The Sonnets Of Michael Angelo Buonarroti And Tommaso Campanella - LightNovelsOnl.com
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_La nuova alta belta._
That new transcendent fair who seems to be Peerless in heaven as in this world of woe, (The common folk, too blind her worth to know And wors.h.i.+p, called her Left Arm wantonly), Was made, full well I know, for only thee: Nor could I carve or paint the glorious show Of that fair face: to life thou needs must go, To gain the favour thou dost crave of me.
If like the sun each star of heaven outs.h.i.+ning, She conquers and outsoars our soaring thought, This bids thee rate her worth at its real price.
Therefore to satisfy thy ceaseless pining, Once more in heaven hath G.o.d her beauty wrought: G.o.d and not I can people Paradise.
XI.
TO GIORGIO VASARI.
_ON THE LIVES OF THE PAINTERS._
_Se con lo stile._
With pencil and with palette hitherto You made your art high Nature's paragon; Nay more, from Nature her own prize you won, Making what she made fair more fair to view.
Now that your learned hand with labour new Of pen and ink a worthier work hath done, What erst you lacked, what still remained her own, The power of giving life, is gained for you.
If men in any age with Nature vied In beauteous workmans.h.i.+p, they had to yield When to the fated end years brought their name.
You, reilluming memories that died, In spite of Time and Nature have revealed For them and for yourself eternal fame.
XII.
TO VITTORIA COLONNA.
_A MATCHLESS COURTESY._
_Felice spirto._
Blest spirit, who with loving tenderness Quickenest my heart so old and near to die, Who mid thy joys on me dost bend an eye Though many n.o.bler men around thee press!
As thou wert erewhile wont my sight to bless, So to console my mind thou now dost fly; Hope therefore stills the pangs of memory, Which coupled with desire my soul distress.
So finding in thee grace to plead for me-- Thy thoughts for me sunk in so sad a case-- He who now writes, returns thee thanks for these.
Lo, it were foul and monstrous usury To send thee ugliest paintings in the place Of thy fair spirit's living phantasies.
XIII.
TO VITTORIA COLONNA.
_BRAZEN GIFTS FOR GOLDEN._
_Per esser manco almen._
Seeking at least to be not all unfit For thy sublime and boundless courtesy, My lowly thoughts at first were fain to try What they could yield for grace so infinite.
But now I know my una.s.sisted wit Is all too weak to make me soar so high; For pardon, lady, for this fault I cry, And wiser still I grow remembering it.
Yea, well I see what folly 'twere to think That largess dropped from thee like dews from heaven Could e'er be paid by work so frail as mine!
To nothingness my art and talent sink; He fails who from his mortal stores hath given A thousandfold to match one gift divine.
XIV.
FIRST READING.
TO VITTORIA COLONNA.
_THE MODEL AND THE STATUE._
_Da che concetto._
When divine Art conceives a form and face, She bids the craftsman for his first essay To shape a simple model in mere clay: This is the earliest birth of Art's embrace.
From the live marble in the second place His mallet brings into the light of day A thing so beautiful that who can say When time shall conquer that immortal grace?
Thus my own model I was born to be-- The model of that n.o.bler self, whereto Schooled by your pity, lady, I shall grow.
Each overplus and each deficiency You will make good. What penance then is due For my fierce heat, chastened and taught by you?
XIV.
SECOND READING.
To VITTORIA COLONNA.
_THE MODEL AND THE STATUE._
_Se ben concetto._
When that which is divine in us doth try To shape a face, both brain and hand unite To give, from a mere model frail and slight, Life to the stone by Art's free energy.
Thus too before the painter dares to ply Paint-brush or canvas, he is wont to write Sketches on sc.r.a.ps of paper, and invite Wise minds to judge his figured history.
So, born a model rude and mean to be Of my poor self, I gain a n.o.bler birth, Lady, from you, you fountain of all worth!
Each overplus and each deficiency You will make good. What penance then is due For my fierce heat, chastened and taught by you?
XV.
_THE LOVER AND THE SCULPTOR._
_Non ha l' ottimo artista._
