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                        SONNETS AND MADRIGALS
                           OF MICHELANGELO
                              BUONARROTI

[Illustration: TOUT BIEN OU RIEN
The Riverside Press]




[Illustration:

                        SONNETS AND MADRIGALS
                           OF MICHELANGELO
                              BUONARROTI

                        RENDERED INTO ENGLISH
                           VERSE BY WILLIAM
                             WELLS NEWELL

                          WITH ITALIAN TEXT
                             INTRODUCTION
                              AND NOTES


                               HOUGHTON
                             MIFFLIN AND
                               COMPANY
                                MDCCCC
]




               _Copyright 1900 by William Wells Newell
                         All rights reserved_




                              CONTENTS


  _Michelangelo as Poet_                                 _Page_     i

  _Sonnets_                                                 ”       1

  _Epigrams_                                                ”      26

  _Madrigals_                                               ”      28

  _Notes_                                                   ”      59

  _Index of First Lines_                                    ”     105




                           MICHELANGELO AS
                                 POET




[Illustration: (Decorative Header)]




                        MICHELANGELO AS POET


Michelangelo, who considered himself as primarily sculptor,
afterwards painter, disclaimed the character of poet by profession.
He was nevertheless prolific in verse; the pieces which survive,
in number more than two hundred, probably represent only a small
part of his activity in this direction. These compositions are not
to be considered merely as the amusement of leisure, the byplay of
fancy; they represent continued meditation, frequent reworking,
careful balancing of words; he worked on a sonnet or a madrigal in
the same manner as on a statue, conceived with ardent imagination,
undertaken with creative energy, pursued under the pressure of a
superabundance of ideas, occasionally abandoned in dissatisfaction,
but at other times elaborated to that final excellence which exceeds
as well as includes all merits of the sketch, and, as he himself
said, constitutes a rebirth of the idea into the realm of eternity.
In the sculptor’s time, the custom of literary society allowed and
encouraged interchange of verses. If the repute of the writer or the
attraction of the rhymes commanded interest, these might be copied,
reach an expanding circle, and achieve celebrity. In such manner,
partly through the agency of Michelangelo himself, the sonnets of
Vittoria Colonna came into circulation, and obtained an acceptance
ending in a printed edition. But the artist did not thus arrange his
own rhymes, does not appear even to have kept copies; written on stray
leaves, included in letters, they remained as loose memoranda, or
were suffered altogether to disappear. The fame of the author secured
attention for anything to which he chose to set his hand; the verses
were copied and collected, and even gathered into the form of books;
one such manuscript gleaning he revised with his own hand. The sonnets
became known, the songs were set to music, and the recognition of
their merit induced a contemporary author, in the seventy-first year
of the poet’s life, to deliver before the Florentine Academy a lecture
on a single sonnet.

Diffusion through the printing-press, however, the poems did not
attain. Not until sixty years after the death of their author did a
grand-nephew, also called Michelangelo Buonarroti, edit the verse
of his kinsman; in this task he had regard to supposed literary
proprieties, conventionalizing the language and sentiment of lines
which seemed harsh or impolite, supplying endings for incomplete
compositions, and in general doing his best to deprive the verse of
an originality which the age was not inclined to tolerate. The recast
was accepted as authentic, and in this mutilated form the poetry
remained accessible. Fortunately the originals survived, partly in
the handwriting of the author, and in 1863 were edited by Guasti. The
publication added to the repute of the compositions, and the sonnets
especially have become endeared to many English readers.

The long neglect of Michelangelo’s poetry was owing to the
intellectual deficiencies of the succeeding generation. In spite of
the partial approbation of his contemporaries, it is likely that
these were not much more appreciative, and that their approval was
rendered rather to the fame of the maker than to the merits of the
work. The complication of the thought, frequently requiring to
be thought out word for word, demanded a mental effort beyond the
capacity of literati whose ideal was the simplicity and triviality of
Petrarchian imitators. Varchi assuredly had no genuine comprehension
of the sonnet to which he devoted three hours of his auditors’
patience; Berni, who affirmed that Michelangelo wrote things, while
other authors used words, to judge by his own compositions could
scarce have been more sensible of the artist’s emotional depth. The
sculptor, who bitterly expressed his consciousness that for the
highest elements of his genius his world had no eyes, must have felt
a similar lack of sympathy with his poetical conceptions. Here he
stood on less safe ground; unacquainted with classic literature,
unable correctly to write a Latin phrase, he must have known, to
use his own metaphor, that while he himself might value plain
homespun, the multitude admired the stuffs of silk and gold that went
to the making of a tailors’ man. It is likely that the resulting
intellectual loneliness assumed the form of modesty, and that
Michelangelo took small pains to preserve his poetry because he set
on it no great value.

The verse, essentially lyric, owed its inspiration to experience. A
complete record would have constituted a biography more intimate than
any other. But such memorial does not exist; of early productions few
survive; the extant poems, for the most part, appear to have been
composed after the sixtieth year of their author.

The series begins with a sonnet written in 1506, when Michelangelo
was thirty-one years of age. The sculptor had been called to Rome by
pope Julius, who conceived that the only way to ensure an adequately
magnificent mausoleum was to prepare it during his own lifetime.
A splendid design was made for the monument destined to prove the
embarrassment of Michelangelo’s career; but the pope was persuaded
that it was not worth while to waste his means in marbles, and in
the spring of 1506 the artist fled to Florence. In that city he may
have penned the sonnet in which Julius is blamed for giving ear to
the voice of Echo (misreporting calumniators) instead of holding the
balance even and the sword erect (in the character of a sculptured
Justice). The writer adds a bitter complaint of the injustice of
fate, which sends merit to pluck the fruit of a withered bough.
Another sonnet of the period seems to have been written in Rome;
the subscription reads: “Your Michelangelo, in Turkey.” The piece
contains an indictment against the papal court, at that time occupied
with plans for military advancement, where the eucharistic cup is
changed into helmet, and cross into lance; for safety’s sake, let
Christ keep aloof from a city where his blood would be sold dropwise.
Work there is none, and the Medusa-like pope turns the artist to
stone; if poverty is beloved by heaven, the servants of heaven, under
the opposite banner, are doing their best to destroy that other
life. In 1509, a sonnet addressed to Giovanni of Pistoia describes
the sufferings endured in executing the frescoes of the Sistine
chapel. We are shown Michelangelo bent double on his platform,
the paint oozing on his face, his eyes blurred and squinting, his
fancy occupied with conjecture of the effect produced on spectators
standing below. Allusion is made to hostile critics; the writer bids
his friend maintain the honor of one who does not profess to be a
painter. While looking upward to the vault retained in the memory
of many persons as the most holy spot in Europe, it is well to
recollect the sufferings of the artist, who in an unaccustomed field
of labor achieved a triumph such as no other decorator has obtained.
A fourth sonnet, addressed to the same Giovanni, reveals the flaming
irritability of a temper prone to exaggerate slights, especially from
a Pistoian, presumably insensible to the preëminence of Florence,
“that precious joy.”

With this group can be certainly classed only one sonnet of a
different character (No. XX). This was penned on a letter of
December, 1507, addressed to Michelangelo at Bologna, where he was
then leading a miserable life, engaged on the statue of Julius;
this work, on which he wasted three years, was finally melted into
a cannon, in order that the enemies of the pope might fire at the
latter by means of his own likeness. The verse is a spontaneous
and passionate outburst of admiration for a beautiful girl. With
this piece might be associated two or three undated compositions of
similar nature, which serve to show the error of the supposition that
the artist was insensible to feminine attractions. It may be affirmed
that the reverse was the case, and that the thoughtful temper of the
extant poetry is due solely to the sobering influences of time.

The verse which might have exhibited the transition from early to
later manhood has not been preserved; during twenty years survive
no compositions of which the date is assured. Subsequently to that
time, assistance is derived from the fortunate accident that several
of the sonnets were written on dated letters. It is true that this
indication is far from furnishing secure testimony. Even at the
present day, when paper is so easily obtained, I have known a writer
of rhyme who was in the habit of using the backs of old letters. That
Michelangelo sometimes did the same thing appears to be demonstrated
by the existence of a sonnet (No. L), which, though written on the
back of a letter of 1532, professes to be composed in extreme old
age. The evidence, therefore, is of value only when supported by the
character of the piece. Nor is internal testimony entirely to be
depended on. It is to be remembered that all makers of verse remodel
former work, complete imperfect essays, put into form reminiscences
which essentially belong to an earlier stage of feeling. Attempts to
classify the productions must follow a subjective opinion, very apt
to err. Nevertheless something may be accomplished in this direction.

The nephew states that two sonnets (Nos. XXIV and XXV) were found on
a leaf containing a memorandum of 1529. Extant is another sonnet,
certainly written on a page having an entry of that year. These
three sonnets seem to breathe the same atmosphere; the emotion is
sustained by a direct impulse, the verse is apparently inspired by
a sentiment too lyric to be unhappy; the employment of theologic
metaphor and Platonic fancy is still subsidiary to emotion. Allowing
for the imaginative indulgence of feeling common to lyrical poets,
it seems nevertheless possible to perceive a basis of personal
experience. With these pieces may be associated a number of
sonnets and madrigals, among the most beautiful productions of the
author, which may conjecturally be assigned to the period before
his permanent Roman residence, or at any rate may be supposed to
represent the impressions of such time. As compared with the work
which may with confidence be dated as produced within the ensuing
decade, these correspond to an earlier manner. Wanting the direct
and impetuous passion of the few youthful verses, they nevertheless
show a spiritual conception of sexual attachment, not yet resolved
into religious aspiration. They suggest that the inflammable and
gentle-hearted artist passed through a series of inclinations, none
of which terminated in a permanent alliance.

At the end of 1534, near his sixtieth year, Michelangelo came to
live in Rome; and to that city, three years later, Vittoria Colonna
came for a long visit, in the twelfth year of her widowhood, and the
forty-seventh of her life. An acquaintance may have been established
in the course of previous years, when the lady visited Rome, or
possibly even at a prior time. Whatever was the date of the first
encounter, allusions in the poems seem to imply that the meeting
produced a deep impression on the mind of the artist (Madrigals
LIV, LXXII). At all events, the relations of the two grew into a
friendship, hardly to be termed intimacy. Only a very few of the
poems are known to have been addressed to Vittoria; but the veiled
references of several pieces, and the tone of the poetry, appear
to justify the opinion that admiration for this friend was the
important influence that affected the character of the verse written
during the ten years before her death in 1547.

In Rome, the Marchioness of Pescara made her home in the convent of
San Silvestro, where she reigned as queen of an intelligent circle. A
charming and welcome glimpse of this society is furnished by Francis
of Holland, who professes to relate three conversations, held on as
many Sunday mornings, in which the sculptor took a chief part. It
is not difficult to imagine the calmness and coolness of the place,
the serious and placid beauty of the celebrated lady, the figure of
Michelangelo, the innocent devices by which the sympathetic Vittoria
contrived to educe his vehement outbursts on artistic questions, the
devout listening of the stranger, hanging on the chief artist of
Italy with the attention of a reporter who means to put all into a
book. So far as the conversation represents a symposium on matters
of art, no doubt the account is to be taken as in good measure the
method adopted by Francis to put before the world his own ideas;
but among the remarks are many so consonant to the character of the
sculptor that it is impossible to doubt the essential correctness
of the narration. In the language of Michelangelo speaks haughty
reserve, the consciousness of superiority, accompanied by a sense
that his most precious qualities exceeded the comprehension of
a world which rendered credit less to the real man than to the
fashionable artist, and whose attention expressed not so much
gratitude for illumination as desire of becoming associated with what
society held in respect.

All students who have had occasion to concern themselves with
the biography of Vittoria Colonna have become impressed with the
excellence of her character. After the loss of a husband to whom
she had been united in extreme youth, she declared her intention of
forming no new ties; and it must have been an exceptional purity
which the censorious and corrupt world could associate with no
breath of scandal. She had been accounted the most beautiful woman
in Italy, of that golden-haired and broadbrowed type recognized as
favorite; but her intelligence, rather than personal attractions
or social position, had made her seclusion in Ischia a place of
pilgrimage for men of letters. The attraction she possessed for
the lonely, reserved, and proud artist is a testimony that to her
belonged especially the inexplicable attraction of a sympathetic
nature. Such disposition is a sufficient explanation of her devotion
to the memory of a husband who appears to have been essentially a
_condottiere_ of the time, a soldier who made personal interest his
chief consideration. She may also be credited with a sound judgment
and pure ethical purpose in the practical affairs of life.

Yet to allow that Vittoria Colonna was good and lovable does not make
it necessary to worship her as a tenth muse, according to the partial
judgment of her contemporaries. Unfortunately, time has spared her
verses, respecting which may be repeated advice bestowed by Mrs.
Browning in regard to another female author, by no means to indulge
in the perusal, inasmuch as they seem to disprove the presence of
a talent which she nevertheless probably possessed. In the case
commented on by the modern writer, the genius absent in the books
is revealed in the correspondence; but epistolary composition was
not the forte of the Marchioness of Pescara, whose communications,
regarded as pabulum for a hungry heart, are as jejune as can be
conceived. Neither is she to be credited with originality in her
attitude toward political or religious problems. It does not appear
that she quarreled with the principles of the polite banditti of her
own family; nor was she able to attain even an elementary notion of
Italian patriotism. She has been set down as a reformer in religion;
but such tendency went no further than a sincere affection toward the
person of the founder of Christianity, a piety in no way inconsistent
with ritual devotion. When it came to the dividing of the ways, she
had no thought other than to follow the beaten track. Nor in the
world of ideas did she possess greater independence; with all her
esteem for Michelangelo as artist and man, it is not likely that she
was able to estimate the sources of his supremacy, any more than to
foresee a time when her name would have interest for the world only
as associated with that of the sculptor. It may be believed that a
mind capable of taking pleasure in the commonplaces of her rhyme
could never have appreciated the essential merits of the mystic
verse which she inspired. Here, also, Michelangelo was destined to
remain uncomprehended. Vittoria presented him with her own poems,
neatly written out and bound, but never seems to have taken the
pains to gather those of the artist. Intellectually, therefore,
her limitations were many; but she was endowed with qualities more
attractive, a gentle sympathy, a noble kindness, a person and
expression representative of that ideal excellence which the sculptor
could appreciate only as embodied in human form.

While earlier writers of biography were inclined to exaggerate
the effect on Michelangelo of his acquaintance with Vittoria
Colonna, later authors, as I think, have fallen into the opposite
error. To Vittoria, indeed, whose thoughts, when not taken up
with devotional exercises, were occupied with the affairs of her
family or of the church, such amity could occupy only a subordinate
place. One of her letters to Michelangelo may be taken as a
polite repression of excessive interest. But on the other side,
the poetry of the artist is a clear, almost a painful expression
of his own state of mind. We are shown, in the mirror of his own
verse, a sensitive, self-contained, solitary nature, aware that
he is out of place in a world for which he lacks essential graces
and in which he is respected for his least worthy qualities. That
under such circumstances he should value the kindness of the only
woman with whom he could intelligently converse, that he should
feel the attraction of eyes from which seemed to descend starry
influences, that he should suffer from the sense of inadequacy and
transitoriness, from the difference of fortune and the lapse of
years, the contrasts of imagination and possibility, was only, as he
would have said, to manifest attribute in act, to suffer the natural
pain incident to sensitive character.

In the most striking of the compositions devoted to the memory of
Vittoria Colonna Michelangelo speaks of her influence as the tool
by which his own genius had been formed, and which, when removed to
heaven and made identical with the divine archetype, left no earthly
substitute. That the language was no more than an expression of the
fact is shown by the alteration which from this time appears in his
verse. Poetry passes over into piety; artistic color is exchanged
for the monotone of religious emotion. One may be glad that the
old age, of whose trials he has left a terrible picture, found its
support and alleviation; yet the later poems, distressing in their
solemnity, pietistic in their self-depreciation, exhibit a declining
poetic faculty, and in this respect are not to be ranked with their
forerunners.

The verse of Michelangelo has been lauded as philosophic. The
epithet is out of place; if by philosophy be meant metaphysics,
there is no such thing as philosophic poetry. Poetry owes no debt
to metaphysical speculation, can coexist as well with one type of
doctrine as with another. The obligation is on the other side;
philosophy is petrified poetry, which no infusion of adventitious
sap can relegate to vital function. Like all other developments of
life, philosophic theories can be employed by poets only for colors
of the palette. If Platonic conceptions be deemed exceptional, it is
because such opinions are themselves poetry more than metaphysics,
and constitute rather metaphorical expressions for certain human
sentiments than any system of ratiocination. For the purposes
of Michelangelo, these doctrines supplied an adequate means of
presentation, quite independent of the abstract verity of the
principles considered as the product of reasoning.

With the sculptor, it was the impressions and feelings of later
life that this philosophy served to convey. The few remains of
comparative youth lead us to suppose that in the verse of this time
the reflective quality was subordinate; the productions of later
manhood breathe a gentle emotion, which, allowing for contrasts, may
be compared with that animating the poetry of Wordsworth; only in
compositions belonging to incipient age do we find a full development
of Platonic conceptions; these, again, constitute a step in the
progress toward that Christian quietism into which the stream of
the poet’s genius emerges, as from its impetuous source, through
the powerful flow of its broadening current, a great river at last
empties itself into the all-encompassing sea.

This philosophy was no result of reading, but a deposit from
conversations which the youth had overheard in the Medicean gardens,
where he may have listened to the eloquence of Marsilio Ficino. When
the time came, these reminiscences were able to influence imagination
and color fancy. For a commentary on Michelangelo, one has no need
to go to the Phaedrus or Symposium; the verse, like all true poetry,
is self-illuminative. That God is the archetype and fountain-head of
all excellency, that external objects suggest the perfection they
do not include, that objects of nature, reflected in the mirror
of the intelligence, move the soul to perform the creative act by
which outward beauty is reborn into her own likeness, and loved as
the representation of her own divinity, that the highest property
of external things is to cause human thought to transcend from the
partial to the universal,--these are conceptions so simple and
natural that no course of study is necessary to their appreciation.
The ideas are received as symbols of certain moral conditions, and so
far not open to debate. Only when the attempt is made to generalize,
to set them up as the sum of all experience, do they become doubtful;
the principles are better comprehended without the dialectic, and
indeed it frequently happens that he who has paid most attention to
the latter is least informed respecting the true significance of the
imaginations for the sake of which the argument professes to exist.

Hand in hand with this Hellenic, one might say human mysticism, went
the Christian mysticism expressed in the poetry of Dante. In place
of the serene archetype, the apotheosis of reason, we are presented
with the archetypal love, reaching out toward mankind through the
forms of nature. No longer the calm friend, the beloved person
is conceived as the ardent angel, messenger from the empyrean,
descending and revealing. It has been held that these two forms of
thought are irreconcilable; I should consider them as complementary.
Before the beginnings of the Christian church had been effected a
union of Platonic imagination with Hebrew piety; Christian sentiment
expresses in terms of affection the philosophic doctrine, also pious
and poetic, however proclaimed under the name and with the coloring
of sober reason.

It could not have been expected that in the poetical activity which
of necessity with him remained a subordinate interest, Michelangelo
should have manifested the full measure of that independent force,
which in two arts had proved adequate to break new channels. This
third method of expression served to manifest a part of his nature
for which grander tasks did not supply adequate outlets; the verse
accordingly reveals new aspects of character. It was for gentle,
wistful, meditative emotions that the artist found it necessary
to use rhyme. If not torrential, the current was vital; no line
unfreshened by living waters. This function explains the limitation
of scope; essays in pastoral, in _terza rima_, served to prove that
here did not lie his path; in the conventional forms of the sonnet
and the madrigal he found the medium desired. The familiarity of
the form did not prevent originality of substance; he had from youth
been intimate with the youthful melodies of Dante, the lucid sonnets
of Petrarch; but his own style, controlled by thought, is remote
from the gentle music of the one, the clear flow of the other. The
verse exhibits a superabundance of ideas, not easily brought within
the limits of the rhyme; amid an imagery prevailingly tender and
reflective, now and then a gleam or a flash reveals the painter of
the Sistine and the sculptor of the Medicean chapel.

Essentially individual is the artistic imagery. As Michelangelo was
above all a creator whose genius inclined him toward presentation
of the unadorned human form, so his metaphors are prevailingly
taken from the art of sculpture, a loan which enriches the verse by
the association with immortal works. These comparisons, taken from
the methods of the time, are not altogether such as could now be
employed. At the outset, indeed, the procedure scarcely differed;
with the sculptor of the Renaissance, the first step was to produce
a sketch of small dimensions; the same thing is done by the modern
artist, who commonly uses clay and plaster in place of wax. It
is in the nature of the design, or, as Michelangelo said, of the
“model,” that, as having the character of an impression, it must
superabound in rude vitality, as much as it is deficient in symmetry
and “measure.” The next step, then as now, might be the preparation
of a form answering in size to that of the intended figure, but
also in wax or clay. In the final part of the process, however,
the distinction is complete; in the sixteenth century no way was
open to the maker, but himself to perfect the statue with hammer
and chisel. The advance of mechanical skill has enabled the modern
artist to dispense with this labor. It may be questioned whether
the consequent saving of pains is in all respects an advantage;
at least, I have the authority of one of the most accomplished of
modern portrait sculptors for the opinion that in strict propriety
every kind of plastic work ought to receive its final touches from
the hand of the designer. Even if this were done, the method would
not answer to that of the earlier century, when it was the practice
to cleave away the marble in successive planes, in such manner
as gradually to disengage the outlines of the image, which thus
appeared to lie veiled beneath the superficies, as an indwelling
tenant waiting release from the hand of the carver. Moreover, the
preciousness of the material had on the fancy a salutary influence;
before beginning his task, the sculptor was compelled to take into
account the possibility of execution. He would commonly feel himself
obliged to make use of any particular block of marble which he might
have the fortune to possess; it might even happen that such block
possessed an unusual form, as was the case with the stone placed at
the disposal of Michelangelo, and from which he created his David.
The test of genius would therefore be the ability, on perception of
the material, to form a suitable conception; a sculptor, if worthy
of the name, would perceive the possible statue within the mass.
The metaphor, so frequently and beautifully used by Michelangelo,
which represents the artist as conceiving the dormant image which
his toil must bring forth from its enveloping stone, is therefore no
commonplace of scholastic philosophy, no empty phrase declaring that
matter potentially contains unnumbered forms, but a true description
of the process of creative energy. Inasmuch as by an inevitable
animism all conceptions derived from human activity are imaginatively
transferred to external life, the comparison is extended into the
realm of Nature, which by a highly poetic forecast of the modern
doctrine of evolution is said through the ages to aim at attaining an
ideal excellence. The impulse visible in the art of the sculptor thus
appears in his poetry, which, also perfected through unwearied toil,
terminates in a result which is truly organic, and of which all parts
seem to derive from a central idea.

A lyric poet, if he possess genuine talent, is concerned with the
presentation, not of form or thought, but of emotion. His fancy,
therefore, commonly operates in a manner different from that of the
artist, whose duty it is primarily to consider the visual image; the
verse of the latter, if he undertakes to express himself also in the
poetic manner, is usually characterized by a predominance of detail,
an overdistinctness of parts, an inability of condensation, qualities
belonging to an imagination conceiving of life as definitely formal
rather than as vaguely impressive. On the contrary, Michelangelo
is a true lyrist, whose mental vision is not too concrete to be
also dreamy. This property is a strange proof of the multiformity
of his genius, for it is the reverse of what one would expect
from a contemplation of his plastic work. The inspiration, though
in a measure biographic, is no mere reflection of the experience;
notwithstanding the sincerity of the impulse, as should be the case
in lyric verse, the expression transcends to the universal.

It does not detract from his worth as a lyrical writer, that the
range of the themes is narrow, a limitation sufficiently explained by
the conditions. The particular sentiment for the expression of which
he needed rhyme was sexual affection. In the verse, if not in the
art, “all thoughts, all passions, all delights” are ministers of that
emotion. Michelangelo is as much a poet of love as Heine or Shelley.

The sonnets were intended not to be sung, but to be read; this
purpose may account for occasional deficiencies of music. The beauty
of the idea, the abundance of the thought, the sincerity of the
emotion, cause them to stand in clear contrast to the productions of
contemporary versifiers.

Less attention has been paid to the madrigals, on which the author
bestowed equal pains. These are songs, and the melody has affected
the thought. The self-consciousness of the poet is subordinated to
the objectivity of the musician who aims to render human experience
into sweet sound. For the most part, and with some conspicuous
exceptions, even where the idea is equally mystical, the reasoning is
not so intricate nor the sentiment so biographic. A certain number
have the character of simple love verse. In these compositions ardor
is unchecked by reflection, and desire allowed its natural course,
unquenched by the abundant flow of the thought which it has awakened.
What assumes the aspect of love-sorrow is in reality a joyous current
of life mocking grief with the music of its ripples. If one desired
to name the composer whom the sentiment suggests, he might mention
Schumann rather than Beethoven.

Other indifferent artists have been excellent poets, and other
tolerable versifiers clever artists; but only once in human history
has coexisted the highest talent for plastic form and verbal
expression. Had these verses come down without name, had they been
disinterred from the dust of a library as the legacy of an anonymous
singer, they would be held to confer on the maker a title to rank
among intellectual benefactors. It would be said that an unknown
poet, whose verse proved him also a sculptor, had contributed to
literature thoughts whose character might be summed up in the lines
of his madrigal:--

      _Dalle più alte stelle
       Discende uno splendore
       Che ’l desir tira a quelle;
       E qui si chiama amore._




                   SONNETS EPIGRAMS AND MADRIGALS




A SELECTION FROM THE SONNETS OF MICHELANGELO BUONARROTI

I


      _Dal ciel discese, e col mortal suo, poi
      Che visto ebbe l’inferno giusto e ’l pio,
      Ritornò vivo a contemplare Dio,
      Per dar di tutto il vero lume a noi:
      Lucente stella, che co’ raggi suoi
      Fe chiaro, a torto, el nido ove naqqu’io;
      Nè sare’ ’l premio tutto ’l mondo rio:
      Tu sol, che la creasti, esser quel puoi.
      Di Dante dico, che mal conosciute
      Fur l’opre suo da quel popolo ingrato,
      Che solo a’ iusti manca di salute.
      Fuss’io pur lui! c’a tal fortuna nato,
      Per l’aspro esilio suo, con la virtute,
      Dare’ del mondo il più felice stato._


      _From heaven he came, and clothed in mortal clay,
      Traversed the vengeful and the chastening woes,
      Living, again toward height eternal rose,
      For us to win the light of saving day;
      Resplendent star, whose undeservèd ray
      Made glory in the nest where I had birth;
      Whose recompense not all a stainèd earth,
      But Thou his Maker, Thou alone couldst pay.
      Dante I mean, and that unfair return
      Endured from a community ingrate,
      That only to the just awardeth scorn;
      Would I were he! To equal fortune born,
      For his pure virtue, for his exile stern,
      I would resign earth’s happiest estate._


II

      _Da che concetto ha l’arte intera e diva
      La forma e gli atti d’alcun, poi di quello
      D’umil materia un semplice modello
      È ’l primo parto che da quel deriva.
      Ma nel secondo poi di pietra viva
      S’adempion le promesse del martello;
      E sì rinasce tal concetto e bello,
      Che ma’ non è chi suo eterno prescriva.
      Simil, di me model, nacqu’io da prima;
      Di me model, per cosa più perfetta
      Da voi rinascer poi, donna alta e degna.
      Se ’l poco accresce, e ’l mio superchio lima
      Vostra pietà; qual penitenzia aspetta
      Mio fiero ardor, se mi gastiga e insegna?_

      _Some deed or form of our humanity
      When genius hath conceived of art divine,
      Her primal birth, an incomplete design,
      Is shaped in stuff of humble quality.
      More late, in living marble’s purity
      The chisel keepeth promise to the full;
      Reborn is the idea so beautiful,
      That it belongeth to eternity.
      So me did Nature make the model rude,
      The model of myself, a better thing
      By nobleness of thine to be renewed;
      If thy compassion, its work cherishing,
      Enlarge, and pare; mine ardor unsubdued
      Awaiteth at thy hand what chastening!_

III

      _Non ha l’ottimo artista alcun concetto,
      Ch’un marmo solo in sè non circonscriva
      Col suo soverchio; e solo a quello arriva
      La man che ubbidisce all’intelletto.
      Il mal ch’io fuggo, e ’l ben ch’io mi prometto,
      In te, donna leggiadra, altera e diva,
      Tal si nasconde; e perch’io più non viva,
      Contraria ho l’arte al disiato effetto.
      Amor dunque non ha, nè tua beltate,
      O durezza, o fortuna, o gran disdegno,
      Del mio mal colpa, o mio destino o sorte;
      Se dentro del tuo cor morte e pietate
      Porti in un tempo, e che ’l mio basso ingegno
      Non sappia, ardendo, trarne altro che morte._


      _The chief of artists can imagine nought,
      Other than form that hideth in a stone,
      Below its surface veilèd; here alone
      Arriveth hand, obedient to his thought.
      So, fair and noble lady, e’en in thee,
      The good I seek, the evil that I fly,
      Remain enveloped; whence reluctant, I
      Create my aspiration’s contrary.
      It is not love, ’tis not thy beauty fair,
      Ungentle pride, thy fortune ruling so,
      Nor destiny of mine, that hath to bear
      The censure, if my genius faint and low,
      While Death and Pity both thou dost conceal,
      Though passionèd, can only Death reveal._


IV

      _Com’ esser, donna, può quel ch’alcun vede
      Per lunga sperienza, che più dura
      L’ immagin viva in pietra alpestra e dura,
      Che ’l suo fattor, che gli anni in cener riede?
      La causa all’effetto inclina e cede,
      Onde dall’arte è vinta la natura.
      Io ’l so, che ’l provo in la bella scultura;
      Ch’ all’opra il tempo e morte non tien fede.
      Dunque posso ambo noi dar lunga vita
      In qual sie modo, o di colore o sasso,
      Di noi sembrando l’uno e l’altro volto:
      Sì che mill’anni dopo la partita
      Quanto e voi bella fusti, e quant’io lasso
      Si veggia, e com’amarvi io non fui stolto._


      _How, lady, can the mind of man allow,
      What lapse of many ages hath made known,
      That image shapen of pure mountain stone
      Outlive the life that did with life endow?
      Before effect the very cause doth bow,
      And Art is crowned in Nature’s deep despair.
      I know, and prove it, carving form so fair,
      That Time and Death admire, and break their vow.
      Power, therefore, I possess, to grant us twain
      Estate, in color, or in marble cold,
      That spent a thousand summers, shall remain
      The face of either, and all eyes behold
      How thou wert beautiful, and gaze on me,
      Weary, yet justified in loving thee._


V

      _Io mi son caro assai più ch’io non soglio;
      Poi ch’io t’ebbi nel cor, più di me vaglio:
      Come pietra ch’aggiuntovi l’intaglio,
      È di più pregio che ’l suo primo scoglio.
      O come scritta o pinta carta o foglio,
      Più si riguarda d’ogni straccio o taglio;
      Tal di me fo, da poi ch’io fui bersaglio
      Segnato dal tuo viso: e non mi doglio.
      Sicur con tale stampa in ogni loco
      Vo, come quel c’ha incanti o arme seco,
      Ch’ ogni periglio gli fan venir meno.
      I’ vaglio contro all’acqua e contro al foco,
      Col segno tuo rallumino ogni cieco,
      E col mio sputo sano ogni veleno._

      _I feel myself more precious than of yore,
      Now that my life thy signature doth show,
      As gem inscribed with its intaglio
      Excelleth pebble it appeared before,
      Or writ or painted page is valued more
      Than idle leaf discarded carelessly;
      So I, the target of thine archery,
      Grow proud of marks I need not to deplore.
      Signed with thy seal, in confidence I dwell,
      As one who journeyeth in woundless mail,
      Or hath his way protected by a spell;
      O’er fire and flood I equally prevail,
      Do works of healing by the signet’s might,
      Poison allay, and yield the blind their sight._


