The Sonnets Of Michael Angelo Buonarroti And Tommaso Campanella - novelonlinefull.com
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_Non fur men lieti._
Not less elate than smitten with wild woe To see not them but Thee by death undone, Were those blest souls, when Thou above the sun Didst raise, by dying, men that lay so low: Elate, since freedom from all ills that flow From their first fault for Adam's race was won; Sore smitten, since in torment fierce G.o.d's son Served servants on the cruel cross below.
Heaven showed she knew Thee, who Thou wert and whence, Veiling her eyes above the riven earth; The mountains trembled and the seas were troubled.
He took the Fathers from h.e.l.l's darkness dense: The torments of the d.a.m.ned fiends redoubled: Man only joyed, who gained baptismal birth.
LXXVII.
_THE BLOOD OF CHRIST._
_Mentre m' attrista._
Mid weariness and woe I find some cheer In thinking of the past, when I recall My weakness and my sins, and reckon all The vain expense of days that disappear: This cheers by making, ere I die, more clear The frailty of what men delight miscall; But saddens me to think how rarely fall G.o.d's grace and mercies in life's latest year.
For though Thy promises our faith compel, Yet, Lord, what man shall venture to maintain That pity will condone our long neglect?
Still from Thy blood poured forth we know full well How without measure was Thy martyr's pain, How measureless the gifts we dare expect.
THE SONNETS OF TOMMASO CAMPANELLA
I.
_THE PROEM._
_Io che nacqui dal Senno._
Born of G.o.d's Wisdom and Philosophy, Keen lover of true beauty and true good, I call the vain self-traitorous mult.i.tude Back to my mother's milk; for it is she, Faithful to G.o.d her spouse, who nourished me, Making me quick and active to intrude Within the inmost veil, where I have viewed And handled all things in eternity.
If the whole world's our home where we may run, Up, friends, forsake those secondary schools Which give grains, units, inches for the whole!
If facts surpa.s.s mere words, melt pride of soul, And pain, and ignorance that hardens fools, Here in the fire I've stolen from the Sun!
II.
_TO THE POETS._
_In superbia il valor._
Valour to pride hath turned; grave holiness To vile hypocrisy; all gentle ways To empty forms; sound sense to idle lays; Pure love to heat; beauty to paint and dress:-- Thanks to you, Poets! you who sing the praise Of fabled knights, foul fires, lies, nullities; Not virtue, nor the wrapped sublimities Of G.o.d, as bards were wont in those old days.
How far more wondrous than your phantasies Are Nature's works, how far more sweet to sing!
Thus taught, the soul falsehood and truth descries.
That tale alone is worth the pondering, Which hath not smothered history in lies, And arms the soul against each sinful thing.
III.
_THE UNIVERSE._
_Il mondo e un animal._
The world's a living creature, whole and great, G.o.d's image, praising G.o.d whose type it is; We are imperfect worms, vile families, That in its belly have our low estate.
If we know not its love, its intellect, Neither the worm within my belly seeks To know me, but his petty mischief wreaks:-- Thus it behoves us to be circ.u.mspect.
Again, the earth is a great animal, Within the greatest; we are like the lice Upon its body, doing harm as they.
Proud men, lift up your eyes; on you I call: Measure each being's worth; and thence be wise; Learning what part in the great scheme you play!
IV.
_THE SOUL._
_Dentro un pugno di cervel._
A handful of brain holds me: I consume So much that all the books the world contains, Cannot allay my furious famine-pains:-- What feasts were mine! Yet hunger is my doom.
With one world Aristarchus fed my greed; This finished, others Metrodorus gave; Yet, stirred by restless yearning, still I crave: The more I know, the more to learn I need.
Thus I'm an image of that Sire in whom All beings are, like fishes in the sea; That one true object of the loving mind.
Reasoning may reach Him, like a shaft shot home; The Church may guide; but only blest is he Who loses self in G.o.d, G.o.d's self to find.
V.
_THE BOOK OF NATURE._
_Il mondo e il libro._
The world's the book where the eternal Sense Wrote his own thoughts; the living temple where, Painting his very self, with figures fair He filled the whole immense circ.u.mference.
Here then should each man read, and gazing find Both how to live and govern, and beware Of G.o.dlessness; and, seeing G.o.d all-where, Be bold to grasp the universal mind.
But we tied down to books and temples dead, Copied with countless errors from the life,-- These n.o.bler than that school sublime we call.
O may our senseless souls at length be led To truth by pain, grief, anguish, trouble, strife!
Turn we to read the one original!
VI.
