LAS, let us make moan, for impious Death The laws of Heaven are pitiless indeed Now that the soul of our departed friend O Death, thou hast no sting! My life was worth Thy terrors used to grip me, Death, but now MICHELANGELO BUONARROTI, 1475-1564 HE master-craftsman hath no thought in mind That one sole marble block may not contain Within itself, but this we only find When the hand serves the impulse of the brain; My heart's desire; hence love I cannot blame, Nor beauty in thee, nor thy scorn, nor ill Fortune, nor good for this my pain, since life Within thy heart thou bearest at the same Moment as death, and yet my little skill Revealeth death alone for all its strife. N ON è sempre di colpa aspra e mortale d'una immensa bellezza un fero ardore, se poi si lascia liquefatto il core, che 'n breve il pénetri un divino strale. L'amor di quel ch' io parlo in alto aspira; donna è dissimil troppo; e mal conviensi arder di quella al cor saggio e virile. L'un tira al cielo, e l' altro in terra tira; nell' alma l' un, l' altro abita ne' sensi, e l'arco tira a cose basse e vile. ORSE perchè d' altrui pietà mi vegna, Fperche dell' altrui colpe più non rida nel mio proprio valor, senz' altra guida O carne, o sangue, o legno, o doglia strema, giusto per vo' si facci mio peccato, di ch' i' pur nacqui, e tal fu 'l padre mio. ASSION that springeth from great loveliness Pot always need be counted deadly sin, If it doth melt the heart with tenderness Love wakeneth, thrilleth, lendeth us his wing The love of which I speak doth seek the sky, One love draws to the earth and one on high; AYBE my soul fell from its high estate, Malone, without or counsellor or guide, To make me pitiful toward the fate Of others and not scornful in my pride. And triumph save 'neath Thine which hath my love? I fear to perish in the clam'rous fight, Do Thou from me Thy saving strength remove. O may Thy body, blood and cross, Thy last End and its bitterness bear sin away In which I and my fathers first drew breath! D AL 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 ; fe' chiaro, a torto, el nido ove nacqu' io ; Q UANTO dirne si de' non si può dire, chè troppo agli orbi il suo splendor s' accese; ch' al suo men pregio ogni maggior salire. Ingrata, dico, e della sua fortuna OWN from the Heavens in his mortal state Die sank both one and other Hell to know, He Then rose again his God to contemplate, Made light within the nest which gave me birth; Dante's great works and his surpassing love Were hidden from a thankless people's face, Whose favours shower on all save those of worth; Yet gladly I his destiny would prove, And for cruel exile with his virtue's grace Renounce the greatest happiness on earth. N o tongue can fittingly extol his fame, His splendour is too dazzling for men's eyes; Easier it were his enemies to blame Than to lift our poor homage to his skies. For our instruction, he arose again; The doors of Heaven flew wide to let him in, Though on the doors of home he knocked in vain. Ungrateful country, when you wrought him ill You wronged yourself, and now is it made clear That to the perfect happeneth deepest dole ! Among a thousand truths this triumphs still : No exile was less merited, and here On earth ne'er tarried a sublimer soul. |