Into the dark abyss he made his way; Both nether worlds he saw, and in the might Of his great soul beheld God's splendour bright. And gave to us on earth true light of day: Star of supremest worth with its clear ray. Heaven's secrets he revealed to us through our dim sight. And had for guerdon what the base world's spite Oft gives to souls that noblest grace display, Full ill was Dante's life-work understood, His purpose high, by that ungrateful state. That welcomed all with kindness but the good. Would I were such, to bear like evil fate, To taste his exile, share his lofty mood. For this I'd gladly give all earth calls great. {305} In the first of this pair of sonnets, however, Michael Angelo gave if possible even higher praise than this. It will be recalled that he himself, besides being the greatest of sculptors and one of the greatest of painters and architects in a wonderfully productive period, was also a very great poet. These sonnets to Dante, the one to his crucifix, and one to Vittoria Colonna, are the best proof of this. He knew how to chisel thoughts into wonderfully suitable words quite as well as marble into the beautiful forms that grew under his hands. With all his greatness, and he must have been conscious of it, he thinks that he would be perfectly willing to give up all that earth calls great, simply to share Dante's lofty mood even in his exile. No greater tribute has ever been paid by one poet to another than this, and Michael Angelo's genius was above all critical, never thoughtlessly laudatory. As emphasizing the highest enlightened taste of a great epoch this has seemed to deserve a place here also. What should be said of him speech may not tell; His splendor is too great for men's dim sight; And easier 'twere to blame his foes aright Than for his poorest gifts to praise him well. He tracked the path that leads to depths of Hell To teach us wisdom, scaled the eternal height. And heaven with open gates did him invite. Who in his own loved city might not dwell. Ungrateful country step-dame of his fate. To her own loss: full proof we have in this That souls most perfect bear the greatest woe. Of thousand things suffice in this to state: No exile ever was unjust as his, Nor did the world his equal ever know.