VI

      _Quanto si gode, lieta e ben contesta
      Di fior, sopra’ crin d’or d’una, grillanda;
      Che l’altro inanzi l’uno all’altro manda,
      Come ch’il prima sia a baciar la testa!
      Contenta è tutto il giorno quella vesta
      Che serra ’l petto, e poi par che si spanda;
      E quel c’oro filato si domanda
      Le guanci’ e ’l collo di toccar non resta.
      Ma più lieto quel nastro par che goda,
      Dorato in punta, con si fatte tempre,
      Che preme e tocca il petto ch’egli allaccia.
      E la schietta cintura che s’annoda
      Mi par dir seco: qui vo’ stringier sempre!
      Or che farebbon dunche le mie braccia?_


      _The blossom-twinèd garland of her hair
      Delighteth so to crown her sunny tress,
      That flowers one before the other press
      To be the first to kiss that forehead fair;
      Her gown all day puts on a blithesome air,
      Clingeth, then floweth free for happiness;
      Her meshèd net rejoiceth to caress
      The cheek whereby it lies, and nestle there;
      More fortunate, her golden-pointed lace
      Taketh her breathing in as close a hold
      As if it cherished what it may enfold;
      And simple zone that doth her waist embrace
      Seemeth to plead: “Here give me leave to stay!”
      What would my arms do, if they had their way?_

VII

      _Se nel volto per gli occhi il cor si vede,
      Altro segnio non ho più manifesto
      Delia mie fiamma: addunche basti or questo,
      Signior mie caro, a domandar mercede.
      Forse lo spirto tuo, con maggior fede
      Ch’io non credo, che sguarda il foco onesto
      Che m’arde, fie di me pietoso e presto;
      Come grazia ch’abbonda a chi ben chiede.
      O felice quel dì, se questo e certo!
      Fermisi in un momenta il tempo e l’ore,
      Il giorno e il sol nella su’ antica traccia;
      Acciò ch’i’ abbi, e non già per mie merto,
      Il desiato mie dolce signore
      Per sempre nell’indegnie e pronte braccia._


      _If eyes avail heart-passion to declare,
      My love requires no more explicit sign,
      For eloquent enow are looks of mine,
      O dear my mistress, to convey my prayer.
      Perchance, more credulous than I believe,
      Thou seest how purely doth my passion burn,
      And now art ready toward desire to turn,
      As he who asketh mercy must receive.
      If so befall, on that thrice happy day
      Let course of time be suddenly complete,
      The sun give over his primeval race;
      That through no merit of my own, I may
      Henceforth forever, my desirèd sweet
      In these unworthy, eager arms embrace!_


VIII

      _Spirto ben nato, in cui si specchia e vede
      Nelle tue belle membra oneste e care
      Quante natura e ’l ciel tra no’ può fare,
      Quand’ a null’altra suo bell’opra cede:
      Spirto leggiadro, in cui si spera e crede
      Dentro, come di fuor nel viso appare,
      Amor, pietà, mercè; cose sì rare,
      Che ma’ furn’ in beltà con tanta fede:
      L’amor mi prende, e la beltà mi lega;
      La pietà, la mercè con dolci sguardi
      Ferma speranz’ al cor par che ne doni.
      Qual uso o qual governo al mondo niega,
      Qual crudeltà per tempo, o qual più tardi,
      C’ a sì bel viso morte non perdoni?_


      _O spirit nobly born, wherein we see
      Through all thy members innocent and dear,
      As if reflected in a mirror clear,
      What Heaven and Nature can make life to be;
      O spirit gentle, where by faith we know
      Indwell what doth thy countenance declare,
      Love, Mercy, and Compassion, things so rare,
      That never beauty hath combined them so;
      The love to charm, the beauty to retain,
      The tenderness, the pity, to uphold
      By glances mild the soul that doubteth grace;
      What mortal law, what custom doth ordain,
      What doom unmerciful to young or old,
      That Death may not forgive so fair a face?_


IX

      _Dimmi di grazia, amor, se gli occhi mei
      Veggono ’l ver della beltà ch’aspiro,
      O s’io l’ho dentro allor che, dov’io miro,
      Veggio più bello el viso di costei.
      Tu ’l de’ saper, po’ che tu vien con lei
      A torm’ ogni mie pace, ond’io m’adiro;
      Nè vorre’ manco un minima sospiro,
      Nè men ardente foco chiederei.
      La beltà che tu vedi è ben da quella;
      Ma crescie poi ch’ a miglior loco sale,
      Se per gli occhi mortali all’alma corre.
      Quivi si fa divina, onesta e bella,
      Com’ a sè simil vuol cosa immortale:
      Questa, e non quella, a gli occhi tuo’ precorre._



      “_Love, be my teacher, of thy courtesy;
      The beauty, whither my regards aspire,
      Doth it exist? Or is what I admire
      Made beautiful by force of fantasy?
      Thou, Love, must know, who in her company
      Arrivest oft to vex me with desire,
      Although I would not choose to quench the fire,
      Abate its glow, nor part with any sigh._”
      “_The beauty thou hast seen from her did shine,
      And meet thy mortal vision; but its ray
      Ascended to the soul, a better place;
      There seemed she lovely, for a thing divine
      Hath joy of its own image; in this way
      Came beauty thou beholdest in her face._”


X

      _Non posso altra figura immaginarmi,
      O di nud’ombra o di terrestre spoglia,
      Col più alto pensier, tal che mie voglia
      Contra la tuo beltà di quella s’armi.
      Che, da te mosso, tanto sciender parmi,
      Ch’amor d’ogni valor mi priva e spoglia;
      Ond’ a pensar di minuir mie doglia,
      Duplicando, la morte viene a darmi.
      Però non val che più sproni mie fuga,
      Doppiando ’l corso alla beltà nemica;
      Che il men dal più velocie non si scosta.
      Amor con le sue man gli occhi m’asciuga,
      Promettendomi cara ogni fatica;
      Chè vile esser non può chi tanto costa._

      _My strong imagination cannot make
      From solid earth or air of reverie,
      The form of beauty, that my will can take
      To be its shield and armor against thee.
      Abandoned, I decline, till everything
      Doth vanish, that I am and I possess;
      The thought that haply I may suffer less,
      Destroyeth me beyond all suffering.
      No hope of safety, when to turn and flee
      Will only speed an enemy’s career;
      The slower from the fleeter cannot stray;
      Yet Love consoleth and caresseth me,
      Declaring that my toil may yet be dear;
      A thing so costly is not thrown away._


XI

      _La vita del mie amor non è ’l cor mio,
      Ch’amor, di quel ch’io t’amo, è senza core;
      Dov’è cosa mortal piena d’errore,
      Esser non può già ma’, nè pensier rio.
      Amor nel dipartir l’alma da Dio
      Me fe’ san occhio, e te luc’ e splendore;
      Nè può non rivederlo in quel che muore
      Di te, per nostro mal, mie gran disio.
      Come dal foco el caldo esser diviso
      Non può, dal bell’etterno ogni mie stima,
      Ch’esalta, ond’ella vien, chi più ’l somiglia.
      Tu c’hai negli occhi tutto ’l paradiso,
      Per ritornar là dov’i’ t’ama’ prima,
      Ricorro ardendo sott’alle tuo ciglia._


      _My love doth use no dwelling in the heart,
      But maketh mansion only in the soul;
      Fie entereth not where sinful hopes control,
      Where error and mortality have part.
      From source in God commanded to depart,
      Myself He made the eye, the lustre, thee;
      I cannot choose but His eternal see,
      In what, alas! is thy decaying part.
      No more may fire be sundered from its heat,
      Than my desire from that celestial Fair
      Whence thine derives, wherewith it doth compare;
      My soul, enkindled, maketh her retreat
      To primal home, where love did first arise,
      The Paradise secluded in thine eyes._


XII

      _I’ mi credetti, il primo giorno ch’ io
      Mira’ tante bellezze uniche e sole,
      Fermar gli occhi, com’ aquila nel sole,
      Nella minor di tante ch’ i’ desio.
      Po’ conosciut’ ho il fallo e l’ erro mio;
      Chè chi senz’ ale un angel seguir vole,
      Il seme a’ sassi, al vento le parole
      Indarno ispargie, e l’ intelletto a Dio.
      Dunche, s’ appresso il cor non mi sopporta
      L’ infinita beltà, che gli occhi abbaglia,
      Nè di lontan par m’ assicuri o fidi;
      Che fie di me? qual guida o quale scorta
      Fie che con teco ma’ mi giovi o vaglia,
      S’ appresso m’ ardi, e nel partir m’ uccidi?_

      _I deemed when erst upon my prospect shone
      The mateless splendor of thy beauty’s day,
      That as an eagle seeks the sun alone,
      I might have rested only on a ray.
      With lapse of time, mine error have I known,
      For who would soar in angels’ company,
      On stony ground his idle seed hath sown,
      Lost words in air, and thought in deity.
      If near at hand, I may not well abide
      Thy brilliancy that overcometh sight,
      And far, appear to leave consoling light,
      Ah, what shall I become? what friend, what guide,
      Will render aid, or plead my cause with thee,
      If either thou consum’st or grievest me?_


XIII

      _Veggio co’ bei vostri occhi un dolce lume,
      Che co’ miei ciechi già veder non posso;
      Porto co’ vostri piedi un pondo a dosso,
      Che de’ mie’ zoppi non è già costume;
      Volo con le vostr’ ale senza piume;
      Col vostr’ingegno al ciel sempre son mosso;
      Dal vostr’ arbitrio son pallido e rosso;
      Freddo al sol, caldo alle più fredde brume.
      Nel voler vostro è sol la voglia mia,
      I mie’ pensier nel vostro cor si fanno,
      Nel vostro fiato son le mia parole.
      Come luna da sè sol par ch’ io sia;
      Chè gli occhi nostri in del veder non sanno
      Se non quel tanto che n’ accende il sole._


      _With thy clear eyes I view a radiance fair,
      Before to my blind vision quite unknown;
      I carry with thy feet a weight, mine own,
      Of halting steps, were never free to bear;
      Upon thy wings I soar to heaven, and there
      By thy swift genius are its glories shown;
      I pale and redden at thy choice alone,
      Grow chill in sunlight, warm in frosty air.
      Thy will is evermore my sole desire,
      Within thy heart conceived each wish of mine,
      My accents framèd purely of thy breath;
      Like to the moon am I, that hath no fire,
      But only is beheld in heaven to shine
      According as the sun illumineth._


XIV

      _S’ un casto amor, s ’una pietà superna,
      S’ una fortuna infra dua amanti equale,
      S’ un’ aspra sorte all ’un dell’ altro cale,
      S’ un spirto, s’ un voler duo cor governa;
      S’ un’ anima in duo corpi è fatta eterna,
      Ambo levando al cielo e con pari ale;
      S’ amor d’ un colpo e d’ un dorato strale
      Le viscier di duo petti arda e discierna;
      S’ amar l’ un l’ altro, e nessun se medesmo,
      D’ un gusto e d’ un diletto, a tal mercede,
      C’ a un fin voglia l’ uno e l’ altro porre;
      Se mille e mille non sarien centesmo
      A tal nodo d’ amore, a tanta fede;
      E sol l’ isdegnio il può rompere e sciorre?_


      _If one chaste love, one sacred piety,
      One fortune sharèd ’twixt two lovers so,
      That either’s care from heart to heart may flow,
      Impelled by one desire, one energy;
      If bodies both are by one soul controlled,
      That wingèd bears them up to heaven’s gate;
      If love, with one essay, doth penetrate
      And burn two bosoms with one shaft of gold;
      If living each in other, self forgot,
      One liking, one felicity, awake
      One will to move toward one desirèd lot;
      If thousand ties as holy, fail to make
      A thousandth part; the consecrated knot,
      Shall pride, and pride alone, avail to break?_


XV

      _Perchè tuo gran bellezze al mondo sieno
      In donna più cortese e manco dura,
      Prego se ne ripigli la natura
      Tutte quelle ch’ ogn’ or ti vengon meno;
      E serbi a riformar del tuo sereno
      E divin volto una gientil figura
      Del ciel, e sia d’ amor perpetua cura
      Rifarne un cor di grazia e pietà pieno.
      E serbi poi i miei sospiri ancora,
      E le lacrime sparte insieme accoglia,
      E doni a chi quella ami un’ altra volta.
      Forse a pietà chi nascierà ’n quell ’ora
      La moverà con la mie propria doglia;
      Nè fia persa la grazia ch’ or m’ è tolta._


      _That womanhood more tender and less cold
      Be clothed with beauty equal and the same,
      I pray that heaven may from thee reclaim
      Her gifts, that hourly perish and grow old,
      Of thy serene and radiant face remould
      A gentle heavenly form, and Love assign
      The task to store a heart more mild than thine
      With mercies sweet and charities untold.
      My sighs let him preserve, from every place
      My fallen wasted tears unite again,
      And on the friend of this new fair bestow.
      Thus may befall, that he who sues for grace
      Compassion shall awaken by my pain,
      And love that I have lost be garnered so._


XVI

      _La ragion meco si lamenta e dole,
      Parte ch’i’ spero amando esser felice;
      Con forti esempli e con vere parole
      La mie vergognia mi ramenta, e dice:
      Che ne riportera’ dal vivo sole,
      Altro che morte? e non come fenice.
      Ma poco giova: chè chi cader vuole,
      Non basta l’altrui man pront’e vitrice.
      I’ conosco e mie’ danni, e ’l vero intendo:
      Dall’alta banda, albergo un altro core,
      Che più m’uccide dove più m’arrendo.
      In mezzo di due mort’è ’l mie signiore;
      Questa non voglio, e questa non comprendo:
      Così sospeso, il corpo e l’alma muore._


      _As oft as I am free to nourish faith
      That in my love may lie my happiness,
      With wisdom old and word of soberness
      Humility reproveth me, and saith:
      “What canst thou hope within the vivid sun,
      Save be consumed, and find no Phœnix-birth?”
      In vain; for helping hand is nothing worth
      To rescue life that fain would be undone.
      I hear her warn, my peril understand,
      Yet inwardly discern a heart concealed,
      That tortureth the more, the more I yield;
      Between two Deaths my lady seems to stand,
      One mystical, one hateful to espy;
      Irresolute, both soul and body die._


XVII

      _Non so se s’è la desiata luce
      Del suo primo fattor, che l’alma sente;
      O se dalla memoria della gente
      Alcun’altra beltà nel cor traluce;
      O se fama o se sognio alcun prodduce
      Agli occhi manifesto, al cor presente;
      Di sè lasciando un non so che cocente,
      Ch’è forse or quel ch’a pianger mi conduce;
      Quel ch’i’ sento e ch’i’ cerco: e chi mi guidi
      Meco non è; nè so ben veder dove
      Trovar mel possa, e par c’altri mel mostri.
      Questo, signior, m’avvien, po’ ch’i’ vi vidi;
      C’un dolce amaro, un sì e no mi muove:
      Certo saranno stati gli occhi vostri._


      _I know not if it be the longed-for light
      Of its Creator, that the soul doth feel,
      Or long-retentive Memory reveal
      Some creature-beauty, dwelling inly bright;
      Or if a history, a dream, I keep
      To eyes apparent, treasured in the heart,
      Whereof fermenteth some uneasy part,
      That now, perchance, inclineth me to weep;
      I long, I seek, and find not any guide,
      Nor whither, of myself have wit to know,
      Yet vague perceive a presence point the way;
      Such life I lead since thee my looks espied,
      From bitter change to sweet, from aye to no;
      I think, thine eyes lent that enkindling ray._


XVIII

      _Perchè Febo non torc’e non distende
      D’intorn’ a questo globo fredd’e molle
      Le braccia sua lucenti, el vulgo volle
      Notte chiamar quel sol che non comprende.
      E tant’è debol, che s’alcun accende
      Un picciol torchio, in quella parte tolle
      La vita dalla nott’; e tant’è folle,
      Che l’esca col fucil la squarcia e fende.
      E se gli è pur che qualche cosa sia,
      Cert’è figlia del sol e della terra;
      Chè l’un tien l’ombra, e l’altro sol la cria.
      Ma sia che vuol, che pur chi la loda erra;
      Vedova, scur’, in tanta gelosia,
      Ch’una lucciola sol gli può far guerra._


      _When Phœbus hath no mind to strain and press
      Our chilly sphere in his embraces bright,
      His negligence the multitude call Night,
      A name of absence, till he glow again.
      So impotent is she, so weak and vain,
      That kindle up a torch, its petty light
      Doth work her death; and frame she hath so slight,
      That flashing of a flint will rend in twain.
      If Night in her own self be anything,
      Call her the daughter of the Earth and Sun,
      The last creating, first receiving shade.
      Be what she may, how glorify a thing
      Widowed, dim-eyed, so easily undone,
      That glowworm’s lantern turneth her afraid?_


