Rapt above earth by power of one fair face, Hers in whose sway alone my heart delights, I mingle with the blest on those pure heights Where Man, yet mortal, rarely finds a place. With Him who made the Work that Work accords 5 So well, that by its help and through his grace I raise my thoughts, inform my deeds and words, Clasping her beauty in my soul’s embrace. Thus, if from two fair eyes mine cannot turn, I feel how in their presence doth abide 10 Light which to God is both the way and guide; And, kindling at their lustre, if I burn, My noble fire emits the joyful ray That through the realms of glory shines for aye. [156] The second of the two sonnets translated by Wordsworth is No. lxxiii. in Signor Cesare Guastî’s edition of Michael Angelo (1863). AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS. _Scaro d’un’ importuna._ It was evidently written in old age. The following is Mr. John Addington Symond’s translation of the same sonnet. Freed from a burden sore and grievous band, Dear Lord, and from this wearying world untied, Like a frail bark I turn me to Thy side, As from a fierce storm to a tranquil land. Thy thorns, Thy nails, and either bleeding hand, With Thy mild gentle piteous face, provide Promise of help and mercies multiplied, And hope that yet my soul secure may stand. Let not Thy holy eyes be just to see My evil part, Thy chastened ears to hear, And stretch the arm of judgment to my crime: Let Thy blood only love and succour me, Yielding more perfect pardon, better cheer, As older still I grow with lengthening time. _The Sonnets of Michael Angelo Buonarroti and Tomaso Campanella_, by John Addington Symonds, p. 110. Compare Wordsworth’s translation of other three sonnets by Michael Angelo (vol. iii. pp. 380-384).--ED. XXII AT FLORENCE--FROM M. ANGELO Eternal Lord! eased of a cumbrous load, And loosened from the world, I turn to Thee; Shun, like a shattered bark, the storm, and flee To thy protection for a safe abode. The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon the tree, 5 The meek, benign, and lacerated face, To a sincere repentance promise grace, To the sad soul give hope of pardon free. With justice mark not Thou, O Light divine, My fault, nor hear it with thy sacred ear; 10 Neither put forth that way thy arm severe; Wash with thy blood my sins; thereto incline More readily the more my years require Help, and forgiveness speedy and entire. XXIII AMONG THE RUINS OF A CONVENT IN THE APENNINES