the Buonarroti family yield no direct
information on the subject. We learn, however, from the Libri delle
Eta, preserved at the Archivio di Stato, that Lodovico di Lionardo di
Buonarrota Simoni was born upon the 11th of June 1444. Now
Michelangelo, in his poem on Lodovico's death, says very decidedly
that his father was ninety when he breathed his last. If we take this
literally, it must be inferred that he died after the middle of June
1534. There are many reasons for supposing that Michelangelo was in
Florence when this happened. The chief of these is that no
correspondence passed between the Buonarroti brothers on the occasion,
while Michelangelo's minutes regarding the expenses of his father's
burial seem to indicate that he was personally responsible for their
disbursement. I may finally remark that the schedule of property
belonging to Michelangelo, recorded under the year 1534 in the
archives of the Decima at Florence, makes no reference at all to
Lodovico. We conclude from it that, at the time of its redaction,
Michelangelo must have succeeded to his father's estate.

The death of Lodovico and Buonarroto, happening within a space of
little more than five years, profoundly affected Michelangelo's mind,
and left an indelible mark of sadness on his life. One of his best
poems, a _capitolo_, or piece of verse in _terza rima_ stanzas, was
written on the occasion of his father's decease. In it he says that
Lodovico had reached the age of ninety. If this statement be literally
accurate, the old man must have died in 1534, since he was born upon
the 11th of June 1444. But up to the present time, as I have observed
above, the exact date of his death has not been discovered. One
passage of singular and solemn beauty may be translated from the
original:--

_Thou'rt dead of dying, and art made divine,
Nor fearest now to change or life or will;
Scarce without envy can I call this thine.
Fortune and time beyond your temple-sill
Dare not advance, by whom is dealt for us
A doubtful gladness, and too certain ill.
Cloud is there none to dim you glorious:
The hours distinct compel you not to fade:
Nor chance nor fate o'er you are tyrannous.
Your splendour with the night sinks not in shade,
Nor grows with day, howe'er that sun ride high
Which on our mortal hearts life's heat hath rayed.
Thus from thy dying I now learn to die,
Dear father mine! In thought I see thy place,