XIX

      _O nott’, o dolce tempo benchè nero
      (Con pace ogn’opra sempr’al fin assalta),
      Ben ved’e ben intende chi t’esalta;
      E chi t’onor’, ha l’intellett’intero.
      Tu mozzi e tronchi ogni stanco pensiero;
      Chè l’umid’ ombra ogni quiet’appalta:
      E dall’infima parte alla più alta
      In sogno spesso porti ov’ire spero.
      O ombra del morir, per cui sì ferma
      Ogni miseria l’alma al cor nemica,
      Ultimo delli afflitti e buon rimedio;
      Tu rendi sana nostra carn’inferma,
      Rasciug’i pianti, e posi ogni fatica,
      E furi a chi ben vive ogn’ir’e tedio._


      _O Night, O season in thy darkness sweet
      (For every toil falls peaceful to its close),
      He deemeth well who laudeth thy repose,
      And who exalteth, payeth homage meet.
      Thy dewy shade, with quiet falling slow,
      Divides the fret of never-pausing thought;
      From deep of being to the summit brought,
      In dream thou guidst me where I hope to go.
      Shadow of Death, the safe protecting gate
      Barred by the soul against her hunter Grief,
      Of human woe the final, only cure;
      The fever of the blood dost thou abate,
      Dry lingering tears, give weariness relief,
      And anger steal from him who liveth pure._


XX

      _Non vider gli occhi miei cosa mortale
      Allor che ne’ bei vostri intera pace
      Trovai; ma dentro, ov’ogni mal dispiace,
      Chi d’amor l’alma a sè simil m’assale.
      E se creata a Dio non fusse eguale,
      Altro che ’l bel di fuor, ch’agli occhi piace,
      Più non vorria; ma perch’è sì fallace,
      Trascende nella forma universale.
      Io dico, ch’a chi vive quel che muore
      Quetar non può disir; nè par s’aspetti
      L’eterno al tempo, ove altri cangia il pelo.
      Voglia sfrenata el senso è, non amore,
      Che l’alma uccide; e ’l nostro fa perfetti
      Gli amid qui, ma più per morte in cielo._


      _Mine eyes beheld no perishable thing,
      When holy peace I found in orbs of thine,
      And inwardly obtained a hope divine,
      A joy my kindred soul enamoring.
      Unless create God’s equal, to receive
      Equality with Him, she might depend
      On shows external; because these deceive,
      Toward universal form she doth transcend.
      Life cannot sate its wishes with decay,
      Nor yet Eternity commandment take
      From years wherein we wither and grow chill;
      ’Tis lust hath energy the soul to slay,
      Not love, that fain would the beloved make
      Perfect on earth, in heaven, more perfect still._

XXI

      _Per ritornar là donde venne fora,
      L’immortal forma al tuo carcer terreno
      Venne com’angel di pietà si pieno
      Che sana ogn’intelletto, e ’l mondo onora.
      Questo sol m’arde, e questo m’innamora;
      Non pur di fora il tuo volto sereno:
      Ch’amor non già di cosa che vien meno
      Tien ferma speme, in cu’ virtù dimora.
      Nè altro avvien di cose altere e nuove
      In cui si preme la natura; e ’l cielo
      È ch’a lor parto largo s’apparecchia.
      Nè Dio, suo grazia, mi si mostra altrove,
      Più che ’n alcun leggiadro e mortal velo;
      E quel sol amo, perchè ’n quel si specchia._


      _One day to rise toward height where it began,
      The form immortal to thine earthly cell,
      An angel of compassion, came to dwell
      With balm and healing for the mind of man.
      Such life it is that doth thy life endear,
      And not thy face serene, its envelope;
      In shadows that decline and disappear,
      Immortal Love cannot repose his hope.
      ’Tis true of all things marvellous and fair,
      Where Nature taketh forethought, and the sky
      Is bountiful in their nativity;
      God’s grace doth nowhere else so far prevail
      As where it shineth through a body’s veil;
      And that I love, for He is mirrored there._


XXII

      _Se ’l mie rozzo martello i duri sassi
      Forma d’uman aspetto or questo or quello,
      Dal ministro, ch’el guida iscorgie e tiello
      Prendendo il moto, va con gli altrui passi:
      Ma quel divin, ch’in cielo alberga e stassi,
      Altri, e sè più, col proprio andar fa bello;
      E se nessun martel senza martello
      Si può far, da quel vivo ogni altro fassi.
      E perchè ’l colpo è di valor più pieno
      Quant’alza più se stesso alla fucina,
      Sopra ’l mie, questo al ciel n’è gito a volo.
      Onde a me non finito verrà meno,
      S’or non gli dà la fabbrica divina
      Aiuto a farlo, c’al mondo era solo._


      _If my rude hammer lend enduring stone
      Similitude of life, being swayed and plied
      By arm of one who doth its labor guide,
      It moveth with a motion not its own;
      But that on high, which lieth by God’s throne,
      Itself, and all beside makes beautiful;
      And if no tool be wrought without a tool,
      The rest are fashioned by its power alone.
      As falls a blow with greater force and heat
      The further it descends, for forging mine,
      The lifted hammer high as heaven flew;
      Wherefore mine own will never be complete
      Unless perfected from the forge divine,
      For that which shaped it earth may not renew._




EPIGRAMMI/EPIGRAMS


I

      _Caro m’è ’l sonno, e più l’esser di sasso,
      Mentre che ’l danno e la vergogna dura:
      Non veder, non sentir, m’è gran ventura;
      Però non mi destar, deh! parla basso._


ON THE STATUE OF NIGHT IN THE MEDICEAN SACRISTY

      _Sweet is to sleep, and marble peace to know,
      Now, while dishonor and disgrace are near;
      ’Tis all my fortune not to see, nor hear;
      Therefore do not awake me; ah! speak low!_

II

      _Io dico a voi, ch’al mondo avete dato
      L’anima e ’l corpo e lo spirito ’nsieme:
      In questa cassa oscura è ’l vostro lato._


LINES WRITTEN ON A COFFIN CARRIED BY DEATH

      _Thou, thou, who hast bequeathèd to the world
      The spirit and the body and the soul,
      Here is thy home, here in this casket dim._


III

      _Amore è un concetto di bellezza
      Immaginata, cui sta dentro al core,
      Amica di virtute e gentilezza._


      _Love e’en is an idea, that may express
      Imagined beauty, dwelling in the heart,
      A friend of virtue and of gentleness._




MADRIGALI/MADRIGALS


I

      _Per molti, donna, anzi per mille amanti,
      Creata fusti, e d’angelica forma.
      Or par che ’n ciel si dorma,
      S’un sol s’apropia quel ch’è dato a tanti.
      Ritorna a nostri pianti
      Il sol degli occhi tuo’, che par che schivi
      Chi del suo dono in tal miseria è nato.
      Deh! non turbate i vostri desir santi:
      Chè chi di me par che vi spogli e privi,
      Col gran timor non gode il gran peccato.
      Chè degli amanti è men felice stato
      Quello, ove ’l gran desir gran copia affrena,
      C’una miseria di speranza piena._


FLORENTINE EXILES

      _For many, for a thousand lovers, thou,
      Lady, wert made of form angelical.
      Asleep, perchance, lie sealèd heavens now,
      While one enjoyeth grant designed for all.
      Ah render to our sighs
      The sunlight of thine eyes,
      That shunneth him, who into sorrow born,
      Doth languish of their benefit forlorn!_

THE CITY OF FLORENCE

      _Nay, calm your holy aspiration; know
      That he who maketh you my boon forego,
      In fear doth expiate his mighty crime.
      And aye with lovers sadder is the time,
      When love expireth of satiety,
      Than while aboundeth hope in misery._


II

      _Non sempre al mondo è sì pregiato e caro
      Quel che molti contenta,
      Che non sie ’lcun che senta,
      Quel ch’è lor dolce, spesse volte amaro.
      Il buon gusto è sì raro,
      Ch’a forza al vulgo cede,
      Allor che dentro di se stesso gode.
      Ond’io, perdendo, imparo
      Quel che di fuor non vede
      Chi l’alma attrista e’ suo’ sospir non ode.
      Il mondo è cieco, e di suo’ gradi o lode
      Più giova a chi più scarso esser ne suole:
      Come sferza che ’nsegnia, e parte duole._


      _However worship-worthy and complete
      Be deemed a work that many lovers know,
      May live the man who doth not find it so,
      Deriving bitter from the lauded sweet.
      Taste is so rare, a thing so isolate,
      That from the multitude it must recede,
      Alone upon internal joy to feed;
      Wherefore in self retired, and passionate,
      I see what vieweth not the outer eye,
      Cold to the soul and heedless of her sigh.
      The world is blind, and from its praises vain
      He learneth most who freest doth remain,
      Suffers, and hath a lesson in his pain._

III

      _Perchè è troppo molesta,
      Ancor che dolce sia,
      La grazia c’altru’ fa preda e prigione;
      Mie libertà, per questa
      Tuo somma cortesia,
      Più che d’un furto al vero amor s’oppone.
      Di par passi è ragione:
      Ma se l’un dà più che l’altro non dona,
      È ben giusta quistione;
      Che l’un sormonta, e l’altro non perdona._


      _’Tis burdensome, however it be sweet,
      The friendly boon that doth oblige the friend;
      My liberty, thy courtesy to meet,
      Worse than if robbed, doth with true love contend.
      The soul of friendship is equality;
      If friend more freely than his fellow give,
      Ariseth rivalry;
      The first excelleth, last doth not forgive._


IV

      _Ora in sul destro, ora in sul manco piede
      Variando, cerco della mia salute:
      Fra ’l vizio e la virtute
      Il cor confuso mi travaglia e stanca;
      Come chi ’l del non vede,
      Che per ogni sentier si perde, e manca.
      Porgo la carta bianca
      A’ vostri sacri inchiostri,
      Ch’amor mi sganni, e pietà ’l ver ne scriva:
      Che l’alma da sè franca
      Non pieghi a gli error nostri
      Mio breve resto, e che men cieco viva.
      Chieggio a voi, alta e diva
      Donna, saper se ’n ciel men grado tiene
      L’umil peccato che ’l superchio bene._


      _A pilgrim seeking my salvation still,
      From foot to foot I change,
      As wearily I range
      Quite indeterminate ’twixt good and ill,
      A stumbling farer-by,
      Who, viewless of the sky,
      Doth lose his way and wander at his will.
      The white and vacant leaf
      Inscribe with word of thine;
      Let love and pity come to my relief,
      And liberate my soul
      From dark and doubt-control
      For petty period that yet is mine.
      Lady, I ask thy saintliness divine,
      If heaven on high a lower seat provide
      For shamefast sin, than virtue satisfied?_


V

      _Gli occhi miei vaghi delle cose belle,
      E l’alma insieme della sua salute,
      Non hanno altra virtute
      Ch’ascenda al ciel, che mirar tutte quelle.
      Dalle più alte stelle
      Discende uno splendore,
      Che ’l desir tira a quelle;
      E qui si chiama amore.
      Nè altro ha gentil core,
      Che l’innamori e arda, e che ’l consigli,
      Ch’un volto che ne gli occhi lor somigli._


      _My glances pleased with everything that’s fair,
      My soul inclined toward her celestial gain,
      Devoid of power high heaven to attain,
      Can find no way, save only gazing there.
      Stars loftiest above
      A radiancy lend,
      Bidding desire ascend;
      That light is here named Love.
      Nor gentle heart hath any other friend
      To fortify, enamor, and advise,
      Than countenance with star-resembling eyes._

VI

      _Se dal cor lieto divien bello il volto,
      Dal tristo il brutto; e se donna aspra e bella
      Il fa, chi fie ma’ quella
      Che non ardi di me, com’io di lei?
      Po’ c’a destinguer molto
      Dalla mie chiara stella
      Da bello a bel fur fatti gli occhi mei;
      Contra sè fa costei
      Non men crudel, che spesso
      Dichi: dal cor mie, smorto il volto viene.
      Che s’altri fa se stesso,
      Pingendo donna; in quella
      Che farà po’ se sconsolato tiene?
      Dunc’anbo n’ arie bene,
      Ritrarla col cor lieto e ’l viso asciutto;
      Sè farie bella, e me non farie brutto._


      _If happy heart make beautiful the face,
      But sad heart foul; and for a lady’s sake
      Be born the cause that such effect doth make,
      How hath she courage for refusing grace
      To me, whose birth-star bright
      Accordeth the clear sight
      That rightly chooseth between fair and fair?
      Sure she who hath my mind
      Proves to herself unkind,
      My feature if she render full of care;
      For if in likeness shown
      A painter leaves his own,
      Small loveliness can wait
      On labor of a hand disconsolate.
      Then let her please to favor mine estate,
      That I may paint blithe heart and smiling eye;
      She will grow fair, and not unlovely I._


VII

      _Negli anni molti e nelle molte pruove,
      Cercando, il saggio al buon concetto arriva
      D’un’immagine viva,
      Vicino a morte, in pietra alpestra e dura:
      C’all’alte cose e nuove
      Tardi si viene, e poco poi si dura.
      Similmente natura
      Di tempo in tempo, d’uno in altro volto,
      S’al sommo, errando, di bellezza è giunta
      Nel tuo divino, è vecchia, e de’ perire.
      Onde la tema, molto
      Con la beltà congiunta,
      Di stranio cibo pasce il gran desire:
      Nè so pensar, nè dire,
      Qual nuoca o giovi più, visto ’l tuo ’spetto,
      O ’l fin dell’universo, o ’l gran diletto._


      _Year after year, essay beyond essay,
      Seeking, the lessoned maker doth arrive
      At the idea, he leaveth aye alive
      In alpine marble, though his life be flown;
      For only in the twilight of his day
      He reacheth what is noble and his own.
      Thus Nature, long astray
      From age to age, from face to fairer face,
      Hath finally achieved thy perfect grace,
      When she herself is old, and near her end.
      Therein I find to dwell
      A fear, that with thy loveliness doth blend,
      And my desire toward passion strange compel;
      I cannot think or tell,
      If sweet or painful be thy beauty bright,
      The worlds conclusion, or my love-delight._


VIII

      _Sì come per levar, donna, si pone
      In pietra alpestra e dura
      Una viva figura,
      Che là più crescie u’ più la pietra scema;
      Tal alcun’opre buone,
      Per l’alma che pur trema,
      Cela il superchio della propria carne
      Co l’inculta sua cruda e dura scorza.
      Tu pur dalle mie streme
      Parti puo’ sol levarne;
      Ch’in me non è di me voler nè forza._


      _In mountain-marble white,
      Doth hide a statue bright,
      That waxeth ever while the rock doth wane;
      E’en so from flesh-control
      The timid trembling soul
      Mine inward fair would liberate in vain.
      Lady, I look to thee
      Alone to set me free,
      For in myself doth will nor power remain._


IX

      _Se d’una pietra viva
      L’arte vuol che qui viva
      Al par degli anni il volto di costei;
      Che dovria il ciel di lei,
      Sendo mie questa, e quella suo fattura;
      Nè già mortal, ma diva,
      Non solo a gli occhi mei?
      E pur si parte, e picciol tempo dura.
      Dal lato destro è zoppa mie ventura,
      S’un sasso resta, e coste’ morte affretta.
      Chi ne farà vendetta?
      Natura sol, se de’ suo’ nati sola
      L’opra qua dura, e la suo ’l tempo invola._


      _In alpine stone and pure
      If art may bid endure
      Her countenance as long as summers flow;
      What period should heaven on her bestow,
      Its own creation, radiant and free,
      For others, as for me?
      And yet is she with fading life endued.
      My Fortune then in her best foot is lame,
      If Death the substance, Life the semblance claim.
      On whom devolves the feud?
      On Nature’s self, if of her sons alone
      The work survive, and Time despoil her own._

