On Michael Angelo's Famous Piece Of The Crucifixion;

    Who Is Said To Have Stabbed a Person That He Might Draw It More    Naturally.(44)


Whilst his Redeemer on his canvass dies,
Stabb'd at his feet his brother weltering lies:
The daring artist, cruelly serene,
Views the pale cheek and the distorted mien;
He drains off life by drops, and, deaf to cries,
Examines every spirit as it flies:
He studies torment, dives in mortal woe,
To rouse up every pang repeats his blow;
Each rising agony, each dreadful grace,
Yet warm transplanting to his Saviour's face.
Oh glorious theft! oh nobly wicked draught!
With its full charge of death each feature fraught,
Such wondrous force the magic colours boast,
From his own skill he starts in horror lost.


44 Though the report was propagated without the least truth, it may be sufficient ground to justify a poetical fancy's enlarging on it.

Edward Young

Edward Young was an English poet, best remembered for his poem "Night-Thoughts". Born in 1683, he was educated at Westminster School and later at Oxford University. Young's work is considered part of the Augustan and early Romantic eras. His philosophical and religious reflections in "Night-Thoughts" greatly influenced European literature. Young also wrote plays and essays and was an ordained minister. He passed away on April 5, 1765.

Edward Young

Epitaph

Edward Young, Simple Poetry

Ocean: An Ode

Edward Young, Simple Poetry

Ocean. An Ode.

Edward Young, Simple Poetry

Historical Epilogue To The Brothers. A Tragedy.

Edward Young, Simple Poetry

English

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The Death Of Christ.

Non fur men lieti.


Not less elate than smitten with wild woe
        To see not them but Thee by death undone,
        Were those blest souls, when Thou above the sun
        Didst raise, by dying, men that lay so low:
Elate, since freedom from all ills that flow
        From their first fault for Adam's race was won;
        Sore smitten, since in torment fierce God's son
        Served servants on the cruel cross below.
Heaven showed she knew Thee, who Thou wert and whence,
        Veiling her eyes above the riven earth;
        The mountains trembled and the seas were troubled.
He took the Fathers from hell's darkness dense:
        The torments of the damnéd fiends redoubled:
        Man only joyed, who gained baptismal birth.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

To Giorgio Vasari. On The Brink Of Death.

Giunto è già.


Now hath my life across a stormy sea
        Like a frail bark reached that wide port where all
        Are bidden, ere the final reckoning fall
        Of good and evil for eternity.

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.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

The Portrait.

In some quaint Nürnberg maler-atelier
Uprummaged. When and where was never clear,
Nor yet how he obtained it. When, by whom
'T was painted, who shall say? itself a gloom
Resisting inquisition. I opine
It is a Dürer. Humph? that touch, this line
Are not deniable; distinguished grace
In the pure oval of the noble face;
The color badly tarnished. Half in light
Extend it, so; incline; the exquisite
Expression leaps abruptly: piercing scorn,
Imperial beauty; icy, each a thorn
Of light - disdainful eyes and ... well! no use!
Effaced and but beheld, a sad abuse
Of patience. Often, vaguely visible,
The portrait fills each feature, making swell
The soul with hope: avoiding face and hair
Alive with lively warmth; astonished there
"Occult substantial!" y...

Madison Julius Cawein

The Crucifixion

Sunlight upon Judha's hills!
And on the waves of Galilee;
On Jordan's stream, and on the rills
That feed the dead and sleeping sea!
Most freshly from the green wood springs
The light breeze on its scented wings;
And gayly quiver in the sun
The cedar tops of Lebanon!

A few more hours, a change hath come!
The sky is dark without a cloud!
The shouts of wrath and joy are dumb,
And proud knees unto earth are bowed.
A change is on the hill of Death,
The helmed watchers pant for breath,
And turn with wild and maniac eyes
From the dark scene of sacrifice!

That Sacrifice! the death of Him,
The Christ of God, the holy One!
Well may the conscious Heaven grow dim,
And blacken the beholding, Sun.
The wonted light hath fled away,
Night s...

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The Blood Of Christ.

Mentre m' attrista.


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.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

St Peter's Denial

What, then, has God to say of cursing heresies,
Which rise up like a flood at precious angels' feet?
A self-indulgent tyrant, stuffed with wine and meat,
He sleeps to soothing sounds of monstrous blasphemies.

The sobs of martyred saints and groans of tortured men
No doubt provide the Lord with rapturous symphonies.
And yet the heavenly hosts are scarcely even pleased
In spite of all the blood men dedicate to them.

Jesus, do you recall the grove of olive trees
Where on your knees, in your simplicity, you prayed
To Him who sat and heard the noise the nailing made
In your live flesh, as villains did their awful deed,

When you saw, spitting on your pure divinity,
Scum from the kitchens, outcasts, guardsmen in disgrace,
And felt the crown of thorns around y...

Charles Baudelaire