Orval, or The Fool of Time And Other Imitations and Paraphrases. By Robert Lytton |
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| MICHELAGNOLO BUONARROTI
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 | Orval, or The Fool of Time |  |
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MICHELAGNOLO BUONARROTI
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SONNETS AND MADRIGALS.
THE BIRTH OF LOVE.
I know not if, in waking dream, or sleep,
His light, that made her, on my soul hath shined;
Or if from out the memory or the mind
Aught else of brightness, pour'd, my spirit doth steep.
His light, that made her, on my soul hath shined;
Or if from out the memory or the mind
Aught else of brightness, pour'd, my spirit doth steep.
Perchance within me some late beam I keep
Of Heaven's original glory left behind;
Some smouldering sense of scarce I know what kind
Of sweetest pain; whence I perforce must weep.
Of Heaven's original glory left behind;
Some smouldering sense of scarce I know what kind
Of sweetest pain; whence I perforce must weep.
Not of myself, nor can I well declare
Whence, is the power that in me moves, and guides
My dazzled heart through every new surprise.
Whence, is the power that in me moves, and guides
My dazzled heart through every new surprise.
But, since I saw you, lady, thus I fare,
Whom bitter sweet with yes and no divides.
Doubtless 'tis all the doing of your eyes.
Whom bitter sweet with yes and no divides.
Doubtless 'tis all the doing of your eyes.
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LOVE VINDICATED.
Call it not impious crime, nor mortal sin,
That noble love that mighty Beauty excites
In him whose softly-opening heart invites
Some beam of holier light to enter in.
That noble love that mighty Beauty excites
In him whose softly-opening heart invites
Some beam of holier light to enter in.
Love wakes, and moves; and plumes his wings to win
His upward goal. And oft the soul, that slights
Her earthly home, to Heaven's ancestral heights
Doth, by his ardour lured, her flight begin.
His upward goal. And oft the soul, that slights
Her earthly home, to Heaven's ancestral heights
Doth, by his ardour lured, her flight begin.
The love that speaks of thee aspires on high,
Nor feebly burns nor falters. To obey
A baser passion my true heart were shamed.
Nor feebly burns nor falters. To obey
A baser passion my true heart were shamed.
True Love for Heaven, as Lust for Earth, doth sigh:
This doth the soul, that doth the senses, sway:
And at ignoble mark his bow is aim'd.
This doth the soul, that doth the senses, sway:
And at ignoble mark his bow is aim'd.
MADRIGALS.
I.
Me, though unbound yet free in vain,What fetter binds and brings to thee?
If sight of thee, with unseen chain,
Can fetter those thyself would'st free,
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Whose warm desire
The darts of Love hath dipt in fire?
II.
Why memory of those eyes, and the dear hopeWhereby I live not only, but am blest,
From hour to hour do all my days beguile,
Demand the cause, wherewith in vain I cope,
Of Love, and Nature, that allow no rest,
And the fond wont that mine hath been long while
With all life's hours to pile
Love's monument to thee.
Life soon were death, could life no longer see
Your light, sweet eyes:
For all my life is by your light begot,
And soon it dies
If banisht, after birth, to any spot
Unsweeten'd by the light that in you lies.
III.
How is it, that I am mine no more?Who from myself hath banisht me?
Who in myself more seems to be
At home, than was myself before?
How hath it happ'd, that I should miss
The moment when she slipp'd so slyly
Into my heart? and what is this,
This wistful love, that through the eyes
Into the soul doth steal so shyly,
And, there grown bold and wanton, tries
A thousand ways of exit wily?
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IV.
If, here, in sculptured stone,Whereto erewhile did Art her form consign,
That form, while years roll on,
May live, O what with her sweet self,—divine
Not to mine only, but all mortal sight—
By Heaven shall then be done?
Since she Heaven's making is; this marble, merely mine!
Yet must she fade, and follow Time's brief flight;
And all her beauty is but hers in spite,
If Death, that takes her life, the dead stone spare.
What shall repair
This wrong to Nature done by Time's disdain,
If, while her son's works stay, her own be ta'en?
V.
While, to the call of Time, my days fleet fast,Love still disputes Time's power,
Nor will forego one hour
That's owed him yet, despite the long years past.
My soul, that groans and cries
As one that, injured, dies,
Laments in me my better life downcast.
'Twixt what to bless and blast
Hath power,—'twixt Death and Love,
Dubious, my vext heart strove
To choose the best, yet doth it hug the worst.
Thus by bad custom is good counsel curst.
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CANZONE.
Low doth life's flame burn down, and faint, in me,
Fast as from fallen thunder fades away
The fluttering fire that wing'd his ardent flight.
