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This week we will be reading The Triumphs of Petrarch and learning a little about the history of Tarot.

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So, let's get started and move into our main topic today.

Before the Tarot was called the Tarot it was called Trionfi (Italian: [triˈoɱfi], 'triumphs') which are 15th-century Italian playing card trumps with allegorical content related to those used in tarocchi games. Most cards feature the characteristics of a place or abstraction. The tarocchi games used a deck of cards that had specific trumps and numbered cards.

Tarot was originally an allegorical card game based on ancient esoteric teachings and Ancient Christian and Jewish mysticism.

Part of the inspiration for this was a poem that was written in the 14th (between the years of 1351 –1374) century by a Tuscan poet named Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch) called 'Triumphs' or 'I Trionfi'. The poet took next to 20 years composing a tale of triumph over allegorical figures such as Love, Chastity, Death, Fame, Time and Eternity who vanquish each other in turn. It has the feeling of doing shadow work and the conquest of developing yourself spiritually in the physical realm.

Love is triumphed by Chastity who is triumphed by Death who is triumphed by Fame who is triumphed by Time who is triumphed by Eternity and who all together are triumphed by reality. It is a spiritual journey of an individual that leads from sin to red emption.

Triumphus Cupidinis: Triumph of Love

(One spring day in Valchiusa, the poet falls asleep and dreams that Love, personified as a naked and winged young man armed with a bow, passes by on a fiery triumphal chariot drawn by four white horses. Love is attended by a multitude of his conquests, including illustrious historical, literary, mythological, and biblical figures, as well as ancient and medieval poets and troubadours. Eventually the procession reaches Cyprus, the island where Venus was born. Although only Love is described in the text as riding on a car or chariot, it became normal for illustrators to give them to all the main figures.)

THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE.

PART I.

Nel tempo che rinova i miei sospiri.

The fatal morning dawn'd that brought again The sad memorial of my ancient pain; That day, the source of long-protracted woe, When I began the plagues of Love to know, Hyperion's throne, along the azure field, Between the splendid horns of Taurus wheel'd; And from her spouse the Queen of Morn withdrew Her sandals, gemm'd with frost-bespangled dew. Sad recollection, rising with the morn, Of my disastrous love, repaid with scorn, Oppressed my sense; till welcome soft repose Gave a short respite from my swelling woes. Then seem'd I in a vision borne away, Where a deep winding vale sequester'd lay; Nor long I rested on the flowery green Ere a soft radiance dawn'd along the scene.— Fallacious sign of hope! for, close behind, Dark shades of coming woe were seen combined. There, on his car, a conqu'ring chief I spied, Like Rome's proud sons, that led the living tide Of vanquished foes, in long triumphal state, To Capitolian Jove's disclosing gate. With little joy I saw the splendid show, Spent and dejected by my lengthen'd woe; Sick of the world, and all its worthless train, That world, where all the hateful passions reign; And yet intent the mystic cause to find, (For knowledge is the banquet of the mind) Languid and slow I turn'd my cheerless eyes On the proud warrior, and his uncouth guise. High on his seat an archer youth was seen, With loaded quiver, and malicious mien Nor plate, nor mail, his cruel shaft can ward, Nor polish'd burganet the temples guard; His burning chariot seem'd by coursers drawn; While, like the snows that clothe the wintry lawn His waving wings with rainbow colour gay On either naked shoulder seem'd to play; And, filing far behind, a countless train In sad procession hid the groaning plain: Some, captive, seem'd in long disastrous strife, Some, in the deadly fray, bereft of life; And freshly wounded some. A viewless hand Led me to mingle with the mornful band, And learn the fortunes of the sentenced crew, Who, pierced by Love, had bid the world adieu. With keen survey I mark'd the ghostly show, To find a shade among the sons of woe To memory known: but every trace was lost In the dim features of the moving host: Oblivion's hand had drawn a dark disguise O'er their wan lineaments and beamless eyes. At length, a pallid face I seem'd to know; Which wore, methought, a lighter mask of woe; He call'd me by my name.—"Behold!" he cried, "What plagues the hapless thralls of Love abide!"— "How am I known by thee?" with new surprise I cried; "no mark recalls thee to my eyes."— "Oh, heavy is my load!" he seem'd to say; "Through this dark medium no detecting ray Assists thy sight; but I, like thee, can boast My birth on famed Etruria's ancient coast."— The secret which his murky mask conceal'd, His well-known voice and Tuscan tongue reveal'd; Thence to a lighter station we repair'd, And thus the phantom spoke, with mild regard:— "We thought to see thy name with ours enroll'd Long since; for oft thy looks this fate foretold."— "True," I replied; "but I survived the strife: His arrows reach'd me, but were short of life."— Pausing, he spoke:—"A spark to flame will rise, And bear thy name in glory to the skies."— His meaning was obscure, but in my breast I felt the substance of his words impress'd, As sculptured stone, or monumental brass, Keeps the firm record, or heroic face. With youthful ardour new, and hope inspired, Quick from my grave companion I required The name and fortunes of the passing train. And why in mournful pomp they trod the plain— "Time," he return'd, "the secret then will show, When thou shalt join the retinue of woe: But years shall sprinkle o'er thy locks with gray, And alter'd looks the signs of age betray, Ere at his powerful touch the fetters fall, Which many a moon thy captive limbs shall gall: Yet will I grant thy suit, and give to view The various fortunes of the captive crew: But mark their leader first, that chief renown'd— The Power of Love! by every nation own'd. His sway thou soon, as well as we, shalt know, Stung to the heart by goads of dulcet woe. In him unthinking youth's misgovern'd rage, Join'd with the cool malignity of age, Is known to mingle with insidious guile, Deep, deep conceal'd beneath an infant's smile. The child of slothful ease, and sensual heat— By sweet delirious thoughts, in dark retreat, Mature in mischief grown—he springs away, A wingèd god, and thousands own his sway. Some, as thou seest, are number'd with the dead, And some the bitter drops of sorrow shed Through lingering life, by viewless tangles bound, That link the soul, and chain it to the ground. There Cæsar walks! of Celtic laurels proud. Nor feels himself in sensual bondage bow'd: He treads the flowery path, nor sees the snare Laid for his honour by the Egyptian fair. Here Love his triumph shows, and leads along The world's great owner in the captive throng; And o'er the master of unscepter'd kings Exulting soars, and claps his purple wings. See his adopted son! he knew her guile, And nobly scorn'd the siren of the Nile; Yet fell by Roman charms and from her spouse The pregnant consort bore, regardless of her vows There, cruel Nero feels his iron heart Lanced by imperious Love's resistless dart; Replete with rage, and scorning human ties, He falls the victim of two conquering eyes; Deep ambush'd there in philosophic spoils, The little tyrant tries his artful wiles: E'en in that hallow'd breast, where, deep enshrined, Lay all the varied treasures of the mind, He lodged his venom'd shaft. The hoary sage, Like meaner mortals, felt the passion rage In boundless fury for a strumpet's charms, And clasp'd the shining mischief in his arms.— See Dionysius link'd with Pheræ's lord, Pale doubt and dread on either front abhorr'd. Scowl terrible! yet Love assign'd their doom; A wife and mistress mark'd them for the tomb!— The next is he that on Antandros' coast His fair Crëusa mourn'd, for ever lost; Yet cut the bonds of Love on Tyber's shore, And bought a bride with young Evander's gore. Here droop'd the victim of a lawless flame: The amorous frenzy of the Cretan dame He fled abhorrent, and contemn'd her tears, And to the dire suggestion closed his ears. But nought, alas! his purity avail'd— Fate in his flight the hapless youth assail'd, By interdicted Love to Vengeance fired; And by his father's curse the son expired. The stepdame shared his fate, and dearly paid A spouse, a sister, and a son betray'd: Her conscience, by the false impeachment stung, Upon herself return'd the deadly wrong; And he, that broke before his plighted vows, Met his deserts in an adulterous spouse. See! where he droops between the sister dames, And fondly melts—the other scorns his flames,— The mighty slave of Omphale behind Is seen, and he whom Love and fraud combined Sent to the shades of everlasting night; And still he seems to weep his wretched plight.— There, Phyllis mourns Demophoon's broken vows, And fell Medea there pursues her spouse; With impious boast, and shrill upbraiding cries, She tells him how she broke the holy ties Of kindred for his sake; the guilty shore That from her poignard drank a brother's gore; The deep affliction of her royal sire. Who heard her flight with imprecations dire.— See! beauteous Helen, with her Trojan swain— The royal youth that fed his amorous pain, With ardent gaze, on those destructive charms That waken'd half the warring world to arms— Yonder, behold Œnone's wild despair, Who mourns the triumphs of the Spartan fair! The injured husband answers groan for groan, And young Hermione with piteous moan Orestes calls; while Laodamia near Bewails her valiant consort's fate severe.— Adrastus' daughter there laments her spouse Sincere and constant to her nuptial vows; Yet, lured by her, with gold's seductive aid, Her lord, Eriphile, to death betray'd." And now, the baleful anthem, loud and long, Rose in full chorus from the passing throng; And Love's sad name, the cause of all their woes, In execrations seem'd the dirge to close.— But who the number and the names can tell Of those that seem'd the deadly strain to swell!— Not men alone, but gods my dream display'd— Celestial wailings fill'd the myrtle shade: Soft Venus, with her lover, mourn'd the snare, The King of Shades, and Proserpine the fair; Juno, whose frown disclosed her jealous spite; Nor, less enthrall'd by Love, the god of light, Who held in scorn the wingèd warrior's dart Till in his breast he felt the fatal smart.— Each god, whose name the learned Roman told, In Cupid's numerous levy seem'd enroll'd; And, bound before his car in fetters strong, In sullen state the Thunderer march'd along.

Translated by: Hugh Boyd

To continue in your reading of The Triumphs I would suggest this book:

The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch