Now know I well how that fond phantasy
Which made my soul the worshipper
and thrall
Of earthly art, is vain; how
criminal
Is that which all men seek
unwillingly.
Those amorous thoughts which were so lightly dressed,
What are they when the double
death is nigh?
The one I know for sure, the
other dread.
Painting nor sculpture now can lull to rest
My soul that turns to His
great love on high,
Whose arms to clasp us on
the cross were spread.
LXVI.
TO GIORGIO VASARI.
VANITY OF VANITIES.
Le favole del mondo.
The fables of the world have filched away
The time I had for thinking
upon God;
His grace lies buried ’neath
oblivion’s sod,
Whence springs an evil crop
of sins alway.
What makes another wise, leads me astray,
Slow to discern the bad path
I have trod:
Hope fades; but still desire
ascends that God
May free me from self-love,
my sure decay.
Shorten half-way my road to heaven from earth!
Dear Lord, I cannot even half-way
rise,
Unless Thou help me on this
pilgrimage.
Teach me to hate the world so little worth,
And all the lovely things
I clasp and prize;
That endless life, ere death,
may be my wage.
LXVII.
A PRAYER FOR FAITH.
Non e piu bassa.
There’s not on earth a thing more vile and base
Than, lacking Thee, I feel
myself to be:
For pardon prays my own debility,
Yearning in vain to lift me
to Thy face.
Stretch to me, Lord, that chain whose links enlace
All heavenly gifts and all
felicity—
Faith, whereunto I strive
perpetually,
Yet cannot find (my fault)
her perfect grace.
That gift of gifts, the rarer ’tis, the more
I count it great; more great,
because to earth
Without it neither peace nor
joy is given.
If Thou Thy blood so lovingly didst pour,
Let not that bounty fail or
suffer dearth,
Withholding Faith that opes
the doors of heaven.
LXVIII.
TO MONSIGNOR LODOVICO BECCADELLI.
URBINO.
Per croce e grazia.
God’s grace, the cross,
our troubles multiplied,
Will make us meet in heaven,
full well I know:
Yet ere we yield our breath,
on earth below
Why need a little solace be
denied?
Though seas and mountains
and rough ways divide
Our feet asunder, neither
frost nor snow
Can make the soul her ancient
love forgo;
Nor chains nor bonds the wings
of thought have tied.
Borne by these wings with
thee I dwell for aye,
And weep, and of my dead Urbino
talk,
Who, were he living, now perchance
would be,