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

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

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - The Price Of Freedom.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

Love's Flame Doth Feed On Age.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

The Doom Of Beauty.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

Love In Youth And Age. First Reading.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

English

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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

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 - 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 - Sophists.

Nessun ti verrà a dire.


'Behold, I am a Sophist!' no man saith.
        But the true sons of perfidy refined
        Forge theologic lies the soul to blind,
        Calling themselves evangels of the faith.
Aretine with his scoundrels blew his breath,
        And in the cynic orgies boldly joined;
        His ribald jests had flowers and thorns combined--
        A frank fair list including life and death,
For fun, not fraud. It shames him to be found
        Less vile than those who cannot bear to see
        Their sink of filth laid open to the ground:
Wherefore they shut our mouths, our books impound,
        Garble with lies each sentence that may be
        Cited to prove their foul hypocrisy.

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 - Love Of Self And God.

Questo amor singolar.


This love of self sinks man in sinful sloth:
        Yet, if he seek to live, he needs must feign
        Sense, goodness, courage. Thus he dwells in pain,
        A sphinx, twy-souled, a false self-stunted growth.
Honours, applause, and wealth these torments soothe;
        Till jealousy, contrasting his foul stain
        With virtues eminent, by spur and rein
        Drives him to slay, steal, poison, break his oath.
But he who loves our common Father, hath
        All men for brothers, and with God doth joy
        In whatsoever worketh for their bliss.
Good Francis called the birds upon his path
        Brethren; to him the fishes were not coy.--
        Oh, blest is he who comprehendeth this!

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni