The Sonnets Of Michael Angelo Buonarroti And Tommaso Campanella - novelonlinefull.com
You’re read light novel The Sonnets Of Michael Angelo Buonarroti And Tommaso Campanella Part 16 online at NovelOnlineFull.com. Please use the follow button to get notification about the latest chapter next time when you visit NovelOnlineFull.com. Use F11 button to read novel in full-screen(PC only). Drop by anytime you want to read free – fast – latest novel. It’s great if you could leave a comment, share your opinion about the new chapters, new novel with others on the internet. We’ll do our best to bring you the finest, latest novel everyday. Enjoy
XIII.
_THE WORLD'S A STAGE._
_Nel teatro del mondo._
The world's a theatre: age after age, Souls masked and m.u.f.fled in their fleshly gear Before the supreme audience appear, As Nature, G.o.d's own Art, appoints the stage.
Each plays the part that is his heritage; From choir to choir they pa.s.s, from sphere to sphere, And deck themselves with joy or sorry cheer, As Fate the comic playwright fills the page.
None do or suffer, be they cursed or blest, Aught otherwise than the great Wisdom wrote To gladden each and all who gave Him mirth,
When we at last to sea or air or earth Yielding these masks that weal or woe denote, In G.o.d shall see who spoke and acted best.
XIV.
_THE HUMAN COMEDY._
_Natura dal Signor._
Nature, by G.o.d directed, formed in s.p.a.ce The universal comedy we see; Wherein each star, each man, each ent.i.ty, Each living creature, hath its part and place:
And when the play is over, it shall be That G.o.d will judge with justice and with grace.-- Aping this art divine, the human race Plans for itself on earth a comedy:
It makes kings, priests, slaves, heroes for the eyes Of vulgar folk; and gives them masks to play Their several parts--not wisely, as we see;
For impious men too oft we canonise, And kill the saints; while spurious lords array Their hosts against the real n.o.bility.
XV.
_THE TRUE KINGS._
_Neron fu Re._
Nero was king by accident in show; But Socrates by nature in good sooth; By right of both Augustus; luck and truth Less perfectly were blent in Scipio.
The spurious prince still seeks to extirpate The seed of natures born imperial-- Like Herod, Caiaphas, Meletus, all Who by bad acts sustain their stolen state.
Slaves whose souls tell them that they are but slaves, Strike those whose native kinghood all can see: Martyrdom is the stamp of royalty.
Dead though they be, these govern from their graves: The tyrants fall, nor can their laws remain; While Paul and Peter rise o'er Rome to reign.
XVI.
_WHAT MAKES A KING._
_Chi pennelli have e colori._
He who hath brush and colours, and chance-wise Doth daub, befouling walls and canvases, Is not a painter; but, unhelped by these, He who in art is masterful and wise.
Cowls and the tonsure do not make a friar; Nor make a king wide realms and pompous wars; But he who is all Jesus, Pallas, Mars, Though he be slave or base-born, wears the tiar.
Man is not born crowned like the natural king Of beasts, for beasts by this invest.i.ture Have need to know the head they must obey; Wherefore a commonwealth fits men, I say, Or else a prince whose worth is tried and sure, Not proved by sloth or false imagining.
XVII.
_TO JESUS CHRIST._
_I tuo' seguaci._
Thy followers to-day are less like Thee, The crucified, than those who made Thee die, Good Jesus, wandering all ways awry From rules prescribed in Thy wise charity.
The saints now most esteemed love lying lips, l.u.s.t, strife, injustice; sweet to them the cry Drawn forth by monstrous pangs from men that die: So many plagues hath not the Apocalypse As these wherewith they smite Thy friends ignored-- Even as I am; search my heart, and know; My life, my sufferings bear Thy stamp and sign.
If Thou return to earth, come armed; for lo, Thy foes prepare fresh crosses for Thee, Lord!
Not Turks, not Jews, but they who call them Thine.
XVIII.
_TO DEATH._
_Morte, stipendio della colpa._
O Death, the wage of our first father's blame, Daughter of envy and nonent.i.ty, Serf of the serpent, and his harlotry, Thou beast most arrogant and void of shame!
Thy last great conquest dost thou dare proclaim, Crying that all things are subdued to thee, Against the Almighty raised almightily?-- The proofs that prop thy pride of state are lame.
Not to serve thee, but to make thee serve Him, He stoops to h.e.l.l. The choice of arms was thine; Yet art thou scoffed at by the crucified!
He lives--thy loss. He dies--from every limb, Mangled by thee, lightnings of G.o.dhead shine, From which thy darkness hath not where to hide.
XIX.
_ON THE SEPULCHRE OF CHRIST._
No. I.
