The Sonnets Of Michael Angelo Buonarroti And Tommaso Campanella Part 12

_Giunto e gia._

Now hath my life across a stormy sea Like a frail bark reached that wide port where all Are bidden, ere the final reckoning fall Of good and evil for eternity.

Now know I well how that fond phantasy Which made my soul the worshipper and thrall Of earthly art, is vain; how criminal Is that which all men seek unwillingly.

Those amorous thoughts which were so lightly dressed, What are they when the double death is nigh?

The one I know for sure, the other dread.

Painting nor sculpture now can lull to rest My soul that turns to His great love on high, Whose arms to clasp us on the cross were spread.

LXVI.

TO GIORGIO VASARI.

_VANITY OF VANITIES._

_Le favole del mondo._

The fables of the world have filched away The time I had for thinking upon G.o.d; His grace lies buried 'neath oblivion's sod, Whence springs an evil crop of sins alway.

What makes another wise, leads me astray, Slow to discern the bad path I have trod: Hope fades; but still desire ascends that G.o.d May free me from self-love, my sure decay.

Shorten half-way my road to heaven from earth!

Dear Lord, I cannot even half-way rise, Unless Thou help me on this pilgrimage.

Teach me to hate the world so little worth, And all the lovely things I clasp and prize; That endless life, ere death, may be my wage.

LXVII.

_A PRAYER FOR FAITH._

_Non e piu ba.s.sa._

There's not on earth a thing more vile and base Than, lacking Thee, I feel myself to be: For pardon prays my own debility, Yearning in vain to lift me to Thy face.

Stretch to me, Lord, that chain whose links enlace All heavenly gifts and all felicity-- Faith, whereunto I strive perpetually, Yet cannot find (my fault) her perfect grace.

That gift of gifts, the rarer 'tis, the more I count it great; more great, because to earth Without it neither peace nor joy is given.

If Thou Thy blood so lovingly didst pour, Let not that bounty fail or suffer dearth, Withholding Faith that opes the doors of heaven.

LXVIII.

TO MONSIGNOR LODOVICO BECCADELLI.

_URBINO._

_Per croce e grazia._

G.o.d's grace, the cross, our troubles multiplied, Will make us meet in heaven, full well I know: Yet ere we yield our breath, on earth below Why need a little solace be denied?

Though seas and mountains and rough ways divide Our feet asunder, neither frost nor snow Can make the soul her ancient love forgo; Nor chains nor bonds the wings of thought have tied.

Borne by these wings with thee I dwell for aye, And weep, and of my dead Urbino talk, Who, were he living, now perchance would be,

For so 'twas planned, thy guest as well as I: Warned by his death another way I walk To meet him where he waits to live with me.

LXIX.

WAITING FOR DEATH.

_Di morte certo._

My death must come; but when, I do not know: Life's short, and little life remains for me: Fain would my flesh abide; my soul would flee Heavenward, for still she calls on me to go.

Blind is the world; and evil here below O'erwhelms and triumphs over honesty: The light is quenched; quenched too is bravery: Lies reign, and truth hath ceased her face to show.

When will that day dawn, Lord, for which he waits Who trusts in Thee? Lo, this prolonged delay Destroys all hope and robs the soul of life.

Why streams the light from those celestial gates, If death prevent the day of grace, and stay Our souls for ever in the toils of strife?

LXX.

_A PRAYER FOR STRENGTH._

_Carico d'anni._

Burdened with years and full of sinfulness, With evil custom grown inveterate, Both deaths I dread that close before me wait, Yet feed my heart on poisonous thoughts no less.

No strength I find in mine own feebleness To change or life or love or use or fate, Unless Thy heavenly guidance come, though late, Which only helps and stays our nothingness.

'Tis not enough, dear Lord, to make me yearn For that celestial home, where yet my soul May be new made, and not, as erst, of nought: