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

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

After The Death Of Vittoria Colonna. After Sunset.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

To Vittoria Colonna. Brazen Gifts For Golden.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - A Writer Of Eclogues. To Annibale Caraccioli,

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - A Parable Of Wise Men And The World.

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 - 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

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 - 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 - God Made And God Rules.

La fabbrica del mondo.


The fabric of the world--earth, air, and skies--
        Each particle thereof and tiniest part
        Designed for special ends--proclaims the art
        Of an almighty Maker good and wise.
Nathless the lawless brutes, our crimes and lies,
        The joys of vicious men, the good man's smart,
        All creatures swerving from their ends, impart
        Doubts that the Ruler is nor good nor wise.
Can it then be that boundless Power, Love, Mind,
        Lets others reign, the while He takes repose?
        Hath He grown old, or hath He ceased to heed?
Nay, one God made and rules: He shall unwind
        The tangled skein; the hidden law disclose,
        Whereby so many sinned in thought and deed.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni