Florence in the Poetry of the Brownings Digitized by the Internet Arciiive in 2008 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/florenceinpoetryOObrowrich LO/l VJ L. HJ 1 ■ XXUliiU \Jl X Robert and Elizabeth Bar- rett Browning from 1847 to 1861. Corner of Via Magjjio and Via Mazzetta. *' y lunnl Idtit iiit/hf in/t Over the street rirkiri)rk s/irinkled ronl." — The Ring and the Book, p. 181. Florence in the Poetry of the Brownings Being a Selection of the Poems of Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning Which have to do with the History, the Scenery and the Art of Florence Edited by Anna Benneson McMahan With over Sixty Full-page Illustrations from Photographs > J , ^ J 3 > ^ , , ' , V Chicago A. C. McClurg & Co. 1904. ^^s ^y Copyright A. C. McClurg & Co. 1904 Published October 5, 1904 With four exceptions, the photographs reprmiuced in this work are from the atelier of the Brothers Alinari, Florence, and are used by special arrangement with their approval and consent. The " Casa Guidi," the "Carmine Cloister," and the " Book-Stall in Piazza San Lorenzo" are by ISIiss Una McMahan; the "Piazza and Church of San Lorenzo" Is by Mauelli, Florence. • • THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIRGE, D. S. A. f^p_ r ^' t- TO ANNIE HOWELL ANNIS LOVER OF FLORENCE AND OF BROWNING ivi89189 \ h y CONTENTS Page Introduction 13 BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING Casa Guidi Windows 21 The Dance 99 BY ROBERT BRO WNING Old Pictures in Florence 105 Fra Lippo Lippi 121 Andrea del Sarto 137 The Statue and the Bust 149 The Ring and the Book. Book I 163 One Word More 217 ILLUSTRATIONS Casa Guidi Windows Frontispiece Bridges of the Amo To face page 24 Monument to Giuliano de' Medici „ »» 26 New Sacristy of San Lorenzo Monument to Lorenzo de' Medici „ »> 28 New Sacristy of San Lorenzo Martyrdom of Savonarola „ „ 30 Museum of San Marco Statue of Savonarola „ » 32 Palazzo Vecchio Cell of Savonarola „ n 34 Museum of San Marco Church of Santa Maria Novella „ » 36 Fresco of Inferno, by Andrea Orcagna „ » 38 Strozzi Chapel of Santa Maria Novella Madonna „ „ 40 Rucellai Chapel of Santa Maria Novella Crucifixion, by Margheritone „ ,,42 Church of Santa Croce Portrait of Pra Angelico „ „ 44 Academy of Fine Arts The Pitti Palace „ „ 46 Loggia dei Lanzi „ » 48 Monument to Dante » « 50 Church of Santa Croce [ix] ILLUSTRATIONS Fresco of Dante To face page 53 Bargello Chapel Gate of San Niccolb „ » 54 Gate of San Gallo „ „ 56 Bust of Brutus „ „ 58 Bargello Piazza in the Cascine „ „ 60 View of Florence „ » 62 Campanile, with Cathedral and Baptistry . . . . „ „ 66 Portrait of Michel Angelo „ » 68 Uffizi Gallery Portrait of Raphael Sanzio „ » 72 Uffizi Gallery Portrait of Leonardo da Vinci ,, » 74 Uffizi Gallery Statue of Niobe , » 80 Uffizi Gallery The Dying Alexander „ „ 84 Uffizi Gallery Portraits of Cimabue, Giotto, and Taddeo Gaddi . . „ » 88 SpaDish Chapel of Santa Maria Novella Statue of Niccola Pisano „ ,,92 Portico of Uffizi Portrait of Ghiberti „ ,,94 Palazzo Vecchio Portrait of Ghirlandajo „ ,,100 Santa Maria Novella Portrait of Botticelli „ ,,102 Uffizi Gallery Portrait of Filippino Lippi „ „ 106 Uffizi Gallery Coronation of the Virgin, by Lorenzo Monaco . . „ ,. 108 Uffizi Gallery [x] ILLUSTRATIONS Madonna and Saints, by Baldovinetti .... To face Uffizi Gallery Church of San Spirito „ The Cloisters of the Carmine „ Portrait of Cosimo the Elder, by Pontormo . . . „ Uffizi Gallery St. Jerome, by Pra Pilippo Lippi „ Academy of Fine Arts Church of the Carmine „ Group of Angels, by Giotto „ Medici Chapel in Santa Croce Portrait of Masaccio „ Brancacci Chapel in Church of the Carmine The Tribute Money, by Masaccio „ Brancacci Chapel in Church of the Carmine Coronation of the Virgin, by Pilippo Lippi . . . „ Academy of Fine Arts Portrait of Pilippo Lippi » Academy of Fine Arts Portrait of Andrea del Sarta and his Wife . . . „ Pitti Gallery View of Piesole „ Madonna, by Andrea del Sarto „ Pitti Gallery Palace Riccardi-Mannelli » Piazza dell' Annunziata Villa Petraja „ Statue of Ferdinand I. de' Medici „ Piazza dell* Annimziata Piazza and Church of San Lorenzo „ Book-stall in Piazza San Lorenzo „ Riccardi Palace ,j [xi] page 112 „ 114 ,, 116 „ 122 „ 124 126 130 132 134 138 142 144 150 152 „ 156 158 164 166 170 172 ILLUSTRATIONS Interior of San Lorenzo To face page 176 Strozzi Palace „ „ ISO Piazza Santa Trinita „ „ 184 Bridge of Santa Trinita „ „ 188 Porta Romana „ „ IQ-i Mrs. Browning's Tomb „ ,,200 Protestant Cemetery Donna Velata „ „ 206 Pitti Gallery Madonna del Granduca „ „ 210 Pitti Gallery San Miniato „ „ 212 Galileo's Tower , ,,218 The Protestant Cemetery „ ,,224! Piazza Donatello [xii] Introduction yl LTHOUGH English poets bj birth, the city of /— % Florence, in Italy, was the home of P^obert and "^ -^- Elizabeth Barrett Browning during the fifteen years of their wedded life. Eor both, this was a period not only of supreme happiness but of continual literary production, most of which was profoundly and essentially influenced by Italian conditions and Italian atmosphere. The most distinctively lyrical poetry of Eobert Browning belongs almost entirely to these years ; whoever would see him as a singer, in distinction from the dramatist of his earlier period or the philosophical and religious poet of his later life, must turn to the poems written during this time of " life, love, and Italy/' To both poets the history, the scenery, the art of Florence, was a continual inspira- tion; poems and correspondence alike show the supreme place it held in their affections. "The most beautiful of the cities devised by man,'' says Mrs. Browning, in one of her letters ; " completing Florence as Florence Italy," says Robert Browning, speaking of the campanile of the cathedral. Mrs. Browning's life-long interest in Italian politics and in popular liberty are too well known to need further [ 13] INTRODUCTION exposition; but the large part played by the local color of the city, the multitude of allusions to the churches, the piazzas, the pictures, tlie statues, the traditions of Florence can be understood fully only by a somewhat intimate knowledge of the city. The same is true of many of Eobert Browning's poems. For example, his " Old Pictures in Florence '' is counted among the most obscure of his shorter poems ; but it is obscure only because it assumes a larger amount of infor- mation in the history of art than most readers possess. It is true that nearly every line has some allusion to an artist or an art-principle more or less unknown ; but there is no obscurity either of thought or expression when we are once as well informed as Browning presupposes us all to be. Doubtless it was a mistake on his part. Himself living among these things, which were a part of his daily walk and thought, it was unwise to assume an equal amount of interest and knowledge on the part of his reader. But the error is both complimentary and inspiring. Yisiting Florence, one of the first ambitions of a lover of Browning is to go about with " Old Pictures in Florence,^' and other poems, as a guide-book to some of the things best wortli seeing. But even such a person finds no small difficulty in locating the special picture, or statue, or scene. This book is an attempt to aid liim and also the still larger number of persons who may never see the city itself. The poems of tlie Brownings already have been annotated ably and sufficiently as far as words can serve ; the pres- ent work aims to set before the eye pictures of the places L It] INTRODUCTION or persons mentioned, so that each reader may see Flor- ence for himself as nearly as possible as the two poets saw it, may approach, as closely as ever is possible to an out- sider, the sources of poetical inspiration. Indeed, both poets at times seem to have invited us into the inner sanctuary of their minds, by stating dis- tinctly the circumstances which led to poetical creation. Mrs. Browning tells how she heard a little child go sing- ing underneath her windows, and how with it came the thought how " the heart of Italy must beat While such a voice had leave to rise sereue 'Twixt church and palace of a Florence street." Hence the poem, " Casa Guidi Windows.'^ Nor is there in all literature so painstaking an effort on the part of any writer to reveal precisely all the stages of the birth and growth of a poem, as that made by Brown- ing in the first book of " The Eing and the Book.'^ He tells the time and the place where he found, and the price that he paid for, a certain square old yellow book picked out from amid the promiscuous rubbish of an old book- stall ; how the story of it appealed to him from the very moment he laid hands upon it, and how, absorbed in the reading, he took his unconscious way through the familiar streets, finishing it just as he reached the doorway, " where the black begins with tlie first stone-slab of the staircase cold '^ — an unmistakable description of the dreary en- trance to Casa Guidi. It was the night after, he goes on to tell us, " as I trod the terrace and breathed the beauty [15] INTRODUCTION and the fearfulness of night/' that the tragic piece acted itself over again, and he saw with his own eyes and heard as if speaking with their own voices all the long-dead per- sonages of the story, listened to their mutual accusations and to the defences of each for his own share in it. How such revelations come to the poetic soul no man will ever be able really to communicate to another ; but along all tlie list of writers who have attempted it, from Aristotle to Matthew Arnold, is there anywhere a better description of the nature of poetic inspiration than these passages from " The Eing and the Book " ? — " I fused my hve soul and that inert stuff Before attempting suiitlicraft." " The Hfe in me abolished 4lie death of things. Deep calling unto deep." Or this, of the rapture felt by the poet in the act of creation : — "Tlie Book! I turn its medicinable leaves In London now till, as in Florence erst, A spirit laughs and leaps through every limb. And lights my eye, and lifts me by the hair. Letting me liave my will again with these. — How title I the dead, alive once more?" It was four years before the poem was fully wrought out and publislied in iiondon; but the whole conception of " The Ring and the liook " was practically complete at the close of those twenty-four hours which the author has described so minutely. The scene of the story itself lies chiefly in Eome and Arezzo, but the vivid picture of the [ 16] INTRODUCTION sarroundings and atmosphere on that memorable June day, the matchless description of the kindling of the poetic fire belong solely to Florence. Shortly after occurred the death of Mrs. Browning, the breaking up of the home, and Mr. Browning's departure from the city, to which he never afterwards returned. No effort has been made to correct what many will re- gard as misapprehensions on the part of the poets. What is known as the "new criticism '^ denies that Cimabue painted the " Madonna in Santa Maria Novella,''^ and gives it to Duccio; the picture called " Andrea del Sarto and his Wife, Painted by himself,^' is taken away from Andrea and ascribed to an unknown artist of the Venetian school, and the portraits are considered to be two unknown persons. Whether right or wrong, no critical conclusion can ever destroy the charm of the poem called '^ Andrea del Sarto .'' By whatever name we call the picture, to whatever artist we assign it, the story which Browning read between the lines of the two faces looking out from the canvas is no less eloquent, the monologue no less dramatically expres- sive of that type of artist who just misses his place among the very greatest by reason of his lack of spiritual power and grace. For years, hundreds of persons daily had passed unmoved before this picture in the Pitti Gallery ; one day the man of supreme dramatic imagination, the poet, paused, and to him the lips seemed to move and the heart to throb with a tale of love and woe and resigned despair. Since that time there are none who read the poem who do not wish to see the picture itself, or, fail- 2 [17] INTRODUCTION ing in that, some reproduction of it. With "Fra Lippo Lippi " and other poems the case is the same. To such persons is offered this book — a selection of those poems of Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning which have to do with Florence, — in the belief that with these two great poets as guides they will see with a new vision some of the old glories of the fair city of the Arno. A. B. McM. Florence, Italy, 1904. [18] CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS FLORENCE in the POErR Y Z BROWNINGS CAS A GUIBl W^INnoWS A POEM, IN TWO PARTS ^^^^HIS poem contains the impressions of the writer m upon events in Tuscany of which she was a wit- •^ ness. '^^ From a window^'' the critic may demur. She hows to the objection in the very title of her work. No continucms narrative nor exposition of political phi- losophy is attempted hy her. It is a simple story of personal impressions, zvhose only value is in the intensity with which they were received, as proving her warm affection for a heaidiful and unfortunate country, and the sincerity with rchich they are related, as indicating- her own good faith and freedom from paHisanship. Of the two parts of this poem, the first was written nearly three years ago ; while the second resumes the actual situation of 1851. The discrepancy between the two parts is a sufficient guaranty to the public of the truthfulness of the writer, who, though she certainly escaped the epidemic ''falling sickness'''' of enthusiasm for P'lo Nono, takes shame ujjon herself that she believed, like a woman, some royal oaths, and lost sight of the [21] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS probable consequences of so7?ie obvious popular defects. If the discrepancy should be painful to the reader^ let him understand that to the writer it has been 7nore so. But such discrepancies we are called upon to accept at everij hour hij the conditions of our nature, imphfing the interval between asp>ir,aiion and performance, between faith diid, (iisillvshn'^ Mtifjeen hope and fact, 0^ richest 'fortune wkrjyvrosst. Born for the future, to the future lost/" Nay, not lost to the future in this case. The future of Italy shall not be disinherited. Florence^ 1851. part &nt I HEARD last night a little child go singing 'Neath Casa Guidi windows, by the church, " hella liberta, Bella ! '* stringing The same words still on notes, he went in search ^0 high for, you concluded the up-springing Of such a nimble bird to sky from perch Must leave the wliole busli in ii fremble green, And that the heart of Italy must beat, While sucli a voice liad leave to rise serene ^Twixt cliurch and pnlace of a Florence street: A little child, too, who not long had been By mother's finger steadied on liis feet. And still '' bella llherta " he sang. [ 22 ] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS Then I thought, musing, of the innumerous Sweet songs which still for Italy outrang From older singers^ lips, w^ho sang not thus Exultingly and purely, yet, with pang Fast sheathed in music, touched the heart of us So finely, that the pity scarcely pained. I thought how Filicaja led on others, Bewailers for their Italy enchained. And how they call her childless among mothers. Widow of empires, ay, and scarce refrained Cursing her beauty to her face, as brothers Might a shamed sister^s, — " Had she been less fair, She were less wretched,^^ — how, evoking so From congregated wrong and heaped despair Of men and women writhing under blow. Harrowed and hideous in a filthy lair. Some personating image wherein woe Was wrapt in beauty from offending much. They called it Cybele, or Niobe, Or laid it corpse-like on a bier for such. Where all the world might drop for Italy Those cadenced tears which burn not where they touch, — " Juliet of nations, canst thou die as we ? And was the violet crown that crowned thy head So over-large, though new buds made it rough. It slipped down, and across thine eyelids dead, sweet, fair Juliet ? " Of such songs enough. Too many of such complaints ! Behold, instead, [23] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS Yoid at Yerona, Juliet^s marble trough ; ^ As void as that is, are all images Men set between themselves and actual wrong To catch the weight of pity, meet the stress Of conscience ; since ''t is easier to gaze long On mournful masks and sad effigies Than on real, live, weak creatures crushed by strong. For me, who stand in Italy to-day XWhere worthier poets stood and sang before, I kiss their footsteps, yet their words gainsay. I can but muse in hope upon this shore Of golden Arno as it shoots away Through Florence' heart beneath her bridges four, — Bent bridges seeming to strain off like bows. And tremble while the arrowy undertide Shoots on, and cleaves the marble as it goes, And strikes up palace-walls on either side, And froths the cornice out in glittering rows. With doors and windows quaintly multiplied. And terrace-sweeps, and gazers upon all. By whom if flower or kerchief were tlirown out From any lattice there, the same would fall Into the river underneath, no doubt. It runs so close and fast 'twixt wall and wall. How beautiful ! The mountains from without In silence listen for the word said next. What word will men say, — here where Giotto planted ^ They show at Verona, as the tomb of Juliet, aa empty trough of stone. [24] .^ > o o o 2 cr t?3 Cl^ <: Jn PI cc i CASA GUIDI WINDOWS His campanile like an unperplext Fine question heavenward, touching the things granted A noble people, who, being greatly vext In act, in aspiration keep undaunted ? What word will God say ? MicheFs Night and Day And Dawn and Twilight wait in marble scorn, Like dogs upon a dunghill, couched on clay From whence the Medicean stamp^s outworn. The final putting-off of all such sway By all such hands, and freeing of the unborn In Florence and the great world outside Florence. Three hundred years his patient statues wait In that small chapel of the dim St. Lawrence : Day's eyes are breaking bold and passionate Over his shoulder, and will flash abhorrence On darkness, and with level looks meet fate. When once loose from that marble film of theirs ; The Night has wild dreams in her sleep, the Dawn Is haggard as the sleepless. Twilight wears A sort of horror ; as the veil withdrawn ■'Twixt the artistes soul and works had left them heirs Of speechless thoughts which would not quail nor fawn. Of angers and contempts, of hope and love : For not without a meaning did he place The princely Urbino on the seat above With everlasting shadow on his face. While the slow dawns and twilights disapprove The ashes of his long-extinguished race Which never more shall clog the feet of men. [26] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS I do believe, diviiiest Angelo, That winter-hour in Yia Larga, when They bade thee build a statue up in snow,^ And straight that marvel of thine art again Dissolved beneath the sun's Italian glow, Tliine eyes, dilated with the plastic passion, Thawing, too, in drops of wounded manhood, since. To mock alike thine art and indignation. Laughed at the palace-window the new prince, — (" Aha ! this genius needs for exaltation. When all 's said, and however the proud may wince, A little marble from our princely mines ! ■") I do believe that hour thou laughedst too For the whole sad world, and for thy Florentines, After those few tears, which were only few ! That as, beneath the sun, the grand white lines Of thy snow-statue trembled and withdrew, — The head, erect as Jove's, being palsied first, The eyelids flattened, the full brow turned blank. The right hand, raised but now as if it curst, Dropt, a mere snowball (till the people sank Tlieir voices, though a louder laughter burst From the royal window) — thou couldst proudly thank God and the prince for promise and presage. And laugh the laugh back, I think verily. Thine eyes being })urged by tears of righteous rage To read a wrong into a prophecy, * This mockinsf task was set by Pietro, the unworthy successor of Loreuzo the Mai^nificeut. [26] lyriCHEL ANGELO'S monument to Giuliano de' Medici in the New Sacristy of Church of San Lorenzo, with statues of Day and Night. " Michel's iSighl and l)ay " And I)awn and Timl'ujht vxdt in marble scorn.'' — Casa Guidi Windows, p. 25. II CASA GUIDI WINDOWS And measure a true great maii^s heritage Against a mere great duke's posterity. I think thy soul said then, ^^ I do not need A princedom and its quarries, after all ; For if I write, paint, carve a word, indeed. On book, or board, or dust, on floor or wall. The same is kept of God, who taketh heed That not a letter of the meaning fall Or ere it touch and teach his world's deep heart, Outlasting, therefore, all your lordships, sir ! So keep your stone, beseech you, for your part, To cover up your grave-place, and refer The proper titles : I live by my art. The thought I threw into this snow shall stir This gazing people when their gaze is done ; And the tradition of your act and mine. When all the snow is melted in the sun. Shall gather up for unborn men a sign Of what is the true princedom ; ay, and none Shall laugh that day, except the drunk with wine. Amen, great Angelo ! the day 's at hand. If many laugh not on it, shall we weep ? Much more we must not, let us understand. Through rhymers sonneteering in their sleep, And archaists mumbling dry bones up the land. And sketches lauding ruined towns a-heap, — Through all that drowsy hum of voices smooth. The hopeful bird mounts carolling from brake, [27] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS The liopeful child, with leaps to catch his growth. Sings open-eyed for liberty's sweet sake ; And I, a singer also from my youth. Prefer to sing with these who are awake, With birds, with babes, with men wlio will not fear The baptism of the holy morning dew (And many of such wakers now are here. Complete in their anointed manhood, who Will greatly dare, and greatlier persevere). Than join those old thin voices with my new. And sigh for Italy with some safe sigh Cooped up in music 'twixt an oh and ah : Nay, hand in hand with that young child will I Go singing rather, " Bella liheria,'' Than, with those poets, croon the dead, or cry " Se tu men bellafosai, Italia ! " " Less wretched if less fair/^ Perhaps a truth Is so far plain in this, that Italy, Long trammelled witli the purple of her youth Against her age's ripe activity, Sits still upon her tombs, without death's ruth. But also without life's brave energy. " Now tell us what is Italy ?" men ask ; And others answer, " Virgil, Cicero, Catullus, Ctcsar." Wliat beside, to task The memory closer ? — '' Why, Boccaccio, Dante, Petrarca," — and if still the llask Appears to yield its wine by drops too slow, — [28 J M ICHEL ANGELO'S monument to Lorenzo de' Medici in the New Sacristy of Church of San Lorenzo, with statues of Evenina: and Dawn. " Three hundred years his patient