The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - The True Kings.

Neron fu Re.


Nero was king by accident in show;
        But Socrates by nature in good sooth;
        By right of both Augustus; luck and truth
        Less perfectly were blent in Scipio.

The spurious prince still seeks to extirpate
        The seed of natures born imperial--
        Like Herod, Caiaphas, Meletus, all
        Who by bad acts sustain their stolen state.

Slaves whose souls tell them that they are but slaves,
        Strike those whose native kinghood all can see:
        Martyrdom is the stamp of royalty.

Dead though they be, these govern from their graves:
        The tyrants fall, nor can their laws remain;
        While Paul and Peter rise o'er Rome to reign.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni was an Italian sculptor, painter, architect, and poet of the High Renaissance. Born on March 6, 1475, he is widely considered one of the greatest artists of all time. His poetry, although lesser-known compared to his other artistic achievements, displays his deep contemplation of art, love, and spirituality. Michelangelo passed away on February 18, 1564.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Love's Justification. Second Reading.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

No Escape From Love.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - The Modern Cupid.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - A Prophecy Of Judgment. No. 1. The Reign Of Antichrist.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - What Makes A King.

Chi pennelli have e colori.


He who hath brush and colours, and chance-wise
        Doth daub, befouling walls and canvases,
        Is not a painter; but, unhelped by these,
        He who in art is masterful and wise.
Cowls and the tonsure do not make a friar;
        Nor make a king wide realms and pompous wars;
        But he who is all Jesus, Pallas, Mars,
        Though he be slave or base-born, wears the tiar.
Man is not born crowned like the natural king
        Of beasts, for beasts by this investiture
        Have need to know the head they must obey;
Wherefore a commonwealth fits men, I say,
        Or else a prince whose worth is tried and sure,
        Not proved by sloth or false imagining.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - True And False Nobility.

In noi dal senno.


Valour and mind form real nobility,
        The which bears fruit and shows a fair increase
        By doughty actions: these and nought but these
        Confer true patents of gentility.
Money is false and light unless it be
        Bought by a man's own worthy qualities;
        And blood is such that its corrupt disease
        And ignorant pretence are foul to see.
Honours that ought to yield more true a type,
        Europe, thou measurest by fortune still,
        To thy great hurt; and this thy foe perceives:
He rates the tree by fruits mature and ripe,
        Not by mere shadows, roots, and verdant leaves:--
        Why then neglect so grave a cause of ill?

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - Hypocrites.

Nessun ti venne a dir.


Who comes and saith: 'A Tyrant, lo, am I!'
        And, 'I am Antichrist!' what man will swear?
        The crafty rogue, hiding his poisonous ware,
        Sells you what slays your soul, for sanctity.
Cheats, brigands, prostitutes, and all that fry,
        Not having fashioned so devout a snare,
        Appear worse sinners than perhaps they are;
        For where the craft's small, small's the villainy;
You're on your guard. The meek Samaritan
        Makes way before those guileful Pharisees,
        Though God assigned to him the higher place.
        Not words nor wonders prove a virtuous man,
But deeds and acts. How many deities
        Hath this false standard given the human race!

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - To The Poets.

In superbia il valor.


Valour to pride hath turned; grave holiness
        To vile hypocrisy; all gentle ways
        To empty forms; sound sense to idle lays;
        Pure love to heat; beauty to paint and dress:--
Thanks to you, Poets! you who sing the praise
        Of fabled knights, foul fires, lies, nullities;
        Not virtue, nor the wrapped sublimities
        Of God, as bards were wont in those old days.
How far more wondrous than your phantasies
        Are Nature's works, how far more sweet to sing!
        Thus taught, the soul falsehood and truth descries.
That tale alone is worth the pondering,
        Which hath not smothered history in lies,
        And arms the soul against each sinful thing.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - To Poland.

Sopra i regni.


High o'er those realms that make blind chance the heir
        Of empire, Poland, dost thou lift thy head:
        For while thou mournest for thy monarch dead,
        Thou wilt not let his son the sceptre bear,
Lest he prove weak perchance to do or dare.
        Yet art thou even more by luck misled,
        Choosing a prince of fortune, courtly-bred,
        Uncertain whether he will spend or spare.
Oh, quit this pride! In hut or shepherd's pen
        Seek Cato, Minos, Numa! For of such
        God still makes kings in plenty: and these men
Will squander little substance and gain much,
        Knowing that virtue and not blood shall be
        Their titles to true immortality.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - Nebuchadnezzar's Image.

Babel disfatta.


The golden head was Babylon; she passed:
        Persia came next, the silvern breast: whereto
        Joined brazen flank and belly--these are you,
        Ye men of Macedon! Now Rome's the last.
Rome on two iron legs towered tall and vast;
        But at her feet were toes of clay, that drew
        Downfall: those scattered tribes erewhile she knew
        For lords; now 'neath her fatal sway they're cast.
Ah thirsty soil! From your parched fallow fumes
        A smoke of pride, vain-glory, cruelty,
        That blinds, infects, and blackens, and consumes!
To Daniel, to the Bible you refuse
        Your rebel sense; for it is still your use
        To screen yourself with lies and sophistry.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni