical pictures
are poems on canvas； while Italian poems are pictures painted to the mind
by means of words。 Of this national characteristic the writings of
Petrarch are almost totally destitute。 His sonnets indeed； from their
subject and nature； and his Latin Poems； from the restraints which always
shackle one who writes in a dead language； cannot fairly be received in
evidence。 But his Triumphs absolutely required the exercise of this talent；
and exhibit no indications of it。
Genius； however； he certainly possessed； and genius of a high order。
His ardent； tender； and magnificent turn of thought； his brilliant fancy； his
command of expression； at once forcible and elegant； must be
acknowledged。 Nature meant him for the prince of lyric writers。 But
by one fatal present she deprived her other gifts of half their value。 He
would have been a much greater poet had he been a less clever man。 His
ingenuity was the bane of his mind。 He abandoned the noble and natural
style； in which he might have excelled； for the conceits which he produced
with a facility at once admirable and disgusting。 His muse； like the
Roman lady in Livy； was tempted by gaudy ornaments to betray the
fastnesses of her strength； and； like her； was crushed beneath the glittering
bribes which had seduced her。
The paucity of his thoughts is very remarkable。 It is impossible to
look without amazement on a mind so fertile in combinations； yet so
barren of images。 His amatory poetry is wholly made up of a very few
topics； disposed in so many orders； and exhibited in so many lights； that it
reminds us of those arithmetical problems about permutations； which so
much astonish the unlearned。 The French cook； who boasted that he
could make fifteen different dishes out of a nettle…top； was not a greater
master of his art。 The mind of Petrarch was a kaleidoscope。 At every turn
it presents us with new forms； always fantastic； occasionally beautiful； and
we can scarcely believe that all these varieties have been produced by the
same worthless fragments of glass。 The sameness of his images is；
indeed； in some degree； to be attributed to the sameness of his subject。 It
would be unreasonable to expect perpetual variety from so many hundred
compositions； all of the same length； all in the same measure； and all
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addressed to the same insipid and heartless coquette。 I cannot but
suspect also that the perverted taste； which is the blemish of his amatory
verses； was to be attributed to the influence of Laura； who； probably； like
most critics of her sex； preferred a gaudy to a majestic style。 Be this as it
may； he no sooner changes his subject than he changes his manner。
When he speaks of the wrongs and degradation of Italy； devastated by
foreign invaders； and but feebly defended by her pusillanimous children；
the effeminate lisp of the sonnetteer is exchanged for a cry； wild； and
solemn； and piercing as that which proclaimed 〃Sleep no more〃 to the
bloody house of Cawdor。 〃Italy seems not to feel her sufferings；〃
exclaims her impassioned poet； 〃decrepit； sluggish； and languid； will she
sleep forever？ Will there be none to awake her？ Oh that I had my
hands twisted in her hair！〃
（〃Che suoi guai non par che senta； Vecchia； oziosa； e lenta。 Dormira
sempre； e non fia chi la svegli？ Le man l' avess' io avvolte entro e
capegli。〃 Canzone xi。）
Nor is it with less energy that he denounces against the Mahometan
Babylon the vengeance of Europe and of Christ。 His magnificent
enumeration of the ancient exploits of the Greeks must always excite
admiration； and cannot be perused without the deepest interest； at a time
when the wise and good； bitterly disappointed in so many other countries；
are looking with breathless anxiety towards the natal land of liberty；the
field of Marathon；and the deadly pass where the Lion of Lacedaemon
turned to bay。 （〃Maratona； e le mortali strette Che difese il LEON con
poca gente。〃 Canzone v。）
His poems on religious subjects al