Read Ebook: The Sonnets of Michael Angelo Buonarroti and Tommaso Campanella; Now for the First Time Translated into Rhymed English by Campanella Tommaso Michelangelo Buonarroti Symonds John Addington Translator

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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 nobler 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.

TO VITTORIA COLONNA.

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 unassisted 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.

FIRST READING.

TO VITTORIA COLONNA.

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 nobler 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?

SECOND READING.

To VITTORIA COLONNA.

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 scraps 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 nobler 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?

The best of artists hath no thought to show Which the rough stone in its superfluous shell 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.

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, Must needs reap grief and garner weeping eyes; And he who looks on beauty with sad cheer, Gains doubtful hope and certain miseries.

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 passions 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 massed 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.

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 assail 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.

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?

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 shaggy 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!

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 worship, nor denies The grace reserved for those who humbly sue. Oh, bless?d 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!

Well may these eyes of mine both near and far Behold the beams that from thy beauty flow; But, lady, feet must halt where sight may go: We see, but cannot climb to clasp a star. The pure ethereal soul surmounts that bar Of flesh, and soars to where thy splendours glow, Free through the eyes; while prisoned here below, Though fired with fervent love, our bodies are. Clogged with mortality and wingless, we Cannot pursue an angel in her flight: Only to gaze exhausts our utmost might. Yet, if but heaven like earth incline to thee, Let my whole body be one eye to see, That not one part of me may miss thy sight!

Choice soul, in whom, as in a glass, we see, Mirrored in thy pure form and delicate, What beauties heaven and nature can create, The paragon of all their works to be! Fair soul, in whom love, pity, piety, Have found a home, as from thy outward state We clearly read, and are so rare and great That they adorn none other like to thee! Love takes me captive; beauty binds my soul; Pity and mercy with their gentle eyes Wake in my heart a hope that cannot cheat. What law, what destiny, what fell control, What cruelty, or late or soon, denies That death should spare perfection so complete?

A DIALOGUE WITH LOVE.

Too much good luck no less than misery May kill a man condemned to mortal pain, If, lost to hope and chilled in every vein, A sudden pardon comes to set him free. Thus thy unwonted kindness shown to me Amid the gloom where only sad thoughts reign, With too much rapture bringing light again, Threatens my life more than that agony. Good news and bad may bear the self-same knife; And death may follow both upon their flight; For hearts that shrink or swell, alike will break. Let then thy beauty, to preserve my life, Temper the source of this supreme delight, Lest joy so poignant slay a soul so weak.

I cannot by the utmost flight of thought Conceive another form of air or clay, Wherewith against thy beauty to array My wounded heart in armour fancy-wrought: For, lacking thee, so low my state is brought, That Love hath stolen all my strength away; Whence, when I fain would halve my griefs, they weigh With double sorrow, and I sink to nought. Thus all in vain my soul to scape thee flies, For ever faster flies her beauteous foe: From the swift-footed feebly run the slow! Yet with his hands Love wipes my weeping eyes, Saying, this toil will end in happy cheer; What costs the heart so much, must needs be dear!

This heart of flesh feeds not with life my love: The love wherewith I love thee hath no heart; Nor harbours it in any mortal part, Where erring thought or ill desire may move. When first Love sent our souls from God above, He fashioned me to see thee as thou art-- Pure light; and thus I find God's counterpart In thy fair face, and feel the sting thereof. As heat from fire, from loveliness divine The mind that worships what recalls the sun From whence she sprang, can be divided never: And since thine eyes all Paradise enshrine, Burning unto those orbs of light I run, There where I loved thee first to dwell for ever.

I deemed upon that day when first I knew So many peerless beauties blent in one, That, like an eagle gazing on the sun, Mine eyes might fix on the least part of you. That dream hath vanished, and my hope is flown; For he who fain a seraph would pursue Wingless, hath cast words to the winds, and dew On stones, and gauged God's reason with his own. If then my heart cannot endure the blaze Of beauties infinite that blind these eyes, Nor yet can bear to be from you divided, What fate is mine? Who guides or guards my ways, Seeing my soul, so lost and ill-betided, Burns in your presence, in your absence dies?

