The Sonnets Of Michael Angelo Buonarroti And Tommaso Campanella Part 11

_LOVE'S JUSTIFICATION._

_Ben pu talor col mio._

Sometimes my love I dare to entertain With soaring hope not over-credulous; Since if all human loves were impious, Unto what end did G.o.d the world ordain?

For loving thee what license is more plain Than that I praise thereby the glorious Source of all joys divine, that comfort us In thee, and with chaste fires our soul sustain?

False hope belongs unto that love alone Which with declining beauty wanes and dies, And, like the face it worships, fades away.

That hope is true which the pure heart hath known, Which alters not with time or death's decay, Yielding on earth earnest of Paradise.

LX.

SECOND READING.

_LOVE'S JUSTIFICATION._

_Ben pu talor col casto._

It must be right sometimes to entertain Chaste love with hope not over-credulous; Since if all human loves were impious, Unto what end did G.o.d the world ordain?

If I love thee and bend beneath thy reign, 'Tis for the sake of beauty glorious Which in thine eyes divine is stored for us, And drives all evil thought from its domain.

That is not love whose tyranny we own In loveliness that every moment dies; Which, like the face it worships, fades away: True love is that which the pure heart hath known, Which alters not with time or death's decay, Yielding on earth earnest of Paradise.

LXI.

AFTER THE DEATH OF VITTORIA COLONNA.

_IRREPARABLE LOSS._

_Se 'l mie rozzo martello._

When my rude hammer to the stubborn stone Gives human shape, now that, now this, at will, Following his hand who wields and guides it still, It moves upon another's feet alone: But that which dwells in heaven, the world doth fill With beauty by pure motions of its own; And since tools fashion tools which else were none, Its life makes all that lives with living skill.

Now, for that every stroke excels the more The higher at the forge it doth ascend, Her soul that fashioned mine hath sought the skies: Wherefore unfinished I must meet my end, If G.o.d, the great artificer, denies That aid which was unique on earth before.

LXII.

AFTER THE DEATH OF VITTORIA COLONNA.

_LOVE'S TRIUMPH OVER DEATH._

_Quand' el ministro de' sospir._

When she who was the source of all my sighs, Fled from the world, herself, my straining sight, Nature who gave us that unique delight, Was sunk in shame, and we had weeping eyes.

Yet shall not vauntful Death enjoy this prize, This sun of suns which then he veiled in night; For Love hath triumphed, lifting up her light On earth and mid the saints in Paradise.

What though remorseless and impiteous doom Deemed that the music of her deeds would die, And that her splendour would be sunk in gloom, The poet's page exalts her to the sky With life more living in the lifeless tomb, And death translates her soul to reign on high.

LXIII.

AFTER THE DEATH OF VITTORIA COLONNA.

_AFTER SUNSET._

_Be' mi dove'._

Well might I in those days so fortunate, What time the sun lightened my path above, Have soared from earth to heaven, raised by her love Who winged my labouring soul and sweetened fate.

That sun hath set; and I with hope elate Who deemed that those bright days would never move, Find that my thankless soul, deprived thereof, Declines to death, while heaven still bars the gate.

Love lent me wings; my path was like a stair; A lamp unto my feet, that sun was given; And death was safety and great joy to find.

But dying now, I shall not climb to heaven; Nor can mere memory cheer my heart's despair:-- What help remains when hope is left behind?

LXIV.

AFTER THE DEATH OF VITTORIA COLONNA.

_A WASTED BRAND._

_Qual maraviglia e._

If being near the fire I burned with it, Now that its flame is quenched and doth not show, What wonder if I waste within and glow, Dwindling away to cinders bit by bit?

While still it burned, I saw so brightly lit That splendour whence I drew my grievous woe, That from its sight alone could pleasure flow, And death and torment both seemed exquisite.

But now that heaven hath robbed me of the blaze Of that great fire which burned and nourished me, A coal that smoulders 'neath the ash am I.

Unless Love furnish wood fresh flames to raise, I shall expire with not one spark to see, So quickly into embers do I die!

LXV.

TO GIORGIO VASARI.

_ON THE BRINK OF DEATH._