X

      _Non pur d’argento o d’oro,
      Vinto dal foco, esser po’ piena aspetta
      Vota d’opra perfetta
      La forma, che sol fratta il tragge fora:
      Tal io, col foco ancora
      D’amor dentro ristoro
      Il desir voto di beltà infinita,
      Di costei ch’i’ adoro,
      Anima e cor della mie fragil vita.
      Alta donna e gradita
      In me discende per si brevi spazi,
      C’a trarla fora, convien mi rompa e strazi._


      _For silver or for gold,
      After in fire these have been made to flow,
      Doth wait the empty mould,
      That shattered, will the lovely image show;
      Through passion-ardor, so
      My vacancy I store
      With the divine unbounded loveliness
      Of her whom I adore,
      The soul and essence of my fragileness,
      Whose beauty doth inpour,
      And occupy by passages so strait,
      That broken I must be to liberate._


XI

      _Beati, voi che su nel ciel godete
      Le lacrime che ’l mondo non ristora,
      Favvi amor guerra ancora,
      O pur per morte liberi ne siete?
      La nostra eterna quiete,
      Fuor d’ogni tempo, è priva
      D’invidia amando, e d’angosciosi pianti.
      Dunche a mal pro ch’i’ viva
      Convien, come vedete,
      Per amare e servire in dolor tanti.
      Se ’l cielo è degli amanti
      Amico, e ’l mondo ingrato
      Amando, a che son nato?
      A viver molto? E questo mi spaventa:
      Chè ’l poco è troppo a chi ben serve e stenta._


      _“O blessed spirits, who in world’s release
      Are recompensed for tears it could not pay,
      Tell me if Love wage war on you alway,
      Or Death hath yonder made his quarrel cease?”
      “Our everlasting peace,
      All time beyond, here loveth unacquaint
      With mortal lovers’ sorrow and complaint.”
      “Then sad it is for me
      To linger, as you see,
      Loving and serving where my heart doth faint.
      If Heaven be lovers’ friend,
      And Earth their anguish lend,
      Need I live long? The thought doth cause me fear;
      To wistful lover minutes years appear.”_


XII

      _Non pur la morte, ma ’l timor di quella
      Da donna iniqua e bella,
      Ch’ogn’or’ m’ancide, mi difende e scampa:
      E se tal’or m’avvampa
      Più, che ’l usato il foco in ch’io son corso,
      Non trovo altro soccorso
      Che l’imagin sua ferma in mezzo il core;
      Che dove è morte non s’appressa amore._


      _Not Death alone, but his indwelling dread
      Doth succor and set free
      From sway of one unjust as cherishèd,
      Who constantly doth make assault on me;
      As oft as flameth with unwonted force
      The fire that folds me, I have no resource
      Save keep his image central in the heart;
      Where Death abides, Love hath not any part._


XIII

      _S’egli è che ’l buon desio
      Porti dal mondo a Dio
      Alcuna cosa bella,
      Sol la mie donna è quella,
      A chi ha gli occhi fatti com’ho io.
      Ogni altra cosa oblio,
      E sol di tant’ho cura.
      Non è gran maraviglia,
      S’io l’amo e bramo e chiamo a tutte l’ore:
      N’è proprio valor mio,
      Se l’alma per natura
      S’appoggia a chi somiglia
      Ne gli occhi gli occhi, ond’ella scende fore;
      Se sente il primo Amore
      Come suo fin, per quel qua questa onora:
      Ch’amar diè ’l servo ch’el signore adora._


      _If any beauteous thing
      Can human hope exalt to God on high,
      For one who hath the vision made as I,
      Alone my lady may like comfort bring;
      Wherefore it is not strange,
      If from the rest I range
      To love her, to pursue and supplicate;
      ’Tis Nature’s law, not mine,
      That bids the soul incline
      Toward eyes reminding of its first estate,
      Whereby it hath recourse
      To its own end and source,
      The primal Love, that her with beauty storeth;
      He loves the vassal, who the lord adoreth._


XIV

      _Quantunche ver sia, che l’alta e divina
      Pietà qui mostri il tuo bel volto umano;
      Donna, il placer lontano
      M’è tardi sì, che dal tuo non mi parto:
      C’all’ alma pellegrina
      Gli è duro ogn’altro sentiero erto e arto.
      Ond’il tempo comparto,
      Per gli occhi il giorno e per la notte il core;
      A l’acque l’uno, a l’altro il foco ardente;
      Senz’intervallo alcun, ch’al cielo aspiri.
      Dal destinato parto
      Si mi ti dette amore,
      Ch’alzar non oso i mie’ ardenti desiri;
      Se ’l ver non è, che tiri
      La mente al ciel per grazia o per mercede:
      Tardi ama il cor quel l’occhio non vede._


      _Though true it be, that Charity divine
      Show mirrored in yon lovely face of thine,
      Yet, lady, moves the distant hope so slow,
      That from thy beauty I lack power to go;
      The pilgrim soul, that would with thee delay,
      Finds rough and stern the strait and narrow way.
      My time I therefore part,
      To eyes give day, and darkness to the heart,
      To last the water, and to first the fire,
      No interval, toward heaven to aspire.
      A destiny of birth
      Enchained me to the earth
      In grant of thee, save mercy of the sky
      Please to descend, and lift my heart on high;
      Heart will not love what looks cannot espy._

XV

      _A l’alta tuo lucente diadema
      Per la strada erta e lunga
      Non è, donna, chi giunga,
      S’umiltà non v’aggiugni e cortesia:
      Il montar cresce, e ’l mie valore scema;
      E la lena mi manca a mezza via.
      Che tuo beltà pur sia
      Superna, al cor par che diletto renda,
      Che d’ogni rara altezza è giotto e vago:
      Po’ per gioir della tuo leggiadria,
      Bramo pur che discenda
      La dov’aggiungo: e ’n tal pensier m’appago,
      Se ’l tuo sdegnio presago,
      Per basso amare e alto odiar tuo stato,
      A te stessa per dona il mie peccato._

      _Thy lucent-crownèd beauty to attain
      Upon a narrow and laborious way,
      The pilgrim vainly maketh his essay,
      Save thy humility his feet forestall;
      The path aspireth while the strength doth wane,
      And midway on the road I pant and fall.
      Although thy loveliness celestiäl
      Be heaven’s thing, yet aye it doth delight
      The heart inclined toward stranger of the height;
      Wherefore thy sweetness full to comprehend,
      I long to have thee stoop, and condescend
      As low as I, of the idea content,
      If thy disdain severe and prescient
      Itself forgive for sinfulness of mine,
      To love thee lowly, and to hate divine._


XVI

      _Deh! dimmi, amor, se l’alma di costei
      Fosse pietosa com’ha bell’il volto,
      S’alcun saria sì stolto
      Ch’a sè non si togliessi e dessi a lei?
      Et io che più potrei
      Servirla, amarla, se mi foss’amica;
      Che, sendomi nemica,
      L’amo più ch’allor far non doverrei?_


     _Ah tell me, Love, had she a heart as kind
      As beauty that her feature doth partake,
      Could there be found the wretch so dull and blind,
      That would not choose himself from self to take,
      And give to her? Yet even if she grew
      My loving friend, what more could I bestow,
      When in her coldness, while she seems my foe,
      I love her better than I else could do?_


XVII

      _Come può esser ch’io non sia più mio?
      O dio, o dio, o dio!
      Chi mi tolse a me stesso,
      Ch’a me fusse più presso,
      O più di me, che mi possa esser io?
      O dio, o dio, o dio!
      Come mi passa ’l core
      Chi non par che mi tocchi!
      Che cosa è questa, amore,
      Ch’al core entra per gli occhi;
      E s’avvien che trabocchi
      Per poco spazio, dentro par che cresca?_


      _How came to pass that I am mine no more?
      Ah me!
      Who took myself from me
      To draw more close to me
      Than ever I could be,
      More dearly mine, than I myself before?
      Ah me!
      How reached he to the heart
      Touching no outward part?
      Who prithee may Love be,
      That entered at the eyes,
      And if in breathèd sighs
      He go abroad, increaseth inwardly?_


XVIII

      _Ogni cosa ch’i’ veggio mi consiglia,
      E prega, e forza ch’io vi segua et ami;
      Chè quel che non e voi, non è il mio bene.
      Amor, che sprezza ogni altra maraviglia,
      Per mia salute vuol ch’io cerchi e brami
      Voi sole solo: e così l’alma tiene
      D’ogni alta spene e d’ogni valor priva;
      E vuol ch’io arda e viva
      Non sol di voi, ma chi di voi somiglia
      Degli occhi e delle ciglia alcuna parte.
      E chi da voi si parte,
      Occhi mia vita, non ha luce poi;
      Chè ’l ciel non è dove non sete voi._


      _All Nature urgently doth me advise,
      Implore, compel, to follow thee, and cling
      To my sole blessed thing.
      Love, who doth other loveliness despise,
      To make me seek salvation only here,
      Doth in my heart destroy
      Desire of other joy,
      And only measure of delight allow
      In beauty semblant to thine eye and brow;
      Yet being no longer near
      To you, clear eyes, its light hath ceased to shine,
      For only where you dwell is heaven of mine._


XIX

      _Chi è quel che per forza a te mi mena,
      Ohimè ohimè ohimè!
      Legato e stretto, e son libero e sciolto?
      Se tu ’ncateni altrui senza catena,
      E senza mani o braccia m’hai raccolto,
      Chi mi difenderà dal tuo bel volto?_


      _Who theeward draws me, spite my striving vain?
      Ah woe is me!
      Am I at once imprisonèd and free?
      If thou dost chain me without any chain,
      And handless, armless, all my life embrace,
      Who shall defend me from thy lovely face?_

XX

      _Se ’l commodo de gli occhi alcun constringe
      Con l’uso, parte insieme
      La ragion perde, e teme;
      Che più s’inganna quel ch’a sè più crede:
      Onde nel cor dipinge
      Per bello quel a picciol beltà cede.
      Ben vi fo, donna, fede
      Che ’l commodo nè ’l uso non m’ha preso,
      Sì di raro e mie’ veggion gli occhi vostri
      Circonstritti ov’a pena il desir vola.
      Un punto sol m’ha acceso;
      Nè più vi vidi ch’una volta sola._


      _If habit of the eyes engender ease,
      Faint Reason on her way
      Feareth to go astray,
      Lest inwardly she taketh
      For beauty fair, what beauty quite forsaketh.
      Lady, it doth appear
      That ease and custom have not made you dear,
      For that my looks are foreign to your own,
      Toward whose confìne my wishes dare not soar;
      I was inflamèd in a breath alone;
      Your feature I have gazed on once, no more._


XXI

      _Un uomo in una donna, anzi uno dio,
      Per la sua bocca parla:
      Ond’io per ascoltarla
      Son fatto tal, che ma’ più sarò mio.
      I’ credo ben, po’ ch’io
      A me da lei fu tolto,
      Fuor di me stesso aver di me pietate:
      Si sopra ’l van desio
      Mi sprona il suo bel volto,
      Ch’io veggio morte in ogn’altra beltate.
      O donna, che passate
      Per acqua e foco l’alme a’ lieti giorni,
      Deh fate ch’a me stesso più non torni!_


      _Thoughts of a man, nay of a god alone,
      Her lips of woman render eloquent;
      Whence I, who listen purely with content,
      May nevermore depart and be mine own.
      Since she my life hath taken,
      And self have I forsaken,
      I pity self that I was wont to be.
      From wavering will astray
      Her fair face maketh free,
      Till other beauty death appears to me.
      Thou, who dost souls convey
      To Paradise through chastening fire and wave,
      Lest I to self return, dear lady, save!_


XXII

      _Io dico che fra noi, potenti dei,
      Convien ch’ogni riverso si sopporti!
      Poi che sarete morti
      Di mille ’ngiurie e torti,
      Amando te com’or di lei tu ardi,
      Far ne potrai giustamente vendetta.
      Ahimè lasso chi pur tropp’aspetta
      Ch’i’ gionga a’ suoi conforti tanto tardi!
      Ancor, se ben riguardi,
      Un generoso alter’e nobil core
      Perdon’, e porta a chi l’offend’amore._


FLORENTINE EXILE

      _O’er us, I think, divinities on high!
      Impendeth every shameful overthrow!_


MICHELANGELO

      _Albeit thou underlie
      A thousand deaths of injury and woe,
      A period will be,
      When loved by her as she is loved by thee,
      Thou mayest the sweet of lawful vengeance know._


FLORENTINE EXILE

      _Alas! for aye aweary doth he dwell,
      Who waiteth for his comfort coming slow!
      And perfect truth to tell,
      A generous heart, of proud nobility,
      Forgiveth, and doth love its enemy._


XXIII

      _S’alcuna parte in donna è che sia bella,
      Benchè l’altre sian brutte,
      Debb’io amarle tutte
      Pel gran placer ch’io prendo sol di quella?
      La parte che s’appella,
      Mentre il gioir n’attrista,
      A la ragion, pur vuole
      Che l’innocente error si scusi e ami.
      Amor, che mi favella
      Della noiosa vista,
      Com’irato dir suole,
      Che nel suo regno non s’attenda o chiami.
      E ’l ciel pur vuol ch’io brami
      A quel che spiace non sia pietà vana;
      Chè ’l uso agli occhi ogni malfatto sana._


      _If that she own a feature passing fair,
      While void of happy liking live the rest,
      Ought I affection toward the whole to bear,
      For sake of beauty by the one possessed?
      The lovely part, distrest,
      My praise doth deprecate,
      And sue to Reason for her sisters’ sake,
      That also they be cherished, and forgiven
      For fault they did not mean. Then Love, irate,
      Who thinketh but on pain that they have given,
      Saith, in his court there lieth no appeal.
      Yet Heaven willeth fondness that I feel,
      When toward her imperfection merciful,
      Time maketh her, for me, all beautiful._


XXIV

      _Mestier non era all’alma tuo beltate
      Legarme vinto con alcuna corda;
      Che, se ben mi ricorda,
      Sol d’uno sguardo fui prigione e preda:
      C’alle gran doglie usate
      Forz’è c’un debil cor subito ceda.
      Ma chi fie ma’ che creda,
      Preso da’ tuo’ begli occhi in brevi giorni
      Un legnio secco e arso verde torni?_


      _Thy sweetness had no need of cord or chain
      Its prisoner to bind;
      Too well I bear in mind,
      How I was conquered by a glance alone;
      The heart subdued by many an ancient pain
      Hath lost the fortitude it erst did own.
      Yet who hath ever known,
      That wakened by a look, in time so brief,
      A withered tree should kindle and bear leaf?_


XXV

      _Amor, se tu se’ dio,
      Non puo’ ciò che tu vuoi?
      Deh fa’ per me, se puoi,
      Quel ch’io farei per te, s’amor fuss’io!
      Sconviensi al gran desio
      D’alta beltà la speme,
      Viepiù l’effetto, a chi è presso al morire.
      Pon nel tuo grado il mio:
      Dolce gli fie chi ’l preme?
      Chè grazia per poc’ or, doppia ’l martire.
      Ben ti voglio ancor dire:
      Che sarie morte, s’a’ miseri è dura,
      A chi muor giunto all’alta sua ventura?_


      “_O love, thou art divine,
      A god to work thy will;
      Prithee, for me fulfil
      All I would do for thee, if deity were mine._”
      “_He were no friend of thine,
      Who hope of lofty beauty should bestow
      On one who presently must life forego;
      Come put thee in my place,
      Thy idle prayer retrace;
      Wilt thou implore a gain,
      That granted, only would enlarge the pain?
      Death hath a sober face;
      If even the unhappy find him rude,
      How stern to one arrived at full beatitude?_”




NOTES ON THE SONNETS EPIGRAMS AND MADRIGALS




[Illustration: (Decorative header)]

NOTES ON THE SONNETS

_The Roman numbers, in the Introduction and Notes, refer to the
numeration of Guasti (Le Rime di Michelangelo Buonarroti, Florence,
1863)._


ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS OF THE POEMS.--On the corrupted texts of 1623
were based the versions of J. E. Taylor (Michael Angelo considered as
a Philosophic Poet. With Translations. London, 1840), and of J. S.
Harford (Life of Michael Angelo Buonarroti. With Translations of many
of his Poems and Letters. London, 1857). The beautiful renderings of
Wordsworth (five sonnets) depended on the same faulty presentation.
The correct texts of Guasti were followed by J. A. Symonds in his
complete translation of the sonnets (The Sonnets of Michael Angelo
Buonarroti and Tommasi Campanella. London, 1878). In his biography
of the sculptor (The Life of Michael-Angelo Buonarroti. London,
1893), Symonds rendered several of the madrigals. A selection from
the poems, with the Italian text, and renderings by different hands,
was edited by Mrs. E. D. Cheney (Selected Poems from Michael-Angelo
Buonarroti. With Translations from various sources. Boston, 1885).
This publication includes thirteen epitaphs for Cecchino Bracchi, and
the verses written by Michelangelo on the death of his father, as well
as a number of the sonnets of the last period (after 1547). Versions
of single sonnets may be found scattered through periodical literature.


