La Partenza by Pietro Metastasio

[Pietro Metastasio, “La Partenza”, 1476.]

The hour is come! Love, fare thee well!
Farewell, my Love, my first, my last!
For me the charms of life are past
When far away from thee, Love!

For me nor joys nor peace remain,
But wakeful thoughts and ceaseless pain;
While thou, perchance, wilt never more—
Oh, never, think on me, Love!

Yet canst thou not forbid my thoughts
Lingering around those charms to stay,
Which sweetly stole my peace away,
And hover still round thee, Love!

Still, still about thy path, wherever
Thy steps are turned, my heart is there;
While thou, perchance, wilt never more—
Oh, never, think on me, Love!

While I through distant climes shall roam,
And sadly to the desert shore
My constant strain of sorrow pour,
And vainly call on thee, Love!

From morn to morn one theme of woe,
One only theme, my heart, can know;
While thou, perchance, wilt never more—
Ah, never, think on me, Love!

And on those scenes of vanished joys,
Those pleasant scenes, I oft shall gaze,
When swiftly passed the blissful days,
The days I passed with thee, Love!

For me shall every spot I view
My bleeding memory's wounds renew;
While thou, perchance, wilt never more—
Ah, never, think on me, Love !

Beside this fount I saw thy brow
A moment cloud, but soon appeased
That beauteous hand with rapture seized,
The pledge of peace with thee, Love!

Here first I heard Hope's flattering tone;
There fondly sighed, but not alone;
Yet thou, perchance, wilt never more—
Ah, never, think on me, Love!

And now around thy new abode,
Full many a heart like mine shall swell.
And many a tale of passion tell.
And vows of truth to thee, Love!

And thou, while all their homage pay,
And fondly weep, or softly pray.
Wilt thou, perchance, one moment ever,—
Oh, wilt thou, think on me, Love?

Oh, think on all the pangs I feel,
The wound that rankles in my breast:
I dare not hope—but, hope suppressed.
Still fondly worshiped thee, Love!

Oh, think what anguished feelings swell.
In this last, bitterest fare-thee-well!
Oh, think—but thou wilt never more—
No, never, think on me, Love! 

Sonnet 54: Ye Haunts Recluse by Pietro Bembo

[Pietro Bembo, Lieta e chiusa contrada, “Rime”, 1530.]

Ye haunts recluse, where pleased I still retreat
From crowds, and live alone, what spell denies
My visit, now that Phoebus in our skies,
Leaving the Twins, has gathered all his heat!

Nowhere so calm and free my heart will beat,
Or thoughts so far above the earth can rise,
Nowhere my spirit, fed with such supplies,
Approaches nearer to its native seat.

How sweet it is in solitude to range
I learned from thee; sweet when the world no more
Distracts us, and our anxious fears are laid.

O wood and stream beloved, might I exchange
This restless ocean and its burning shore
For thy fresh waters and thy verdant shade!

Sonnet 294: The Blood of Christ by Michelangelo

[Michelangelo Buonarotti, Mentre m'attrista e duol, parte m'è caro, “Rime”, 16th century.]

Mid weariness and woe I find some cheer
In thinking of the past, when I recall
My weakness and my sins, and reckon all
The vain expense of days that disappear:

This cheers by making, ere I die, more clear
The frailty of what men delight miscall;
But saddens me to think how rarely fall
God's grace and mercies in life's latest year.

For though Thy promises our faith compel,

Yet, Lord, what man shall venture to maintain
That pity will condone our long neglect?

Still from Thy blood poured forth we know full well
How without measure was Thy martyr's pain,
How measureless the gifts we dare expect.

Sonnet 290: At the Foot of the Cross by Michelangelo

[Michelangelo Buonarotti, Scarco d'un'importuna e greve salma, “Rime”, 16th century.]

Wisdom is riches great and great estate,
Far above wealth; nor are the wise unblessed
If born of lineage vile or race oppressed:
These by their doom sublime they illustrate.

They have their griefs for reward, to dilate
Their name and glory; nay, the cross, the sword
Make them to be like saints or God adored;
And gladness greets them in the frowns of fate:

For joys and sorrows are their dear delight;
Even as a lover takes the weal and woe
Felt for his lady. Such is wisdom's might.

But wealth still vexes fools; more vile they grow
By being noble; and their luckless light
With each new misadventure burns more low.

Sonnet 289: A Prayer For Faith by Michelangelo

[Michelangelo Buonarotti, Non è più bassa o vil cosa terrena, “Rime”, 16th century.]

There is not on earth a thing more vile and base
Than, lacking Thee, I feel myself to be:
For forgiveness 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 it is, 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.

Sonnet 288: To Giorgio Vasari on Vanity by Buonarotti

[Michelangelo Buonarotti, Le favole del mondo m'hanno tolto, “Rime”, 16th century.]

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.

Sonnet 285: To Giorgio Vasari on Old Age by Michelangelo

[Michelangelo Buonarotti, Giunto è già 'l corso della vita mia, “Rime”, 16th century.]

The course of my long life hath reached at last,
In fragile bark over a tempestuous sea,
The common harbor, where must rendered be
Account of all the actions of the past.
The impassioned fantasy, 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.