intelligibility—than the autograph; and I can understand the preference of some students for the former, though I do not share it Michelangelo the younger added fluency and grace to his great-uncle's composition by the sacrifice of much that is most characteristic, and by the omission of much that is profound and vigorous and weighty.

PROEM.

THE PHILOSOPHIC FLIGHT.

Poi che spiegate.

     Now that these wings to speed my wish ascend,
         The more I feel vast air beneath my feet,
         The more toward boundless air on pinions fleet,
         Spurning the earth, soaring to heaven, I tend:
     Nor makes them stoop their flight the direful end
         Of Daedal's son; but upward still they beat:—
         What life the while with my life can compete,
         Though dead to earth at last I shall descend?
     My own heart's voice in the void air I hear:
         Where wilt thou bear me, O rash man? Recall
         Thy daring will! This boldness waits on fear!
     Dread not, I answer, that tremendous fall:
         Strike through the clouds, and smile when death is near,
         If death so glorious be our doom at all!

THE SONNETS

OF

MICHAEL ANGELO BUONARROTI

I.

ON DANTE ALIGHIERI.

Dal ciel discese.

From heaven his 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.