1 [I] Donato Giannotti wrote an essay concerning the duration of
the journey through Hell and Purgatory, as related in the “Divina
Commedia.” This discussion he cast into the form of a dialogue, in
which Michelangelo is given the principal part; the conversation is
dated as taking place in 1545, and one of the interlocutors is made
to recite the sonnet which, with doubtful accuracy, is said to have
been composed a few days before. The work of Giannotti is interesting
as containing the estimate of a contemporary concerning the character
of Michelangelo, but the words assigned to him cannot be considered
as a record of his actual expressions. The essayist seems to have
applied to the artist for material, as indicated by the subscription
of the following sonnet, probably composed at this time.


[II]

QUANTE DIRNE SI DE’ NON SI PUÒ DIRE

      _His praise remains unuttered, for his fire
      Of glory burneth with o’ervivid flame;
      The home that wronged him easier to blame,
      Than toward his humblest merit to aspire.
      This man for us descended, where God’s ire
      Subdueth sin, once more toward heaven rose;
      The gates that his Creator did not close,
      A cruel city barred to his desire.
      Ah ruthless mother, nurse of her own woe,
      In measure as her sons are excellent,
      Their sorrow making bitterly to flow!
      Of thousand instances one argument;
      No man hath lived more shamefully exiled,
      No age hath known a like, a greater child._


2 [XIV] The sketch, characterized by rude vigor, lacks the truth and
harmony essential to a beautiful work; these qualities are to be
attained by the final touches of the hammer, or, as we should now
say, of the chisel. So it is only the influence of the beloved person
which can perfect the incomplete design of Nature, and bestow on the
character its final excellence. Of all the sonnets, this is the most
celebrated.

Respecting an inferior variant, the younger Buonarroti, in an
obscure mention, appears to say that it was contained in a letter
of the sculptor written in 1550, which letter made mention of
the marchioness of Pescara; and this assertion has led Guasti to
refer the sonnet to that date. It is quite clear, however, that
the treatment does not belong to the later period, after the death
of Vittoria Colonna, in which the productions of Michelangelo had
assumed the monotone of a colorless piety. It seems to me more likely
that the time of composition is to be set earlier than 1534, and that
the conception, ideal in character, had no relation to Vittoria, with
whom the sculptor had perhaps not yet become acquainted.


3 [XV] The sculptor, who is designated as the best of artists, on
beholding the block of marble at his disposal, obtains the suggestion
of a statue; this possible work appears to him as a figure concealed
beneath the veil of superincumbent matter, which he proceeds to
remove. His success will depend on the clearness of internal vision;
if he lack the vivid conception, the result will be an abortive
product, which metaphorically may be called a likeness of Death. So
if the lover, in place of the “mercy” which he desires to awaken, can
create in the heart of his lady only a feeling inconsistent with his
wishes, the blame should be laid solely to his own insufficiency.
The idea is poetic, not philosophic, and the sonnet a poem of love,
belonging to what I have called the earlier manner of the poet. The
sonnet has been paraphrased by Emerson:--

      _Never did sculptor’s dream unfold
      A form which marble doth not hold
      In its white block; yet it therein shall find
      Only the hand secure and bold
      Which still obeys the mind.
      So hide in thee, thou heavenly dame,
      The ill I shun, the good I claim;
      I, alas! not well alive,
      Miss the aim whereto I strive.
      Not love, nor beauty’s pride,
      Nor fortune, nor thy coldness can I chide,
      If whilst within thy heart abide
      Both death and pity, my unequal skill
      Fails of the life, but draws the death and ill._

In this rendering the fourth line is open to criticism; it is not
want of manual skill that is the cause of failure, but the inability
to form an adequate idea. Harford modernizes the introductory lines:--

      _Whate’er conception a great artist fires,
      Its answering semblance latent lies within
      A block of marble._

The metaphor is thus reduced to the scholastic platitude, that in
all matter lies the potentiality of form. So Varchi understood
the lines, and cites Aristotle as authority that the action of an
agent is nothing but the extraction of a thing from potency to act;
with changes on such intolerable jargon he occupies two pages. The
lecture, intended to be flattering, only serves to show with what
contemporary crassness the delicate conceptions of Michelangelo were
obliged to struggle.


4 [XVII] The contrast between the permanence of the artistic product
and the transitoriness of the mortal subject suggests reflections
which may take different turns. (See madrigal No. 9 [XIII].) One is
reminded of certain sonnets of Shakespeare.


5 [XIX] The lover feels himself enriched by the impression of the
beloved, which, like the divine name on the seal of Solomon, confers
the power of working miracles. The pretty composition is among the
few which may be said to be inspired by a really cheerful and joyous
sentiment, and, like the preceding, may be held to belong to the
earlier manner of the poet.


6 [XX] This most beautiful sonnet, somewhat immature in its music,
is a precious relic of Michelangelo’s early love verse. The poem was
written below a letter from his father, received in Bologna, and
dated 24 December, 1507. Subscribed is the line: _La m’arde e lega et
emmi e parmi un zucchero_. “She burns me and binds me and eats me,
and I think her a sugarplum.” The lines, therefore, have a biographic
inspiration, and may be presumed to have been in honor of some young
beauty of Bologna. A fragment of a madrigal seems akin.


[CII]

      _Lezzi, vezzi, carezze, or feste e perle;
      Chi potria ma’ vederle
      Cogli atti suo’ divin l’uman lavoro,
      Ove l’argento e l’oro
      Da le’ ricieve o duplica suo luce?
      Ogni gemma più luce
      Dagli occhi suo’ che da propia virtute._

      “_Looks, laughter, graces, gaud, and pearl;
      Who that gazeth on the girl
      Ever hath a thought to spare
      For the gold that gleameth there,
      Or if silver sparkle fair?
      Every gem that on her lies
      Borroweth lustre from her eyes._”

In this connection also should be cited the sonnet which Guasti
has placed next in order, and which also seems to contain internal
evidence of belonging to a period relatively early.


[XXI]

D’ALTRUI PIETOSO E SOL DI SÈ SPIETATO

      _To others kind, and only self-oppressed,
      Doth live a lowly worm, that to adorn
      A lady’s beauty will her life divest,
      In death alone appearing nobly born.
      So would my lady might esteem no scorn
      Her life in my mortality to vest,
      That I might shed this slough, and be reborn
      Forth from my being to a state more blest.
      Would that of me the silken thread were twined,
      That fashioned to her happy gown, doth use
      So fair a bosom with content to bind,
      By day at least to wear me; or the shoes,
      That like the column’s base, her steps sustain,
      If only in the falling of the rain!_

It would seem that these remains of the poetical activity of early
manhood, though not numerous, are yet sufficient to refute the
rash generalizations of biographers who undertake to sum up the
personality from their impressions of the artistic product. It
does seem strange that with these lines before him, Mr. Symonds
could have written: “Michelangelo emerges as a mighty master who
was dominated by the vision of male beauty, and who saw the female
mainly through the fascination of the other sex. The defect of
his art is due to a certain constitutional callousness, a want
of sensuous or imaginative sensibility for what is specifically
feminine.... Michelangelo neither loved nor admired nor yielded to
the female sex.... I find it difficult to resist the conclusion
that Michelangelo felt himself compelled to treat women as though
they were another and less graceful sort of males. What he did not
comprehend and could not represent was woman in her girlishness, her
youthful joy, her physical attractions, her magic of seduction....
What makes Michelangelo’s crudity in his plastic treatment of the
female form the more remarkable is that in his poetry he seems to
feel the influence of women mystically. I shall have to discuss this
topic in another place. It is enough here to say that, with very
few exceptions, we remain in doubt whether he is addressing a woman
at all. There are none of those spontaneous utterances by which a
man involuntarily expresses the outgoings of his heart to a beloved
object, the throb of irresistible emotion, the physical ache, the
sense of wanting, the joys and pains, the hopes and fears, which
belong to genuine passion.... Michelangelo’s ‘donna’ might just as
well be a man; and indeed, the poems he addressed to men, though they
have nothing sensual about them, reveal a finer touch in the emotion
of the writer.” (Life, vol. i, c. vi, 8. See vol. ii, pp. 381-5.)

The reasons for the limitation which may have prevented Michelangelo
from adequately representing the sensuous aspect of womanhood, should
be sought in the character of his plastic genius. So far as the power
of appreciation is concerned, and especially in regard to the spirit
of the verse, the opinion of Mr. Symonds appears to me to reverse the
fact. The nature of the artist may be pronounced especially sensitive
to the physical influence of woman. If, in the extant poetry, this
sentiment appears in chastened form, such calmness may be set down
solely to the period of life. Yet even in these later compositions,
extreme impressibility is revealed in every line. Mr. Symonds’s error
has prevented him from entering into the spirit of the sonnets, and
also constitutes a deficiency in his instructive biography. (See note
to sonnet No. 13 [XXX].)


7 [XXII] The verse, direct and passionate, though doubtless of
a later date, still bears the character of pieces which must be
pronounced relatively early. Observable is the use of theologic
metaphor, employed only for the sake of poetic coloring, and not yet
sublimed to pure thought.


8 [XXIV] This delightful sonnet, according to the nephew, was found
on a letter bearing date of 1529. (See p. 7.) The lines seem to give
the idea of a gentle and lovely personage whose countenance shines
out as through a golden mist. In later compositions, the conflict of
Death and Love is worked out differently. (See madrigal No. 9 [XIII].)


9 [XXV] On the same authority, this inexpressibly charming production
is assigned to 1529. Here appear the germs of Platonic imagination.
The soul, a divine essence, endows the visible suggestion with the
spiritual essence derived from its own store. But the object is not
completely divinized; the end is still possession. The reflective
element will increase, the sensuous lessen, until poetry passes over
into piety.


10 [XXVII] The love verse is not to be taken as wholly biographic,
but rather as ideal.


11 [XXVIII] The atmosphere of the sonnet is that of later time and
of a more rarefied height. We are now in full Platonism. The soul,
heaven-born, perceives in the eyes of the beloved its primal home,
the Paradise whence itself has descended, and the heavenly affection
of which earthly love is a reminiscence. But the period may still be
before the Roman residence, and the meeting with Vittoria Colonna.


12 [XXIX] This sonnet may safely be set down as belonging to the
later time. The sentiment of unhappy attachment, impossible desire,
wistful loneliness, breathes through the verse. The piece contains
two mystical but grand lines. Whoever has hoped for an elevation not
given to mortals has wasted his thought in the endeavor to penetrate
the recesses of deity, as seed is lost on the stony ground, and words
spent in the limitless air.


13 [XXX] This gentle and tender poem, of the earlier period, somewhat
similar in sentiment to No. 5 [XIX], and obviously from the heart, is
penetrated by the same feeling as that discernible in Nos. 8 and 9
[XXIV and XXV]. Varchi, with his characteristic want of perception,
chose to fancy that it might be addressed to a man, like the
following, said to be composed for Tommaso Cavalieri.


[XXXI]

A CHE PIÙ DEBB’IO MAI L’INTENSA VOGLIA

      _What right have I to give my passion vent
      In bitter plaint and words of sighing breath,
      If Heaven, soon or late, apparelleth
      Each living soul in mantle of lament?
      Why ere his time, invoke the feet of Death,
      When Death will come? Nay, rather let my glance
      At last dwell peaceful on his countenance,
      Since other good my sorrow vanquisheth.
      Yet if no power is mine to shun the blow
      I court and seek; what help will be my own,
      To interpose ’twixt dolor and delight?
      Since prison and defeat allure me so,
      It is not strange, if naked and alone,
      I remain captive of an armèd knight._

The words _cavalier armato_ are supposed to have referred to the
aforesaid Cavalieri, a Roman youth whom Varchi describes as all that
was beautiful and lovable. The highest male beauty seems to have had
for Italians of the Renaissance, an attraction similar to that which
it possessed for Athenians, a charm which our modern taste does not
entirely comprehend. Thus the early death of Cecchino Bracchi had
produced a great sensation; the epitaphs addressed to his memory by
Michelangelo, who had never looked on his face, attest the sincerity
of his own sentiment. For Cavalieri, whom the artist had known in
1533, he seems to have what can be described only as a passion;
the three extant letters addressed to the young man breathe that
timidity, sense of inferiority, and fear of misunderstanding which
ordinarily belong only to sexual attachment. This emotion needs
no apology other than that contained in a letter to this friend:
“And if you are sure of my affection, you ought to think and know
that he who loveth remembereth, and can no more forget the things
he fervently loves, than a hungry man the food that nourishes him;
nay, much less may one forget beloved objects than the food on which
man liveth; for they nourish both soul and body, the last with the
greatest sobriety, and the first with tranquil felicity and the
expectation of everlasting salvation.” (Lettere, No. 4, 16.) The
susceptibility of Michelangelo toward external impressions is noted
by Giannotti, who makes him affirm that as often as he set eyes
on any person endowed with excellence he could not help becoming
enamored of him in such manner that he surrendered himself to him as
a prey. (Guasti, Rime, p. XXXI.) To the point is Michelangelo’s own
estimate of his character expressed in a sonnet.


[XVIII]

AL COR DI ZOLFO, ALLA CARNE DI STOPPA

      _The heart of sulphur and the flesh of tow,
      The bones inflammable as tinder dried,
      The soul without a bridle, without guide,
      In liking prompt, toward joy o’erswift to go,
      The reason purblind, halting, lame, and slow,
      Tangled in nets wherewith the world doth teem,
      No marvel ’tis, if even in a gleam
      I kindle up in flame that first doth glow.
      With that fair art endowed, whereby the mind
      From heaven that bringeth, Nature doth outvie,
      And with itself all being occupy,
      If I thereto was born nor deaf nor blind,
      Proportionate to heat that I desire,
      ’Tis fault of him who made for me the fire._

It is well to know that Cavalieri seems to have had a modest
and noble nature, and that his personal attachment and artistic
appreciation soothed the declining days of Michelangelo, at whose end
he was present.

The mention of Michelangelo himself (Lettere, No. 466; Symonds, Life,
vol. ii, p. 130) seems to prove that this sonnet was really composed
for his young friend. But it is one thing to conclude that the piece
was addressed to Cavalieri, quite another to suppose that it was
inspired by him. The ideas are the same as those elsewhere appearing
in reference to women. The composition does not appear to me one of
the most original, and I should be disposed to regard it as ordinary
love verse, into which, out of compliment, the writer had introduced
the punning allusion. In any case, it is to be observed that in the
Platonic compositions treating of male friendship, the whole argument
is metaphorical, the comparisons being borrowed from the earlier
poetry of sexual love.

Fundamental is the question, What proportion of Michelangelo’s
verse was intended to relate to men, and how far can such verse, if
existent, be taken to imply that he had no separate way of feeling
for women? The opinions of Mr. Symonds have already been cited
(see note to No. 6 [XX]). In noticing Michelangelo’s use of the
idiomatic Tuscan word _signore_, lord, as applied in the sonnets to
female persons as well as male (the English _liege_ may similarly be
used), he says, “But that Michelangelo by the _signore_ always or
frequently meant a woman can be disproved in many ways. I will only
adduce the fragment of one sonnet” (No. LXXXIII). It is a pity that
Mr. Symonds did not enter into detail; I am quite at a loss for any
circumstances that can be held to warrant his declaration. For the
word, the sonnets only afford information. No. XVI, containing the
words _signior mie car_, is a variant of No. XV, expressly addressed
to a lady. In No. XXII, no one will doubt that the reference is to
a woman. In No. XXXV the sex is shown by the epithet _leggiadre_,
fair, applied to the arms (Mr. Symonds renders “fragile”). No. XXXVII
qualifies _signor_ by _donna_. No. LV treats of the shyness of a
lady in presence of her lover. In No. XL, instead of _signior_,
the variant gives _donna_. No. XLVII seems obviously addressed to
Vittoria Colonna. In No. XXXVI, the feminine application appears
to be indicated by the description of the sovereign person as
reigning _nella casa d’amore_. Thus in not a single instance can the
suggestion of Mr. Symonds be accepted.

