[The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow]@TWC D-Link bookThe Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow PART THIRD 45/46
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. Confusion and dismay, together mingled, Forced such a feeble "Yes!" out of my mouth, To understand it one had need of sight. Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 't is discharged, Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow, And with less force the arrow hits the mark; So I gave way beneath this heavy burden, Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs, And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage. TO ITALY BY VINCENZO DA FILICAJA Italy! Italy! thou who'rt doomed to wear The fatal gift of beauty, and possess The dower funest of infinite wretchedness Written upon thy forehead by despair; Ah! would that thou wert stronger, or less fair. That they might fear thee more, or love thee less, Who in the splendor of thy loveliness Seem wasting, yet to mortal combat dare! Then from the Alps I should not see descending Such torrents of armed men, nor Gallic horde Drinking the wave of Po, distained with gore, Nor should I see thee girded with a sword Not thine, and with the stranger's arm contending, Victor or vanquished, slave forever more. SEVEN SONNETS AND A CANZONE [The following translations are from the poems of Michael Angelo as revised by his nephew Michael Angelo the Younger, and were made before the publication of the original text by Guasti.] I THE ARTIST Nothing the greatest artist can conceive That every marble block doth not confine Within itself; and only its design The hand that follows intellect can achieve. The ill I flee, the good that I believe, In thee, fair lady, lofty and divine, Thus hidden lie; and so that death be mine Art, of desired success, doth me bereave. Love is not guilty, then, nor thy fair face, Nor fortune, cruelty, nor great disdain, Of my disgrace, nor chance, nor destiny, If in thy heart both death and love find place At the same time, and if my humble brain, Burning, can nothing draw but death from thee. II FIRE Not without fire can any workman mould The iron to his preconceived design, Nor can the artist without fire refine And purify from all its dross the gold; Nor can revive the phoenix, we are told, Except by fire.
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