statues wait In that small chapel of the dim St. Lawrence.'''' — Casa Guidi Windows, p. 25. CASA GUIDI WINDOWS " Angelo, Raffael, Pergolese/" — all Whose strong hearts beat through stoiie_, or charged again The paints with fire of souls electrical^ Or broke up heaven for music. What more then ? Why, then, no more. The chaplefs last beads fall In naming the last saintship within ken. And, after that, none prayeth in the land. Alas ! this Italy has too long swept Heroic ashes up for hour-glass sand ; Of her own past, impassioned nympholept ! Consenting to be nailed here by the hand To the very bay-tree under which she stept A queen of old, and plucked a leafy branch ; And, licensing the world too long indeed To use her broad phylacteries to stanch And stop her bloody lips, she takes no heed How one clear word would draw an avalanche Of living sons around her to succeed The vanished generations. Can she count These oil-eaters with large, live, mobile mouths Agape for macaroni, in the amount Of consecrated heroes of her south^s Bright rosary ? The pitcher at the fount, The gift of gods, being broken, she much loathes To let the ground-leaves of the place confer A natural bowl. So henceforth she would seem No nation, but the poet^s pensioner. With alms from every land of song and dream. While aye her pipers sadly pipe of her [29] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS Until their proper breaths, in that extreme Of sigliing, split the reed on which thej played ; Of which, no more. But never say " No more *' To Italy's life ! Her memories undismayed StiU argue "evermore^'; her graves implore Her future to be strong, and not afraid ; Her very statues send their looks before. We do not serve the dead : the past is past. God lives, and lifts his glorious mornings up Before the eyes of men awake at last. Who put away the meats they used to sup. And down upon the dust of earth outcast The dregs remaining of the ancient cup. Then turned to wakeful prayer and worthy act. The dead, upon their awful vantage ground. The sun not in their faces, shall abstract No more our strength : we will not be discrowned As guardians of their crowns, nor deign transact A barter of the present, for a sound Of good so counted in tlie foregone days. O dead ! ye shall no longer cling to us With rigid hands of desiccating praise, And drag us backward by tlie garment thus. To stand and laud you in long-drawn virelays. We will not henceforth be oblivious Of our own lives, because ye lived before. Nor t)f our acts, because ye acted well. We thank you that ye first unlatched the door, [30 J ^ o 1-3 a- cc HH o s. C 2 q 2. 5" . ^ o c CASA GUIDI WINDOWS Helps something, even, and will instruct a foe, As well as the onslaught, how to stand aloof : Or else the world gets past the mere brute blow. Or given or taken. Children use the fist Until thej are of age to use the brain ; And so we needed Csesars to assist Man^s justice, and Napoleons to explain God^s counsel, when a point was nearly missed. Until our generations should attain Christ''s stature nearer. Not that we, alas ! Attain already ; but a single inch Will raise to look down on the swordsman^s pass. As knightly Eoland on the coward^'s flinch : And, after chloroform and ether-gas. We find out slowly what the bee and finch Have ready found, through Nature^s lamp in each, — How to our races we may justify Our individual claims, and, as we reach Our own grapes, bend the top vines to supply The children''s uses, — how to fill a breach With olive-branches, — how to quench a lie With truth, and smite a foe upon the cheek With Christ^s most conquering kiss. Why, these are things Worth a great nation^s finding, to prove weak The *' glorious arms '^ of military kings. And so, wdth wide embrace, my England, seek To stifle the bad heat and flickerings Of this world^s false and nearly expended fire. [47] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS Draw palpitating arrows to the wood, And twang abroad thj high hopes and thy higher Eesolves from that most virtuous ahitude. Till nations shall unconsciously aspire By looking up to thee, and learn that good And glory are not different. Announce law By freedom ; exalt chivalry by peace ; Instruct how clear, calm eyes can overawe. And how pure hands, stretched simply to release A bond-slave, will not need a sword to draw To be held dreadful. O my England, crease Thy purple with no alien agonies, No struggles toward encroachment, no vile war ! Disband thy captains, change thy victories ; Be henceforth prosperous, as the angels are. Helping, not humbling. Drums and battle-cries Go out in music of the morning-star; And soon we shall have thinkers in the place Of fighters, each found able as a man To strike electric influence througli a race. Unstayed by city-wall and barbican. The poet shall look grander in the face Than even of old (when he of Greece began To shig " that Achillean wrath which slew So many heroes ''), seeing he shall treat The deeds of souls heroic toward the true. The oracles of life, previsions sweet [48] I— ^ 9?. ^ CASA GUIDI WINDOWS And awful, like divine swans gliding through White arms of Ledas, which will leave the heat Of their escaping godship to endue The human medium with a heavenly flush. Meanwhile, in this same Italy we want Not popular passion, to arise and crush. But popular conscience, which may covenant For what it knows. Concede without a blush. To grant the " civic guard "'' is not to grant The civic spirit, living and awake : Those lappets on your shoulders, citizens. Your eyes strain after sideways till they ache (While still, in admirations and amens. The crowd comes up on festa-days to take The great sight in) are not intelligeiice. Not courage even : alas ! if not the sign Of something very noble, they are nought ; For every day ye dress your sallow kiue With fringes down their cheeks, though unbesought They loll their heavy heads, and drag the wine. And bear the wooden yoke as they w^ere taught The first day. What ye want is hght ; indeed Not sunlight (ye may well look up surprised To those unfathomable heavens that feed Your purple hills), but God^s light organized In some high soul crowned capable to lead The conscious people, conscious and advised ; For, if we lift a people like mere clay. It falls the same. We want thee, O unfound 4 [ 49 ] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS And sovran teacher ! if thy beard be gray Or black, we bid thee rise up from the ground. And speak the word God giveth thee to say, Inspiring into all this people round, Instead of passion, thought, which pioneers All generous passion, purifies from sin. And strikes the hour for. Eise up, teacher ! here ^s A crowd to make a nation ! best begin By making each a man, till all be peers Of earth^s true patriots and pure martyrs in Knowing and daring. Best unbar the doors Which Peter^s heirs kept locked so overdose They only let the mice across the floors. While every churchman dangles, as he goes. The great key at his girdle, and abhors In Christ's name meekly. Open wide the house, Concede the entrance with Christ^s liberal mind. And set the tables with his wine and bread. What ! " Commune in both kinds ? '' In every kind — Wine, wafer, love, hope, truth, unlimited. Nothing kept back. For, when a man is blind To starlight, will he see the rose is red ? A bondsmnn shivering at a Jesuit's foot — " Vsc ! mea culpa ! '' — is not like to stand A freedman at a despot's, and dispute His titles by the balance in his hand. Weighing tliem "suo jure." Tend tlir root. If careful of the branches, and expand The inner souls of men before you strive For civic heroes. [50] ly/rONUMENT to Dante (buried at llavenna) in Church of Santa Croce. " The architect cnui hcioeri ; Did pile the empty marbles as thj to^nh.'''' — Casa Giiidi Windows, p. 44. CASA GUIDI WINDOWS But the teacher, w^here ? From all these crowded faces, all alive. Eyes, of their own lids flashing themselves bare, And brows that with a mobile life contrive A deeper shadow, — may we in no wise dare To put a finger out, and touch a man. And cry, " This is the leader " ? What, all these ! Broad heads, black eyes, yet not a soul that ran From God down with a message ? all, to please The donna waving measures with her fan. And not the judgment- angel on his knees, (The trumpet just an inch off from his lips,) Who, when he breathes next, will put out the sun ? Yet mankind's self were foundered in eclipse. If lacking doers, with great works to be done ; And lo, the startled earth already dips Back into light ; a better day 's begun ; And soon this leader, teacher, will stand plain. And build the golden pipes and synthesize This people-organ for a holy strain. We hold this hope, and still in all these eyes Go sounding for the deep look which shall drain Suffused thought into channelled enterprise. Where is the teacher? What now may he do Who shall do greatly ? Doth he gird his waist With a monk's rope, like Luther? or pursue The goat, like Tell ? or dry his nets in haste, Like Masaniello when tlie sky was blue ? [51 ] CASA GUIDI AVINDOWS Keep house, like other peasants, with inlaced Bare brawny arms about a favorite child. And meditative looks beyond the door (But not to mark the kidling^s teeth have filed The green shoots of his vine which last year bore Full twenty bunches), or on triple-piled Throne-velvets sit at ease to bless the poor. Like other pontiffs, in the Poorest^s name? The old tiara keeps itself aslope Upon his steady brows, which, all the same. Bend mildly to permit the people^s hope ? Whatever hand shall grasp this oriflamme Whatever man (last peasant or first pope Seeking to free his country) shall appear. Teach, lead, strike fire into the masses, fill These empty bladders with fine air, insphere These wills into a unity of will. And make of Italy a nation — dear And blessed be that man ! the heavens shall kill No leaf the earth lets grow for him, and Death Shall cast him back upon the lap of Life To live more surely in a clarion-breath Of hero-music. Brutus with the knife, Rienzi with the fasces, throb beneath Eome^s stones, — and more who threw away joy's fife Like Pallas, that the beauty of tlieir souls Might ever shine untroubled and entire : But if it can be true that he who rolls [52 J G ITOTTO S Portrait of Dante in Ch.ipel of the Bargello. Dis- closed in 1850 by removal of whitewash which had covered it for centuries. " We salute thee who art cowe Back to the old stone with a softer Irroio Than Giotto drew upon the wall.'''' — Casa 6uidi Windows, p. 45. CASA GUIDI WINDOWS The Church^'s thunders will reserve her fire For only lights — from eucharistic bowls Will pour new life for nations that expire,, And rend the scarlet of his papal vest To gird the weak loins of his countrymen, — I hold that he surpasses all the rest Of Eomans, heroes, patriots ; and that when He sat down on the throne, he dispossessed The first graves of some glory. See again. This country-saving is a glorious thing ! And if a common man achieved it? Well. Say, a rich man did ? Excellent. A king ? That grows sublime ? A priest ? Improbable. A pope ? Ah, there we stop, and cannot bring Our faith up to the leap, with history^s bell So heavy round the neck of it, albeit We fain would grant the possibility Eor thy sake, Pio Nono ! Stretch thy feet In that case : I w' ill kiss them reverently As any pilgrim to the papal seat : And, such proved possible, thy throne to me Shall seem as holy a place as Pellico^s Venetian dungeon, or as Spielberg's grate. At which the Lombard woman hung the rose Of her sweet soul by its own dewy weight. To feel the dungeon round her sunshine close. And, pining so, died early, yet too late [53] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS For what she suffered. Yea, I will not choose Betwixt thy throne, Pope Pius, and the spot Marked red forever, spite of rains and dews. Where two fell riddled by the Austrian's shot, — The brothers Bandiera, who accuse. With one same mother-voice and face (that what They speak may be invincible) the sins Of earth's tormentors before God the just, Until the unconscious thunder-bolt begins To loosen in his grasp. And yet we must BewarC; and mark the natural kiths and kins Of circumstance and office, and distrust The rich man reasoning in a poor man's hut. The poet who neglects pure truth to prove Statistic fact, the child who leaves a rut For a smoother road, the priest who vows his glove Exhales no grace, the prince who walks afoot. The woman wlio lias sworn she will not love. And this Ninth Pius in Scvontli Gregory's chair, With Andrea Doria's forehead. Count wliat goes To making up a pope, before he wear That triple crown. We pass the world-wide throes Which went lo ni;ik(^ the p()])cdom, — the despair Of free men, gootl men, wise men; the dread shows Of women's faces, by the fagot's flash Tossed out, to the miimtest stir and throb [54] G ATE of San Niccolo (14th century). ''* And Petrarch looks no mori' from Niccolo Toioard dear Arezzo, "tioixt the acacia trees." — Casa Guidi Windows, p. 60. CASA GUIDI WINDOWS 0^ the white lips ; the least tremble of a lash. To glut the red stare of a licensed mob ; The short mad cries down oubliettes, and plash So horribly far off; priests trained to rob. And kings, that, like encouraged nightmares, sate On nations^ hearts most heavily distressed With monstrous sights and apothegms of fate — We pass these things, because " the times " are prest With necessary charges of the weight Of all this sin, and " Calvin, for the rest. Made bold to burn Servetus. Ah, men err!^^ — And so do churches ! which is all we mean To bring to proof in any register Of theological fat kine and lean : So drive them back into the pens! refer Old sins (with pourpoint, "quotha" and "I ween") Entirely to the old times, the old times ; Nor ever ask why this preponderant Infallible pure Church could set her chimes Most loudly then, just then, — most jubilant. Precisely then, when mankind stood in crimes Full heart-deep, and Heaven's judgments were not scant. Inquire still less what signifies a church Of perfect inspiration and pure laws Who burns the first man with a brimstone-torch. And grinds the second, bone by bone, because The times, forsooth, are used to rack and scorch ! What is a holy Church unless she awes The times down from their sins ? Did Christ select [55] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS Such amiable times to come and teach Love to, and mercy ? The whole world were wrecked If every mere great man, who lives to reach A little leaf of popular respect, Attained not simply by some special breach In the age's customs, by some precedence In thought and act, which, having proved him higher Than those he lived w^ith, proved his competence In lielping them to wonder and aspire. My words are guiltless of the bigot's sense. My soul has fire to mingle with the fire Of all these souls, within or out of doors Of Eome's church or another. I believe In one Priest, and one temple, with its floors Of shining jasper gloomed at morn and eve By countless knees of earnest auditors. And crystal walls too lucid to perceive, That none may take the measure of the place And say, " So far the porphyry, then the flint ; To this mark mercy goes, and there ends grace,'' Though still the permeable crystals hint At some white starry distance, bathed in space. I feel liow Nature's ice-crusts keep the dint Of undersprings of silent Deity. I hold the articulated gospels which Show Christ among us crucified on tree. I love all who love truth, if poor or ricli In what they have won of truth possessively. [ 56 ] > ? o c 9^- _„..0 sr O ;: ^ Vl Cr' — c- •-i t=; ^ = S3 c ^ c 'A S^ z^^ . ^ C rt &- T> ^ =- e s. »"' rf' sr" 3 2^ -: _ CO «< «^ P CASA GUIDI WINDOWS No altars_, and no hands defiled with pitch, Shall scare me off; but I will pray and eat With all these, taking leave to choose my ewers, And say at last, " Your visible churches cheat Their inward types ; and, if a church assures Of standing ivithout failure and defeat. The same both fails and lies/^ To leave which lures Of wider subject through past years, — behold. We come back from the popedom to the pope. To ponder what he 7)iust be, ere we are bold For what he mai/ be, with our heavy hope To trust upon his soul. So, fold by fold. Explore this mummy in the priestly cope. Transmitted through the darks of time, to catch The man within the wrappage, and discern How he, an honest man, upon the watch Full fifty years for what a man may learn, Contrived to get just there; with what a snatch Of old-world oboli he had to earn The passage through ; with what a drowsy sop. To drench the busy barkings of his brain ; What ghosts of j^ale tradition, wreathed with hop ^Gainst wakeful thouglit, he had to entertain For heavenly visions ; and consent to stop The clock at noon, and let the hour remain (AYithout vain windings-up) inviolate Agahist all chimings from the belfry. Lo, [57] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS From every given pope you must abate. Albeit you love him, some things — good, you know Which every given heretic you hate, Assumes for his, as being plainly so. A pope must hold by popes a little, — yes. By councils, from Nicsea up to Trent, — By hierocratic empire, more or less Irresponsible