Which made of art an idol and a queen,
Melt into air; and now I feel, how keen!
That what I needed most I most withstood.
Ye fabled joys, ye tales of empty love,
What are ye now if two-fold death be nigh?
The first is certain, and the last I dread.
Ah! what does sculpture, what does painting prove,
When we have seen the cross, and fixed our eye
On him whose arms of love were thus outspread.
From the Italian of Michael Angelo.