CONTENTS
| Michelangelo as Poet | Page | [i] |
| Sonnets | ” | [1] |
| Epigrams | ” | [26] |
| Madrigals | ” | [28] |
| Notes | ” | [59] |
| Index of First Lines | ” | [105] |
MICHELANGELO AS
POET
[Pg iii]
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,[iv] 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,[v] 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[vi] 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.
[vii]
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[viii] 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[ix] 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[x] 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[xi] 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[xii] 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[xiii] 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.[xiv] 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[xv] 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[xvi] 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,[xvii] 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[xviii] 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[xix] 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[xx] 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,[xxi] 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[xxii] 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[xxiii] 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[xxiv] 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[xxv] 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[xxvi] 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[xxvii] 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[xxviii] 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[xxix] 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
[2]
[3]
A SELECTION FROM THE SONNETS
OF MICHELANGELO
BUONARROTI
ITALIAN TEXT
TRANSLATION
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.
[4]
[5]
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.
[6]
[7]
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.
[8]
[9]
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!
[10]
[11]
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.”
[12]
[13]
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.
[14]
[15]
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.
[16]
[17]
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.
[18]
[19]
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.
[20]
[21]
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.
[22]
[23]
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.
[24]
[25]
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.
[26]
[27]