With your fair eyes a charming light I see, For which my own blind eyes would peer in vain; Stayed by your feet the burden I sustain Which my lame feet find all too strong for me; Wingless upon your pinions forth I fly; Heavenward your spirit stirreth me to strain; E'en as you will, I blush and blanch again, Freeze in the sun, burn 'neath a frosty sky. Your will includes and is the lord of mine; Life to my thoughts within your heart is given; My words begin to breathe upon your breath: Like to the moon am I, that cannot shine Alone; for lo! our eyes see nought in heaven Save what the living sun illumineth.

Why should I seek to ease intense desire With still more tears and windy words of grief, When heaven, or late or soon, sends no relief To souls whom love hath robed around with fire? Why need my aching heart to death aspire, When all must die? Nay, death beyond belief Unto these eyes would be both sweet and brief, Since in my sum of woes all joys expire! Therefore because I cannot shun the blow I rather seek, say who must rule my breast, Gliding between her gladness and her woe? If only chains and bands can make me blest, No marvel if alone and bare I go An arm?d Knight's captive and slave confessed.

If love be chaste, if virtue conquer ill, If fortune bind both lovers in one bond, If either at the other's grief despond, If both be governed by one life, one will; If in two bodies one soul triumph still, Raising the twain from earth to heaven beyond, If Love with one blow and one golden wand Have power both smitten breasts to pierce and thrill; If each the other love, himself forgoing, With such delight, such savour, and so well, That both to one sole end their wills combine; If thousands of these thoughts, all thought outgoing, Fail the least part of their firm love to tell: Say, can mere angry spite this knot untwine?

FIRST READING.

AMOR REDIVIVUS.

SECOND READING.

AMOR REDIVIVUS.

If only that thy beauties here may be Deathless through Time that rends the wreaths he twined, I trust that Nature will collect and bind All those delights the slow years steal from thee, And keep them for a birth more happily Born under better auspices, refined Into a heavenly form of nobler mind, And dowered with all thine angel purity. Ah me! and may heaven also keep my sighs, My scattered tears preserve and reunite, And give to him who loves that fair again! More happy he perchance shall move those eyes To mercy by the griefs my manhood blight, Nor lose the kindness that from me is ta'en!

So friendly is the fire to flinty stone, That, struck therefrom and kindled to a blaze, It burns the stone, and from the ash doth raise What lives thenceforward binding stones in one: Kiln-hardened this resists both frost and sun, Acquiring higher worth for endless days-- As the purged soul from hell returns with praise, Amid the heavenly host to take her throne. E'en so the fire struck from my soul, that lay Close-hidden in my heart, may temper me, Till burned and slaked to better life I rise. If, made mere smoke and dust, I live to-day, Fire-hardened I shall live eternally; Such gold, not iron, my spirit strikes and tries.

Far off with fire I feel a cold face lit, That makes me burn, the while itself doth freeze: Two fragile arms enchain me, which with ease, Unmoved themselves, can move weights infinite. A soul none knows but I, most exquisite, That, deathless, deals me death, my spirit sees: I meet with one who, free, my heart doth seize: And who alone can cheer, hath tortured it. How can it be that from one face like thine My own should feel effects so contrary, Since ill comes not from things devoid of ill? That loveliness perchance doth make me pine, Even as the sun, whose fiery beams we see, Inflames the world, while he is temperate still.

If the undying thirst that purifies Our mortal thoughts, could draw mine to the day, Perchance the lord who now holds cruel sway In Love's high house, would prove more kindly-wise. But since the laws of heaven immortalise Our souls, and doom our flesh to swift decay, Tongue cannot tell how fair, how pure as day, Is the soul's thirst that far beyond it lies. How then, ah woe is me! shall that chaste fire, Which burns the heart within me, be made known, If sense finds only sense in what it sees? All my fair hours are turned to miseries With my loved lord, who minds but lies alone; For, truth to tell, who trusts not is a liar.

