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,