Love, all thine ancient hurts I pardon thee:
But my faint heart, where chill'd thy hot darts stay,
Deep wounded once, doth no new wounds invite.
If all thy fires these languid eyes could light,
The worn-out heart would not rekindle now
Its long-quench'd glow.
Wherefore I shun thee, Love, in self-disdain;
Too weak a wearying war to wage again.
Fast as from fallen thunder fades away
The fluttering fire that wing'd his ardent flight.
Love, all thine ancient hurts I pardon thee:
But my faint heart, where chill'd thy hot darts stay,
Deep wounded once, doth no new wounds invite.
If all thy fires these languid eyes could light,
The worn-out heart would not rekindle now
Its long-quench'd glow.
Wherefore I shun thee, Love, in self-disdain;
Too weak a wearying war to wage again.
Me, by new beauty, would'st thou, haply, lure
Back to the perilous pass, my dull desire,
Warn'd by old woes, will now no more essay?
Worst are those ills which later years endure:
And I should be as ice before the fire,
That doth not kindle, but dissolves away.
Death, from the danger of my later day
Sole saviour now, must pluck me from the harm
Of thy fierce arm,
That, working woe by sight of others' weal,
Still strives to whirl a long arrested wheel.
Back to the perilous pass, my dull desire,
Warn'd by old woes, will now no more essay?
Worst are those ills which later years endure:
And I should be as ice before the fire,
That doth not kindle, but dissolves away.
Death, from the danger of my later day
Sole saviour now, must pluck me from the harm
Of thy fierce arm,
That, working woe by sight of others' weal,
Still strives to whirl a long arrested wheel.
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My soul, with whom Death parleys, doth prepare,
Taking cold counsel of herself, within
Sad shade of solemn thoughts that neighbour night,
This body soon to leave behind her, where
Her ghostly journey must, ere long, begin;
Which mingled hope and fear but dimly light.
Ah, Love! how fierce thou standest, full in sight
Of my sad eyes; strong-arm'd, from me to rend,
What me defend,
These timely thoughts of Death; that thy wild hours
May from a wither'd tree snatch leaves and flowers!
Taking cold counsel of herself, within
Sad shade of solemn thoughts that neighbour night,
This body soon to leave behind her, where
Her ghostly journey must, ere long, begin;
Which mingled hope and fear but dimly light.
Ah, Love! how fierce thou standest, full in sight
Of my sad eyes; strong-arm'd, from me to rend,
What me defend,
These timely thoughts of Death; that thy wild hours
May from a wither'd tree snatch leaves and flowers!
What can I more? What owe I thee? My debt
Is paid in full. More hours can he afford
Whose past's whole wealth thy greedy garner stocks?
What craft or what compulsion back may get
To thee my homage gone, ungenerous lord,
Who mak'st the pain thy seeming pity mocks?
The soul that hath undone her dungeon locks,
And loosed her bonds, knows better than again
To hug her chain,
And all her new-found freedom, fool'd, forego
His service to resume, that wrought her woe.
Is paid in full. More hours can he afford
Whose past's whole wealth thy greedy garner stocks?
What craft or what compulsion back may get
To thee my homage gone, ungenerous lord,
Who mak'st the pain thy seeming pity mocks?
The soul that hath undone her dungeon locks,
And loosed her bonds, knows better than again
To hug her chain,
And all her new-found freedom, fool'd, forego
His service to resume, that wrought her woe.
Whatever earth brings forth earth takes again:
And more and more all mortal beauty fleets:
Who loves (and this know I) is never free:
Near neighbour is great pleasure to great pain:
And most by those that deepest drain the sweets
The bitters in life's chalice tasted be.
O tyrant Love, what is thy will of me?
Wilt thou that I, oblivious of past ill,
Be thy fool still,
While the scant time, my near departure claims,
Be spent by thee on sorrows and on shames?
And more and more all mortal beauty fleets:
Who loves (and this know I) is never free:
Near neighbour is great pleasure to great pain:
And most by those that deepest drain the sweets
The bitters in life's chalice tasted be.
O tyrant Love, what is thy will of me?
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Be thy fool still,
While the scant time, my near departure claims,
Be spent by thee on sorrows and on shames?
Go, song of mine, from ice by fire begot!
And haply if Love meet thee by the way,
Bid him delay
To war with one that challenges him not:
Tell him, he wins no glory by the blow
That smites a long-already-fallen foe.
And haply if Love meet thee by the way,
Bid him delay
To war with one that challenges him not:
Tell him, he wins no glory by the blow
That smites a long-already-fallen foe.
| Orval, or The Fool of Time | |