Sonnets | Page 9

spirit came, and robed in clay
The realms of justice and of mercy trod,
Then rose a living man to
gaze on God,
That he might make the truth as clear as day.
For that
pure star that brightened with his ray
The undeserving nest where I was born,
The whole wide world would
be a prize to scorn;
None but his Maker can due guerdon pay.
I
speak of Dante, whose high work remains
Unknown, unhonoured by that thankless brood,
Who only to just men
deny their wage.
Were I but he! Born for like lingering pains,
Against his exile coupled with his good
I'd gladly change the world's
best heritage!
II.
ON DANTE ALIGHIERI.
Quante dirne si de'.
No tongue can tell of him what should be told,
For on blind eyes his splendour shines too strong;
'Twere easier to
blame those who wrought him wrong,
Than sound his least praise
with a mouth of gold.
He to explore the place of pain was bold,

Then soared to God, to teach our souls by song;
The gates heaven
oped to bear his feet along,
Against his just desire his country rolled.

Thankless I call her, and to her own pain
The nurse of fell mischance; for sign take this,
That ever to the best
she deals more scorn:
Among a thousand proofs let one remain;
Though ne'er was fortune more unjust than his,
His equal or his better
ne'er was born.
III.
TO POPE JULIUS II.
_Signor, se vero è._
My Lord! if ever ancient saw spake sooth,
Hear this which saith: Who can, doth never will.
Lo! thou hast lent
thine ear to fables still,
Rewarding those who hate the name of truth.

I am thy drudge and have been from my youth--
Thine, like the rays which the sun's circle fill;
Yet of my dear time's
waste thou think'st no ill:
The more I toil, the less I move thy ruth.

Once 'twas my hope to raise me by thy height;
But 'tis the balance and the powerful sword
Of Justice, not false Echo,
that we need.
Heaven, as it seems, plants virtue in despite
Here on the earth, if this be our reward--
To seek for fruit on trees too
dry to breed.
IV.
ON ROME IN THE PONTIFICATE OF JULIUS II.
Qua si fa elmi.

Here helms and swords are made of chalices:
The blood of Christ is sold so much the quart:
His cross and thorns
are spears and shields; and short
Must be the time ere even his
patience cease.
Nay let him come no more to raise the fees
Of this foul sacrilege beyond report!
For Rome still flays and sells
him at the court,
Where paths are closed to virtue's fair increase.

Now were fit time for me to scrape a treasure!
Seeing that work and gain are gone; while he
Who wears the robe, is
my Medusa still.
God welcomes poverty perchance with pleasure:
But of that better life what hope have we,
When the blessed banner
leads to nought but ill?
V.
TO GIOVANNI DA PISTOJA.
ON THE PAINTING OF THE SISTINE CHAPEL.
_I' ho già fatto un gozzo._
I've grown a goitre by dwelling in this den--
As cats from stagnant streams in Lombardy,
Or in what other land
they hap to be--
Which drives the belly close beneath the chin:
My
beard turns up to heaven; my nape falls in,
Fixed on my spine: my breast-bone visibly
Grows like a harp: a rich
embroidery
Bedews my face from brush-drops thick and thin.
My
loins into my paunch like levers grind:
My buttock like a crupper bears my weight;
My feet unguided
wander to and fro;
In front my skin grows loose and long; behind,

By bending it becomes more taut and strait;
Crosswise I strain me
like a Syrian bow:
Whence false and quaint, I know,
Must be the fruit of squinting brain
and eye;
For ill can aim the gun that bends awry.
Come then, Giovanni, try
To succour my dead pictures and my fame;

Since foul I fare and painting is my shame.
VI.
INVECTIVE AGAINST THE PEOPLE OF PISTOJA.
_I' l' ho, vostra mercè._
I've gotten it, thanks to your courtesy;
And I have read it twenty times or so:
Thus much may your sharp
snarling profit you,
As food our flesh filled to satiety.
After I left
you, I could plainly see
How Cain was of your ancestors: I know
You do not shame his
lineage, for lo,
Your brother's good still seems your injury.
Envious
you are, and proud, and foes to heaven;
Love of your neighbour still you loathe and hate,
And only seek what
must your ruin be.
If to Pistoja Dante's curse was given,
Bear that in mind! Enough! But if you prate
Praises of Florence, 'tis
to wheedle me.
A priceless jewel she:
Doubtless: but this you cannot understand:

For pigmy virtue grasps not aught so grand.
VII.
TO LUIGI DEL RICCIO.

Nel dolce d' una.
It happens that the sweet unfathomed sea
Of seeming courtesy sometimes doth hide
Offence to life and honour.
This descried,
I hold less dear the health restored