The narrative of Michelangelo’s personal life and movements must here be interrupted in order to notice an event in which he took no common interest.  The members of the Florentine Academy addressed a memorial to Leo X., requesting him to authorise the translation of Dante Alighieri’s bones from Ravenna to his native city.  The document was drawn up in Latin, and dated October 20, 1518.  Among the names and signatures appended, Michelangelo’s alone is written in Italian:  “I, Michelangelo, the sculptor, pray the like of your Holiness, offering my services to the divine poet for the erection of a befitting sepulchre to him in some honourable place in this city.”  Nothing resulted from this petition, and the supreme poet’s remains still rest beneath “the little cupola, more neat than solemn,” guarded by Pietro Lombardi’s half-length portrait.

Of Michelangelo’s special devotion to Dante and the “Divine Comedy” we have plenty of proof.  In the first place, there exist the two fine sonnets to his memory, which were celebrated in their author’s lifetime, and still remain among the best of his performances in verse.  It does not appear when they were composed.  The first is probably earlier than the second; for below the autograph of the latter is written, “Messer Donato, you ask of me what I do not possess.”  The Donato is undoubtedly Donato Giannotti, with whom Michelangelo lived on very familiar terms at Rome about 1545.  I will here insert my English translation of these sonnets:—­

  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!

  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._