There remains the fragment mentioned, No. LXXXIII, a beautiful and
interesting piece, unhappily imperfect. “Yonder it was that Love
(_amor_; variant, _signior_), his mercy, took my heart, rather my
life; here with beauteous eyes he promised me aid, and with the
same took it away. Yonder he bound me, here he loosed me; here for
myself I wept, and with infinite grief saw issue from this stone
him who took me from myself, and of me would none.” It will be seen
that the masculine pronoun is rendered necessary by the reference to
personified Love, and that the allusion is clearly to sexual passion.
Mr. Symonds has not entirely comprehended the scope of the fragment.
The mystical description of Love as issuing from a stone (_sasso_)
may probably be an application of the familiar sculpturesque metaphor.

As, in the instances considered, the opinion of Mr. Symonds appears
void of foundation, so it is counter to the tenor of the poetry. If
No. XXXI really was written for Cavalieri, the reference probably
consisted of no more than the introduction, into the ordinary phrases
of a love poem, of a complimentary play on words. As for the metaphor
by which a lady is compared to an armed enemy, that was already
commonplace in the day of Dante.


14 [XXXII] From pieces dealing with ideal affection we pass to one
obviously biographic in its inspiration. The poem is written below a
letter of 1532, addressed to the sculptor when in Rome. The artist
seems to refer to his own impetuous nature, too liable to quarrel
with friends. Analogous is the sonnet addressed to Luigi del Riccio.
(See madrigal No. 3 [IV] note.) But this composition evidently
relates to a lady, as is shown by the mention of the _dorato strale_,
gilded dart of Love.


15 [XXXIII] As with all lyric poetry, so in the compositions of
Michelangelo, it is not to be assumed that every expression of
emotion of necessity corresponds to some particular experience. Yet
the tenderness, melancholy, and gentle regret which inspire the verse
evidently reflect the character and habitual manner of feeling of the
author. Related in sentiment are the following sonnets:--


[XXVI]

NON MEN GRAN GRAZIA, DONNA, CHE GRAN DOGLIA

      _By happiness as deep as agony
      Below the scaffold is the caitiff slain,
      When lost to hope, and ice in every vein,
      His pardon comes, his sudden liberty;
      So when, beyond thy wonted charity,
      My heaven overcast with many a pain
      Thy sovereign pity doth make clear again,
      More deep than anguish, pierceth ecstasy.
      Sweet news and cruel in so far agree,
      As either in a moment may destroy
      The heart by grief, or sunder it through joy;
      If thou desirest that I live for thee,
      The rapture mete, for many a creature frail
      Hath died of grace too free for its avail._


[XXXV]

SENTO D’UN FOCO UN FREDDO ASPETTO ACCESO

      _I See a face that in itself is cold,
      Yet lit with fire that burneth me afar;
      Two arms, that quiet and unmoving are,
      Whereby all else is moved and controlled;
      The vision of a beauty I behold,
      Immortal, yet pursuing me to death;
      A power that free, my own envelopeth;
      Another’s balm, that may my hurt enfold.
      How can befall, that a fair countenance
      Hath power to cause effect so contrary,
      Creating what it doth now own? Perchance,
      The life that taketh my felicity,
      Yet doth itself deny, is like the sun,
      That yieldeth the world heat, yet heat hath none._


[XXXVIII]

RENDETE A GLI OCCHI MIEI, O FONTE O FIUME

      _Ah give me back, or river thou or source,
      The turbid waters that enlarge thee so,
      That thy augmented current doth o’erflow,
      And hasten on an unaccustomed course;
      O laden air, whose gathered mists allay
      And temper heaven’s shining to these eyes,
      Return my weary heart her many sighs,
      And cloudless leave the countenance of day.
      Earth, render to my feet their steps again,
      Along the track they trod let grass grow green;
      Restore, deaf Echo, my petitions vain;
      And ye, alas! unmovèd eyes serene!
      Give mine their wasted looks, that they may see
      Some kinder loveliness, disdained by thee!_

With these sonnets of ideal love may be compared one later in date,
apparently more biographic in sentiment, and doubtless inspired by
Vittoria Colonna.


[L]

S’I’ AVESSI CREDUTO AL PRIMO SGUARDO

      _Had I believed, when first I met the glow
      Of this bright soul, my sun, that I might rise
      Through fire renewed in such triumphal wise
      As doth the Phœnix from her ashes go,
      Like some fleet-footed creature, pard or roe,
      That seeks its joy and flieth from its fear,
      To meet the act, the smile, the accent dear,
      I would have leaped, now in my swiftness slow.
      Yet why indulge regret, the while I see
      In eyes of this glad angel, without cease,
      My calm repose and everlasting peace?
      More painful days, perchance, had dawned on me,
      If I had earlier met, yet been denied
      The wings she lendeth me to fly beside._


16 [XXXIX] The timid lover, who finds himself involved in the dangers
of a hopeless passion, endeavors to withdraw from the perilous
situation, but in so doing finds himself confronted by another
danger, that of losing the affection which has become his life. As
the vain desire will prove the death of the body, so the renunciation
will be that of the soul; thus the suitor, according to the familiar
metaphorical system furnished by plastic art, is said to see his
lady with a statue of Death on either hand.

The beautiful and mystic sonnet was written on a stray leaf bearing a
memorandum of 1529, and was probably composed in that year. According
to the statement of the nephew, Nos. 8 and 9 [XXIV and XXV] were also
written on letters of that year; and these two poems correspond in
sentiment with the present piece.


17 [XL] This most beautiful sonnet might conjecturally be referred to
the same period as No. 12 [XXIX]. The spirit of the verse ought to be
enough to satisfy any reader that it was composed with reference to a
woman. (See note to No. 13 [XXX].)


18, 19 [XLIII, XLIV] These two pieces, containing respectively
the dispraise and praise of night, are obviously intended to be
counterparts, the first forming an introduction to the second.
The consolations belonging to darkness and slumber have furnished
themes to very many writers of verse; but among all such pieces
Michelangelo’s tribute is entitled to preëminence. The emotion,
deepening with the progress of the rhyme, ends in one of those
outbursts which make the poetry a key to the character. Two other
sonnets treating of the same subject do not appear to be connected.


[XLI]

COLUI CHE FECE, E NON DI COSA ALCUNA

      _He who did erst from primal nothing bring
      Time, integral and property of none,
      To half, dividing, gave the distant sun,
      To half the moon, a lamp more neighboring.
      All in a moment, Destiny and Chance
      Began, and over mortals ruled with power;
      To me they gave the still and sober hour,
      As like to like, in birth and circumstance.
      As attribute in action is expressed,
      And darkness is the property of night,
      So e’en to be myself is sad to be;
      Yet is my troubled spirit soothed to rest,
      Remembering, its dusk may render bright
      The sun that Fortune lent for friend to thee._

In No. XLII Night is lauded, as the shadow in which man is
engendered, while in the day the soil is broken only for the seed
of the corn; but the composition does not rival the sweetness and
sublimity of No. XLIV.


20 [LII] This fine sonnet, belonging to the later period, may be
set down as among those inspired by Vittoria Colonna. Thoroughly
characteristic is the grand fifth line, in which the soul is said to
have been created as God’s equal. The nephew, of course, diluted such
daring conceptions into commonplace, and his restoration altogether
fails to convey the essential meaning of the piece. Wordsworth,
unfortunately, knew only the emasculated version.

Similar in theme is another sonnet, No. LX, also rendered by
Wordsworth, from a text more nearly representative. In this instance
the English poet has transcended his source, and furnished a proof
that on fortunate occasions a translation may belong to the very best
poetry, and deserve that immortality which commonly belongs only to
expressions of original genius.

      _Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,
      And I be undeluded, undismayed;
      For if of our affections none find grace
      In sight of heaven, then wherefore hath God made
      The world which we inhabit? Better plea
      Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
      Glory to that eternal peace is paid,
      Which such divinity to thee imparts,
      As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
      His hope is treacherous only, whose love dies
      With beauty, which is varying every hour;
      But in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power
      Of earthly change, there blooms a deathless flower,
      That breathes on earth the air of Paradise._


21 [LVI] The sonnet is to be classed with the preceding. In a
variant, the theologic metaphor is carried further: “From without, I
know not whence, came that immortal part which separateth not from
thy sacred breast, yet traverseth the entire world, healeth every
intellect, and honoreth heaven.”


22 [LXI] As all tools used by man are formed by means of other tools,
the archetypal tool must be that celestial instrument by which the
world is fashioned. On earth, Vittoria Colonna had been the hammer
(as we now say, the chisel) by which had been inspired the creative
activity of the artist. By her death, this influence had been
withdrawn to heaven, there to become united with the all-forming
hammer of the eternal Maker; it is, therefore, only from on high that
the artist can look for the completion of his own genius.

To the text, in the hand of Michelangelo, is added a sentence
expressing his sense of the incomparable merit of Vittoria, as the
divine instrument which none other is able to wield, and a prayer
that his own hammer, as he metaphorically says, may also attain a
reception in heaven.

The mystically expressed, but in reality simple and direct verse is
crowded with ideas which strive for utterance. The sculptor seems to
have written prophetically; after the passing away of Vittoria, the
last of his animating impulses appears to have been removed, and his
life becomes that of a recluse, struggling with the infirmities of
advancing age.

Several other pieces relate to the death of Vittoria.


[LXII]

QUAND’EL MINISTRO DE’ SOSPIR ME’ TANTI

      _When she who ministereth sighs, withdrew
      From the world’s sight, from her own self and mine,
      Nature, who made her in our eyes to shine,
      Remained abashed, and downcast all who knew.
      Yet be not Death of his loud vauntings rife
      O’er the sun’s sun, as over others; Love
      Hath him subdued, and her endowed with life
      Both here below, and with the pure above.
      Unjust and haughty Death did so engage
      To hush her praises, and her soul bestow
      Where it would seem less beautiful; and lo!
      Reverse effects illuminate Time’s page;
      On earth, more life than she in life possessed,
      While Heaven who wished her, now enjoyeth blest._

The thought, that Nature is disgraced in the loss of its best
creation, is repeated in Michelangelo’s poetry. (See sonnet No. 4
[XVII], madrigal No. 9 [XIII].)

Two other sonnets, Nos. LXIII and LXIV, breathe an atmosphere of the
most gloomy despair. The first expresses a profound self-reproach;
the time to soar heavenward was while the sun of life still shone; it
is now too late. The second declares that the flame has expired, to
leave only ashes without a spark.

I do not doubt that here also belongs another sonnet, placed by
Guasti as if belonging to an earlier date.


[LI]

TORNAMI AL TEMPO ALLOR CHE LENTA E SCIOLTA

      _Give me the day when free was cast the rein
      For headlong ardor’s unreflecting race;
      Restore to me the calm angelic face
      Wherewith interred seems Virtue to remain;
      Give back the wanderings, the steps of pain,
      So slow to him by weary age oppressed;
      Give water to my eyes, fire to my breast,
      If thou wilt take thy fill of me again.
      If, Love, ’tis true, thou livest on no more
      Than sighs and tears of lovers bitter-sweet,
      A weary age hath nought of thy desire;
      The soul already near the further shore,
      With shield of holier darts doth thine defeat,
      And the burned wood is proof against the fire._

A madrigal relates to the same theme.


[VI]

PER NON S’AVERE A RIPIGLIAR DA TANTI

      _That perfectness of beauty free from peer
      Might be reclaimed and garnered without fail,
      Upon a lady excellently clear
      Was it bestowed beneath a shining veil;
      The heavenly boon had hardly been repaid,
      If scattered among all that Heaven had made.
      Now, from world unaware,
      In breathing of a sigh,
      Hath God who reigns on high
      Resumed, and hid away his beauty fair.
      Yet, though the body die,
      Cherish shall memory still
      Sacred and sweet, her written legacy.
      Compassionate and stern, if Heaven’s will
      To all had granted what to her alone,
      We all had died for making good the loan._

The madrigal recites that deity had chosen to embody in a single
life the sum of beauty, to the end that the celestial gift might
be more easily resumed. Similar _concetti_ are to be found in the
series of epitaphs composed on Cecchino Bracci, in 1544. Mr. Symonds
very unjustly criticises the verse as constrained, affected, and
exhibiting an absence of genuine grief.




NOTES ON THE EPIGRAMS


1 [I] THE NIGHT OF THE MEDICI CHAPEL. According to Vasari, when
the statues of the Medici Chapel were exposed to view, after
Michelangelo’s departure for Rome, early in 1535, an unknown author
affixed a quatrain to the image of Night. This person was afterwards
known as Giovanni di Carlo Strozzi, at the time eighteen years of
age. The verse, not ungraceful but superficial, recited that Night,
carved by an angel, was living, for the very reason that she seemed
to sleep, and if accosted, would make reply. To this fanciful
compliment, Michelangelo responded in the beautiful quatrain, which
exhibits his view of the Medicean usurpation.

It were to be wished that in presence of the awful forms, visitors
would bear in mind the sculptor’s advice. I have heard a young
American lady, in a voice somewhat strident, expound to her mother
the theme of the statue, reading aloud the information furnished by
Baedeker.


2 [II] DEATH AND THE COFFIN. The younger Buonarroti cites the
statement of Bernardo Buontalenti, that in his house in Rome, halfway
up the stair, Michelangelo had drawn a skeleton Death carrying on
his shoulder a coffin, on which were inscribed these lines. The story
is interesting, in connection with the part taken by Death in the
verse of the sculptor. Giannotti represents him as declining
to attend a merry-making on the ground that it was necessary to muse
on Death. (See madrigal No. 12 [XVI].) The idea appears to be that
death cannot be dreadful, since it bequeaths to life not only the
immortal soul, but even the body; probably the artist meant to say
the body made immortal through art.


3 [V] DEFINITION OF LOVE. With this definition from the subjective
point of view, may be compared madrigal No. 5 [VIII]. As usual the
imagination of the poet takes plastic form; Love, in his mind, is a
statue lying in the heart, and waiting to be unveiled. Akin is the
celebrated sonnet of Dante, _Amor e cor gentil sono una cosa_, which
contains the same conception, and which perhaps Michelangelo may have
remembered. But the more mystical idea of the sculptor borrows only
the suggestion.




NOTES ON THE MADRIGALS


1 [I] During his Roman residence, Michelangelo was brought into
intimate relations with Florentine exiles, who gathered in Rome,
where ruled a Farnese pope, and where certain cardinals favored the
anti-Medicean faction. From the course of a turbulent mountain-brook,
Florence, following an inevitable law, was obliged to issue into
the quiet but lifeless flow of inevitable despotism. It could
not be expected that the fiery Michelangelo could comprehend the
inexorableness of the fate which, in consequence of the necessities
of trade, compelled Florence to prefer conditions ensuring
tranquillity, though under an inglorious and corrupt personal rule.
The sublime madrigal shows the depth of his republican sentiments.
(See No. 22 [LXVIII].)


2 [III] The difficult but very interesting madrigal gives a profound
insight into the spirit of the writer, who felt himself to move in a
society foreign from the higher flight of his genius. His habits of
isolation are remarked by contemporaries. Giannotti, in the dialogue
above mentioned, discourses amusingly on this trait of character,
putting into the mouth of the artist a reply to an invitation. “I
won’t promise.” “Why?” “Because I had rather stay at home.” “For what
reason?” “Because, if I should put myself under such conditions, I
should be too gay; and I don’t want to be gay.” Luigi del Riccio,
introduced as interlocutor, exclaims that he never heard of such
a thing; in this sad world one must seize every opportunity of
distraction; he himself would supply a monochord, and they would
all dance, to drive away sorrow. To this comforting proposition,
Michelangelo returns that he should much prefer to cry. Giannotti
romances; but Francis of Holland is nearer the fact when he makes
the sculptor answer an accusation urged against solitary habits.
The artist declares that there is good ground for such accusation
against one who withdraws from the world by reason of eccentricity,
but not against a man who has something better to do with his
time. The particular occasion of the madrigal seems to have been
dissatisfaction with praise lavished on what to Michelangelo seemed
an unworthy work. Southey paraphrases the poem, but gives the idea
only imperfectly.

