From the Italian of Michael Angelo
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From the Italian of Michael Angelo
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Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, And I be undeluded, unbetrayed; For if of our affections none finds grace In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made The world which we inhabit? Better plea Love cannot have, than that in loving thee Glory to that eternal Peace is paid, Who such divinity to thee imparts As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. His hope is treacherous only whose love dies With beauty, which is varying every hour; But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower, That breathes on earth the air of paradise. |
From the Same
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No mortal object did these eyes behold When first they met the placid light of thine, And my Soul felt her destiny divine, And hope of endless peace in me grew bold: Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course must hold; Beyond the visible world she soars to seek (For what delights the sense is false and weak) Ideal Form, the universal mould. The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest In that which perishes: nor will he lend His heart to aught which doth on time depend. ’Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love, That kills the soul: love betters what is best, Even here below, but more in heaven above. |
From the Same. To the Supreme Being
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The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed If Thou the spirit give by which I pray: My unassisted heart is barren clay, That of its native self can nothing feed: Of good and pious works thou art the seed, That quickens only where thou say’st it may. Unless Thou shew to us thine own true way No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead. Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind By which such virtue may in me be bred That in thy holy footsteps I may tread; The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind, That I may have the power to sing of thee, And sound thy praises everlastingly. |
Catalogue of Titles