The Sonnets Of Michael Angelo Buonarroti And Tommaso Campanella - LightNovelsOnl.com
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The best of artists hath no thought to show Which the rough stone in its superfluous sh.e.l.l Doth not include: to break the marble spell Is all the hand that serves the brain can do.
The ill I shun, the good I seek, even so In thee, fair lady, proud, ineffable, Lies hidden: but the art I wield so well Works adverse to my wish, and lays me low.
Therefore not love, nor thy transcendent face, Nor cruelty, nor fortune, nor disdain, Cause my mischance, nor fate, nor destiny; Since in thy heart thou carriest death and grace Enclosed together, and my worthless brain Can draw forth only death to feed on me.
XVI.
_LOVE AND ART._
_S come nella penna._
As pen and ink alike serve him who sings In high or low or intermediate style; As the same stone hath shapes both rich and vile To match the fancies that each master brings; So, my loved lord, within thy bosom springs Pride mixed with meekness and kind thoughts that smile: Whence I draw nought, my sad self to beguile, But what my face shows--dark imaginings.
He who for seed sows sorrow, tears, and sighs, (The dews that fall from heaven, though pure and clear, From different germs take divers qualities) Must needs reap grief and garner weeping eyes; And he who looks on beauty with sad cheer, Gains doubtful hope and certain miseries.
XVII.
_THE ARTIST AND HIS WORK._
_Com' esser, donna, pu._
How can that be, lady, which all men learn By long experience? Shapes that seem alive, Wrought in hard mountain marble, will survive Their maker, whom the years to dust return!
Thus to effect cause yields. Art hath her turn, And triumphs over Nature. I, who strive With Sculpture, know this well; her wonders live In spite of time and death, those tyrants stern.
So I can give long life to both of us In either way, by colour or by stone, Making the semblance of thy face and mine.
Centuries hence when both are buried, thus Thy beauty and my sadness shall be shown, And men shall say, 'For her 'twas wise to pine.'
XVIII.
_BEAUTY AND THE ARTIST._
_Al cor di zolfo._
A heart of flaming sulphur, flesh of tow, Bones of dry wood, a soul without a guide To curb the fiery will, the ruffling pride Of fierce desires that from the pa.s.sions flow; A sightless mind that weak and lame doth go Mid snares and pitfalls scattered far and wide;-- What wonder if the first chance brand applied To fuel ma.s.sed like this should make it glow?
Add beauteous art, which, brought with us from heaven, Will conquer nature;--so divine a power Belongs to him who strives with every nerve.
If I was made for art, from childhood given A prey for burning beauty to devour, I blame the mistress I was born to serve.
XIX.
_THE AMULET OF LOVE._
_Io mi son caro a.s.sai piu._
Far more than I was wont myself I prize: With you within my heart I rise in rate, Just as a gem engraved with delicate Devices o'er the uncut stone doth rise; Or as a painted sheet exceeds in price Each leaf left pure and in its virgin state: Such then am I since I was consecrate To be the mark for arrows from your eyes.
Stamped with your seal I'm safe where'er I go, Like one who carries charms or coat of mail Against all dangers that his life a.s.sail Nor fire nor water now may work me woe; Sight to the blind I can restore by you, Heal every wound, and every loss renew.
XX.
_THE GARLAND AND THE GIRDLE._
_Quanta si G.o.de, lieta._
What joy hath yon glad wreath of flowers that is Around her golden hair so deftly twined, Each blossom pressing forward from behind, As though to be the first her brows to kiss!
The livelong day her dress hath perfect bliss, That now reveals her breast, now seems to bind: And that fair woven net of gold refined Rests on her cheek and throat in happiness!
Yet still more blissful seems to me the band Gilt at the tips, so sweetly doth it ring And clasp the bosom that it serves to lace: Yea, and the belt to such as understand, Bound round her waist, saith: here I'd ever cling.-- What would my arms do in that girdle's place?
XXI.
_THE SILKWORM._
_D' altrui pietoso._
Kind to the world, but to itself unkind, A worm is born, that dying noiselessly Despoils itself to clothe fair limbs, and be In its true worth by death alone divined.
Oh, would that I might die, for her to find Raiment in my outworn mortality!
That, changing like the snake, I might be free To cast the slough wherein I dwell confined!
Nay, were it mine, that s.h.a.ggy fleece that stays, Woven and wrought into a vestment fair, Around her beauteous bosom in such bliss!
All through the day she'd clasp me! Would I were The shoes that bear her burden! When the ways Were wet with rain, her feet I then should kiss!
XXII.
_WAITING IN FAITH._
_Se nel volto per gli occhi_
If through the eyes the heart speaks clear and true, I have no stronger sureties than these eyes For my pure love. Prithee let them suffice, Lord of my soul, pity to gain from you.
More tenderly perchance than is my due, Your spirit sees into my heart, where rise The flames of holy wors.h.i.+p, nor denies The grace reserved for those who humbly sue.
Oh, blessed day when you at last are mine!
Let time stand still, and let noon's chariot stay; Fixed be that moment on the dial of heaven!
That I may clasp and keep, by grace divine, Clasp in these yearning arms and keep for aye My heart's loved lord to me desertless given!