Here, in connection with the idea of beauty as furnished from within,
may be introduced a version of a madrigal interesting rather on
account of the philosophic conception than the poetic excellence.
(See also sonnet XVIII, translated in the note to No. XXX.)


[VII]

PER FIDO ESEMPLO ALLA MIA VOCAZIONE

      _On me hath been bestowed by birthtide-gift,
      Of both mine arts the mirror and the light,
      Beauty, my model in my calling here.
      It only hath the competence to lift
      The vision of the artist to that height
      At which I aim in form or color clear._

      _If judgment rash and fantasy unwise
      Degrade to sense the beauty, that doth bear
      And raise toward heaven all sane intelligence,
      Man’s wavering glances have no power to rise,
      Above inconstant, faithful only where
      They linger, unless mercy call them thence._


3 [IV] The madrigal is addressed to Luigi del Riccio, friend of
Michelangelo’s declining years, and a correspondent to whom were
transmitted many of the extant poems. In 1544 Luigi, during a
sickness of the sculptor, took him into his own house and acted
as his nurse; but shortly afterwards, he refused a request of the
artist, declining to suppress an engraving he had been requested to
destroy. The indignation of Michelangelo found vent in a bitter
letter. Riccio died in 1546. Symonds (Life, vol. ii, p. 194)
thinks that Michelangelo speedily excused his friend and repented
his anger. Here the whole heart of the artist is disclosed, and
we have a revelation of the manner in which internal brooding and
many disappointments had rendered somewhat morose a gentle and
affectionate nature, characterized by pride amounting to a fault.

With the idea may be compared Emerson’s essay on “Gifts.” “Hence the
fitness of beautiful, not useful things, for gifts. This giving is
usurpation, and therefore, when the beneficiary is ungrateful, as all
beneficiaries hate all Timons, not at all considering the value of
the gift, but looking back to the greater store it was taken from, I
rather sympathize with the beneficiary than with the anger of my lord
Timon. For the expectation of gratitude is mean, and is continually
punished by the total insensibility of the obliged person. It is
great happiness to get off without injury and heart-burning from one
who has had the ill-luck to be served by you. It is a very onerous
business, this of being served, and the debtor naturally wishes to
give you a slap.” He adds, entirely in the spirit of Michelangelo,
“No services are of any value, but only likeness.”


4 [V] The poet addresses to his friend Vittoria Colonna a theologic
inquiry, after the manner of the appeals of Dante to Beatrice.
Apparently the letter included a blank leaf for an answer. The
question is, “In heaven are contrite sinners less valued than
self-satisfied saints?” The obvious reply must be that in the nature
of things such saints are impossible. The inquiry, therefore, is
not to be taken as serious, but as playful and ironical. I should
be inclined to interpret the verse as asking, “Am I, an humble
artist, but sincerely devoted, of less value in your eyes than the
very courtly and important personages by whom you are surrounded?”
(as Vittoria was in close intimacy with high ecclesiastical
functionaries). The sentiment is gay and jesting, while full of
pleading affection.


5 [VIII] If of all the compositions of Michelangelo, one were asked
to name the most representative, it would be natural to select this
incomparably lovely madrigal. No lyric poet has brought into a few
words more music, more truth, more illumination. The four lines
cited at the end of the Introduction might well be taken as the
motto for a gathering of the poems; and if the arrangement had not
seemed inconsistent with the numbering of the pieces, I would gladly
have placed the madrigal at the end, as summing up the especial
contribution of Michelangelo to letters.


6 [IX] A charming and light-hearted piece of music, obviously
belonging to the earlier period of Michelangelo’s poetic activity.
The verse is written on blue paper, with the subscription, “Divine
things are spoken of in an azure field” (in heaven). The suggestion
is furnished by a conventional _concetto_ of the period; but the
familiarity does not prevent the thought lending itself to genuinely
poetical treatment. No. X is a pretty variant, in which the cruelty
of the lady is compared to the hardness of the marble in which her
image is wrought. The lines are subscribed “for sculptors” (_Da
scultori_). The close connection with his art lends to even the most
simple of these verses an unspeakable attraction.


7 [XI] In this magnificent song, worthy of the greatest of lyric
poets, we are still occupied with the concepts of plastic art. The
artist achieves the complete expression of his idea only through
painful toil, and often lapse of years which leave him ready to
depart from a world in which accomplishment is itself a sign of
ripeness for death. With that universal animism, as we now say, by
which all general truths of man’s life are felt to be also applicable
to the course of Nature, the poet is entitled to apply the idea to
external being. And with what insight! If ever genius can be said to
have forecast the conclusions of scientific inquiry, it is so in this
instance; Michelangelo presents us with a truly modern conception of
Nature, as the creative artist, who through a series of ages and a
succession of sketches, is occupied with continually unsuccessful,
but ever-improving efforts at the expression of her internal life.
The perfection of the creature, which marks the accomplishment of
the undertaking, signifies also the end of the process; with such
completeness is felt the sorrow incident to all termination, and
especially the pain of the mortal, who feels that delight in perfect
beauty enforces the consciousness of his own transitoriness, and
emphasizes the sense of Nature as perishable. Hence, perhaps it may
be explained that all perception of perfect loveliness is said to be
accompanied by a sensation of fear. The piece possesses a grandeur
of rhythm corresponding to its depth of intellectual apprehension,
and is worthy to stand beside the greatest of the artist’s plastic
productions, as equally immortal. In such verse Michelangelo rose to
the level of a world poet; nor has early English literature anything
of a kindred nature worthy to be placed in comparison.


8 [XII] Michelangelo perpetually varies but never repeats the theme.
Once more, it is not the trembling of the hand which causes the
artist’s failure; it is the uncertainty of the mind, not clear as to
its intent.


9 [XIII] Again the bitter contrast of the permanence of art with
the fleeting period of human life. We have had the idea in sonnet
XVII. But the argument is now carried a step further. According to
mediæval (and also modern) national morality, the destruction of
kindred implies the duty of blood-vengeance. On whom, then, devolves
the conduct of the feud made necessary by the taking away of the
beloved? Not on man, but on Nature, whose pride must be offended by
the preference given to the works of her children as compared with
the transitoriness of her own. The permanence of the artistic product
is therefore a sign that Nature herself is bound to require of Time
atonement for the wrong done to imagination; and thus art is made the
prophet of restoration.


10 [XIV] The metaphor is now furnished by the work of the
metal-caster; and since in this case there has been no change in the
conditions of manufacture, the comparison still seems simple and
natural.


11 [XV] The tender, simple, and universally applicable lament at the
same time includes its own consolation.


12 [XVI] The idea of Death as deliverer from Love is often repeated
by the poet. Giannotti probably followed rather the verse than
any spoken words in the sentences he has put into the lips of the
artist: “I remind you that to re-discover one’s self, and to enjoy
one’s self, it is not necessary to seize on so many pleasures and
delights, but only to reflect on death. This is the only thought
which enables us to recognize ourselves, which maintains us in
unity with ourselves, and prevents us from being robbed by parents,
kinsfolk, friends, great masters, ambition, avarice, and other
vices and sins, which take man from man, and keep him dispersed and
dissipated, without suffering him ever to find himself and become at
one with himself. Marvellous is the effect of this thought of death,
which in virtue of its nature all-destructive, nevertheless conserves
and supports those who include it in their meditation, and defends
them from every human passion. Which, methinks, I have sufficiently
indicated in a madrigal, where, in treating of love, I conclude that
against it is no better defence than the thought of death.”

A beautiful variation, characterized by the author’s invariable
originality, is furnished by the number next in Guasti’s edition.


[XVII]

NELLA MEMORIA DELLE COSE BELLE

      _When Memory may cherish and endear
      Some lovely sight, resolve availeth not
      For her discrowning, until Death appear,
      And exile her, as she made him forgot,
      Chill flame to frost, change laughter into pain,
      And make abhorred the beauty loved before,
      That tenanteth the empty heart no more.
      Yet if she turn again
      Her lucid eyes toward home of their desire,
      With arid bough more ardent grows the fire._


13 [XVIII] The idea that only through contemplating the person of the
beloved can the soul transcend from time to eternity is familiar in
the later compositions of Michelangelo. Compare sonnet 21 [LVI].


14 [XIX] The same conception receives a different treatment; mortal
beauty is now represented as exercising too potent an attraction, and
preventing the desire from mounting beyond it.


15 [XXI] The thought has been elaborated in a modern sense by Lowell
in his “Endymion:”--

      _Goddess, reclimb thy heaven, and be once more
      An inaccessible splendor to adore,
      A faith, a hope of such transcendent worth
      As bred ennobling discontent with earth;
      Give back the longing, back the elated mood
      That, fed with thee, spurned every meaner good;
      Give even the spur of impotent despair
      That, without hope, still bade aspire and dare;
      Give back the need to worship that still pours
      Down to the soul that virtue it adores!_

So far the idea coincides with that of Michelangelo; but the
conclusion of the later poet varies:--

      _Goddess triform, I own thy triple spell,
      My heaven’s queen,--queen, too, of my earth and hell!_

Such could not be the termination of the author of the Renaissance,
at a time when his star was Vittoria Colonna.


16 [XXIII] The sweet and plaintive verse was popular as a song even
in the lifetime of Michelangelo, as may be inferred from its mention
by Varchi.


17 [XXV] The madrigal has all the spirit of English song in the early
part of the seventeenth century; but what English verse, having the
same idea, could be mentioned in comparison?


18 [LII] The beautiful song exhibits a great number of variations.
Perhaps on account of the musical character, counteracting a
meditative tendency, Platonic philosophy appears only as lending a
gentle mist transformed by the sunshine of pleasurable passion.


19 [LIII] Compare No. LXXII. I should assign this madrigal, in spite
of its light character, to the later epoch.


20 [LIV] The ninth line appears to contain a reference to Vittoria
Colonna, who lived in a convent, toward which the desires of the
poet, as he says, scarce dared to reach.


21 [LVII] It can scarce be doubted that the attribution of masculine
thought to the beloved is a reference to the character of Vittoria.


22 [LXVIII] The dialogue of this madrigal is intentionally veiled,
as if the poet were conscious of dealing with a dangerous theme.
Sublime are the last two lines, containing all the Michelangelo of
the Sistine frescoes; the sentiment is not the purely Christian
conception of forgiveness of injuries, the mildness which on
principle turns the other cheek. Significant is the word _altero_,
haughty; Michelangelo describes the sentiment of a great and proud
spirit, so lofty as to feel a superiority to personal resentment, so
truly Florentine as to receive no satisfaction in the prospect of
vengeance taken on a citizen of Florence.


23 [LXIX] A pretty piece of poetic ratiocination, cast into the form
of a case tried before a court of love, and ending, in the spirit of
the poet, with a universal truth.


24 [LXXII] Compare No. 20 [LIV]. It will be seen that the allusions
give some reason to believe that the idea is intended to be
biographic, though of course not to be taken as entirely literal.


25 [XCIII] A pleasing way of expressing a sense of the incompatibility
of Love and Death, that appears in many variations, and must be
considered biographic in its sentiment.




                        INDEX OF FIRST LINES




                        INDEX OF FIRST LINES

        _The Roman numbers refer to the numeration of Guasti_



SONNETS

                                                                  PAGE

  XXXI. _A che più debb’io mai l’intensa voglia_                    72

  XVIII. _Al cor di zolfo, alla carne di stoppa_                    74

  XLI. _Colui che fece, e non di cosa alcuna_                       83

  XVII. _Com’esser, donna, può quel ch’alcun vede_                   7

  XIV. _Da che concetto ha l’arte intera e diva_                     5

  I. _Dal ciel discese, e col mortal suo, poi_                       3

  XXI. _D’altrui pietoso e sol di sè spietato_                      68

  XXV. _Dimmi di grazia, amor, se gli occhi mei_                    11

  XXIX. _I’ mi credetti, il primo giorno ch’io_                     15

  XIX. _Io mi son caro assai più ch’io non soglio_                   7

  XXXIX. _La ragion meco si lamenta e dole_                         19

  XXVIII. _La vita dal mie amor non è ’l cor mio_                   13

  XV. _Non ha l’ottimo artista alcun concetto_                       5

  XXVI. _Non men gran grazia, donna, che gran doglia_               79

  XXVII. _Non posso altra figura immaginarmi_                       13

  XL. _Non so se s’è la desiata luce_                               19

  LII. _Non vider gli occhi miei cosa mortale_                      23

  XLIV. _O nott’, o dolce tempo benchè nero_                        21

  XLIII. _Perchè Febo non torc’e non distende_                      21

  XXXIII. _Perchè tuo gran bellezze al mondo sieno_                 17

  LVI. _Per ritornar là donde venne fora_                           23

  LXII. _Quand’el ministro de’ sospir me’ tanti_                    86

  II. _Quante dirne si de’ non si può dire_                         63

  XX. _Quanto si gode lieta e ben contesta_                          9

  XXXVIII. _Rendete a gli occhi miei, o fonte o fiume_              80

  LXI. _Se ’l mie rozzo martello i duri sassi_                      25

  XXII. _Se nel volto per gli occhi il cor si vede_                  9

  XXXV. _Sento d’un foco un freddo aspetto acceso_                  79

  L. _S’i’ avessi creduto al primo sguardo_                         81

  XXIV. _Spirto ben nato, in cui si specchia e vede_                11

  XXXII. _S’un casto amor, s’una pietà superna_                     17

  LI. _Tornami al tempo allor che lenta e sciolta_                  87

  XXX. _Veggio co’ bei vostri occhi un dolce lume_                  15


EPIGRAMS

  I. _Caro m’è ’l sonno, e più l’esser di sasso_                    27

  II. _Io dico a voi, ch’al mondo avete dato_                       27

  V. _Amore è un concetto di bellezza_                              27


MADRIGALS

  XXI. _A l’alta tuo lucente diadema_                               47

  XCIII. _Amor, se tu se’ dio_                                      57


  XV. _Beati, voi che su nel ciel godete_                           41


  LIII. _Chi è quel che per forza a te mi mena_                     51

  XXV. _Come può esser ch’io non sia più mio_                       49


  XXIII. _Deh! dimmi, amor, se l’alma di costei_                    47


  VIII. _Gli occhi miei vaghi delle cose belle_                     35


  LXVIII. _Io dico che fra noi, potenti dei_                        53


  CII. _Lezzi, vezzi, carezze, or feste e perle_                    67


  LXXIII. _Mestier non era all’alma tuo beltate_                    55

  XI. _Negli anni molte e nelle molte pruove_                       37

  XVII. _Nella memoria delle cose belle_                           100

  XIV. _Non pur d’argento o d’oro_                                  39

  XVI. _Non pur la morte, ma ’l timor di quella_                    41

  III. _Non sempre al mondo è sì pregiato e caro_                   31

  LII. _Ogni cosa ch’i’ veggio mi consiglia_                        49

  V. _Ora in sul destro, ora in sul manco piede_                    33

  IV. _Perchè è troppo molesta_                                     31

  VII. _Per fido esemplo alla mia vocazione_                        93

  I. _Per molti, donna, anzi per mille amanti_                      29

  VI. _Per non s’avere a ripigliar da tanti_                        88

  XIX. _Quantunche ver sia, che l’alta e divina_                    45

  LXIX. _S’alcuna parte in donna è che sia bella_                   55

  IX. _Se dal cor lieto divien bello il volto_                      35

  XIII. _Se d’una pietra viva_                                      39

  XVIII. _S’egli è che ’l buon desio_                               43

  LIV. _Se ’l commodo de gli occhi alcun constringe_                51

  XII. _Sì come per levar, donna, si pone_                          37

  LVII. _Un uomo in una donna, anzi uno dio_                        53


                     THREE HUNDRED COPIES PRINTED
                       BY H. O. HOUGHTON & CO.
                           CAMBRIDGE, MASS.
                               U. S. A.

[Illustration: TOUT BIEN OU RIEN

The Riverside Press]




  TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

  English translations have been moved to imediately follow the original
  text, rather than on opposing pages as in the original text.

  The index was not checked for proper alphabetization or correct page
  references.

  Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
  and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

  Pg 10: “tuo” replaced with “tue”
  Pg 90: “Gianotti” replaced with “Giannotti”