He who is bound by some great benefit, As to be raised from death to life again, How shall he recompense that gift, or gain Freedom from servitude so infinite? Yet if 'twere possible to pay the debt, He'd lose that kindness which we entertain For those who serve us well; since it is plain That kindness needs some boon to quicken it. Wherefore, O lady, to maintain thy grace, So far above my fortune, what I bring Is rather thanklessness than courtesy: For if both met as equals face to face, She whom I love could not be called my king;-- There is no lordship in equality.

Give back unto mine eyes, ye fount and rill, Those streams, not yours, that are so full and strong, That swell your springs, and roll your waves along With force unwonted in your native hill!

And thou, dense air, weighed with my sighs so chill, That hidest heaven's own light thick mists among, Give back those sighs to my sad heart, nor wrong My visual ray with thy dark face of ill!

Let earth give back the footprints that I wore, That the bare grass I spoiled may sprout again; And Echo, now grown deaf, my cries return!

Loved eyes, unto mine eyes those looks restore, And let me woo another not in vain, Since how to please thee I shall never learn!

Reason laments and grieves full sore with me, The while I hope by loving to be blest; With precepts sound and true philosophy My shame she quickens thus within my breast: 'What else but death will that sun deal to thee-- Nor like the phoenix in her flaming nest?' Yet nought avails this wise morality; No hand can save a suicide confessed. I know my doom; the truth I apprehend: But on the other side my traitorous heart Slays me whene'er to wisdom's words I bend. Between two deaths my lady stands apart: This death I dread; that none can comprehend. In this suspense body and soul must part.

XL.

FIRST READING.

I know not if it be the longed-for light Of her first Maker which the spirit feels; Or if a time-old memory reveals Some other beauty for the heart's delight; Or fame or dreams beget that vision bright, Sweet to the eyes, which through the bosom steals, Leaving I know not what that wounds and heals, And now perchance hath made me weep outright. Be this what this may be, 'tis this I seek: Nor guide have I; nor know I where to find That burning fire; yet some one seems to lead. This, since I saw thee, lady, makes me weak; A bitter-sweet sways here and there my mind, And sure I am thine eyes this mischief breed.

XL.

SECOND READING.

I know not if it be the fancied light Which every man or more or less doth feel; Or if the mind and memory reveal Some other beauty for the heart's delight;

Or if within the soul the vision bright Of her celestial home once more doth steal, Drawing our better thoughts with pure appeal To the true Good above all mortal sight:

This light I long for and unguided seek; This fire that burns my heart, I cannot find; Nor know the way, though some one seems to lead.

This, since I saw thee, lady, makes me weak: A bitter-sweet sways here and there my mind; And sure I am thine eyes this mischief breed.

He who ordained, when first the world began, Time, that was not before creation's hour, Divided it, and gave the sun's high power To rule the one, the moon the other span: Thence fate and changeful chance and fortune's ban Did in one moment down on mortals shower: To me they portioned darkness for a dower; Dark hath my lot been since I was a man. Myself am ever mine own counterfeit; And as deep night grows still more dim and dun, So still of more misdoing must I rue: Meanwhile this solace to my soul is sweet, That my black night doth make more clear the sun Which at your birth was given to wait on you.

All hollow vaults and dungeons sealed from sight, All caverns circumscribed with roof and wall, Defend dark Night, though noon around her fall, From the fierce play of solar day-beams bright. But if she be assailed by fire or light, Her powers divine are nought; they tremble all Before things far more vile and trivial-- Even a glow-worm can confound their might. The earth that lies bare to the sun, and breeds A thousand germs that burgeon and decay-- This earth is wounded by the ploughman's share: But only darkness serves for human seeds; Night therefore is more sacred far than day, Since man excels all fruits however fair.

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