IV

OLD AGE

The course of my long life hath reached at last,
  In fragile bark o’er a tempestuous sea,
  The common harbor, where must rendered be
  Account of all the actions of the past. 
The impassioned phantasy, that, vague and vast,
  Made art an idol and a king to me,
  Was an illusion, and but vanity
  Were the desires that lured me and harassed. 
The dreams of love, that were so sweet of yore,
  What are they now, when two deaths may be mine,—­
  One sure, and one forecasting its alarms? 
Painting and sculpture satisfy no more
  The soul now turning to the Love Divine,
  That oped, to embrace us, on the cross its arms.

V

TO VITTORIA COLONNA

Lady, how can it chance—­yet this we see
  In long experience—­that will longer last
  A living image carved from quarries vast
  Than its own maker, who dies presently? 
Cause yieldeth to effect if this so be,
  And even Nature is by Art at surpassed;
  This know I, who to Art have given the past,
  But see that Time is breaking faith with me. 
Perhaps on both of us long life can I
  Either in color or in stone bestow,
  By now portraying each in look and mien;
So that a thousand years after we die,
  How fair thou wast, and I how full of woe,
  And wherefore I so loved thee, may be seen.

VI

TO VITTORIA COLONNA

When the prime mover of my many sighs
  Heaven took through death from out her earthly place,
  Nature, that never made so fair a face,
  Remained ashamed, and tears were in all eyes. 
O fate, unheeding my impassioned cries! 
  O hopes fallacious!  O thou spirit of grace,
  Where art thou now?  Earth holds in its embrace
  Thy lovely limbs, thy holy thoughts the skies. 
Vainly did cruel death attempt to stay
  The rumor of thy virtuous renown,
  That Lethe’s waters could not wash away! 
A thousand leaves, since he hath stricken thee down,
  Speak of thee, nor to thee could Heaven convey,
  Except through death, a refuge and a crown.

VII

DANTE

What should be said of him cannot be said;
  By too great splendor is his name attended;
  To blame is easier those who him offended,
  Than reach the faintest glory round him shed. 
This man descended to the doomed and dead
  For our instruction; then to God ascended;
  Heaven opened wide to him its portals splendid,
  Who from his country’s, closed against him, fled. 
Ungrateful land!  To its own prejudice
  Nurse of his fortunes; and this showeth well,
  That the most perfect most of grief shall see. 
Among a thousand proofs let one suffice,
  That as his exile hath no parallel,
  Ne’er walked the earth a greater man than he.