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 e.

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 gia fatto un gozzo.