e, 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 also deserve the highest commendation.
At the head of these must be placed the Ode to the Virgin. It is,
perhaps, the finest hymn in the world. His devout veneration receives an
exquisitely poetical character from the delicate perception of the sex
and the loveliness of his idol, which we may easily trace throughout the
whole composition.

I could dwell with pleasure on these and similar parts of the writings
of Petrarch; but I must return to his amatory poetry: to that he
entrusted his fame; and to that he has principally owed it.

The prevailing defect of his best compositions on this subject is
the universal brilliancy with which they are lighted up. The natural
language of the passions is, indeed, often figurative and fantastic; and
with none is this more the case than with that of love. Still there is
a limit. The feelings should, indee