to men, — ■ he must resent Each man^s particular conscience, and repress Inquiry, meditation, argument. As tyrants faction. Also, he must not Love truth too dangerously, but prefer " The interests of the Church " (because a blot Is better than a rent, in miniver) ; Submit to see the people swallow hot Husk-porridge, wdiich his chartered churchmen stir Quoting the only true God's epigraph, " Feed my lambs, Peter ! " must consent to sit Attesting with his pastoral ring and stall* To such a picture of our Lady, hit Off wtII by artist-angels (though not half As fair as Giotto would have painted it) ; To such a vial, where a dead man's blood Runs yearly warm beneath a churchman's linger; To such a holy house of stone and wood. Whereof a cloud of angels was the bringer From Betlilehem to Loreto. AVere it good For any pope on earth to be a flinger Of stones against these high-niched counterfeits ? [58] TTNFINISHED bust of Brutus by Michel Angelo in Bargello. " Where Buonarroti passionate^,/ tried . From out the close-clenched marble to demand The head of Rome's sublimest hoTuieide." — Casa Guidi Windows, p. 43. " Straight his plastic hand Fell back before his prophet-soul, and left A fragment, a maimed Brutus. " — Taaa rtiiiHi Winflows. n 87. CASA GUIDI WINDOWS Apostates only are iconoclasts. He dares not say, while this false thing abets That true thing, " This is false/' He keeps his fasts And prayers, as prayer and fast were silver frets To change a note upon a string that lasts. And make a lie a virtue. Now, if he Did more than this, higher hoped, and braver dared, I think he were a pope in jeopardy, Or no pope rather, for his truth had barred The vaulting of his life ; and certainly. If he do only this, mankind's regard Moves on from him at once to seek some new Teacher and leader. He is good and great According to the deeds a pope can do ; Most liberal, save those bonds ; affectionate. As princes may be, and, as priests are, true. But only the Ninth Pius after eight. When all 's praised most. At best and hopefullest. He 's pope : we want a man ! His heart beats warm ; But, like the prince enchanted to the waist. He sits in stone, and hardens by a charm Into the marble of his throne high-placed. Mild benediction waves his saintly arm — So, good ! But what we want 's a perfect man. Complete and all alive : half travertine Half suits our need, and ill subserves our plan. Peet, knees, nerves, sinews, energies divine. Were never yet too much for men who ran In such hard ways as must be this of thine, [59] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS Deliverer whom we seek, whoe'er thou art, Pope, prince, or peasant ! If, indeed, the first. The noblest, therefore ! since the heroic heart Within thee must be great enough to burst Those trammels buckling to the baser part Thy saintly peers in Rome, who crossed and cursed With the same finger. Come, appear, be found. If pope or peasant, come ! we hear the cock. The courtier of the mountains when first crowned With golden dawn ; and orient glories flock To meet the sun upon the highest ground. Take voice, and work ! we wait to hear thee knock At some one of our Florentine nine gates. On each of which was imaged a sublime Face of a Tuscan genius, which, for hate's And love's sake both, our Florence in her prime Turned boldly on all comers to her states, As heroes turned their shields in antique time Emblazoned with honorable acts. And thoudi The gates are blank now of such images, And Petrarch looks no more from Niccolo Toward dear Arezzo, 'twixt the acacia-trees. Nor Dante, from gate Gallo — still we know. Despite the razing of the blazonries, Eemains the consecration of the shield : The dead heroic faces will start out On all these gates, if foes should take the field, [ 60 ] a 5 2 ^ ft *-• <: s p 5 ■'^ » _ N CO s^ £- ^ ft O O n O ^ 2. crc; c CASA GUIDI WINDOWS And blend sublimely, at the earliest shout, With living heroes who will scorn to yield A hair's-breadth even, when, gazing round about. They find in what a glorious company They fight the foes of Florence. Who will grudge His one poor life, when that great man we see Has given five hundred years, the world being judge, To help the glory of his Italy ? Who, born the fair side of the Alps, will budge, When Dante stays, when Ariosto stays. When Petrarch stays for ever ? Ye bring swords, My Tuscans ? Ay, if wanted in this haze. Bring swords, but first bring souls, — bring thoughts and words, Unrusted by a tear of yesterday^s. Yet awful by its wrong, — and cut these cords. And mow this green, lush falseness to the roots. And shut the mouth of hell below the swathe ! And, if ye can bring songs too, let the Intel's Recoverable music softly bathe Some poet's hand, that, through all bursts and bruits Of popular passion, all unripe and rathe Convictions of the popular intellect. Ye may not lack a finger up the air, Annunciative, reproving, pure, erect. To show which way your first ideal bare The whiteness of its wings when (sorely pecked By falcons on your wrists) it unaware Arose up overhead and out of sight. [61 ] » CASA GUIDI WINDOWS Meanwhile^ let all the far ends of the world Breathe back the deep breath of their old delight, To swell the Italian banner just unfurled. Help, lands of Europe ! for, if Austria fight. The drums will bar your slumber. Had ye curled The laurel for your thousand artists' brows. If these Italian hands had planted none ? Can any sit down idle in the house. Nor hear appeals from Buonarroti's stone And RaffaeFs canvas, rousing and to rouse ? Where 's Poussin's master ? Gallic Avignon Bred Laura, and Vaucluse's fount has stirred The heart of France too strongly, as it lets Its little stream out (like a wizard's bird Which bounds upon its emerald wing, and wets The rocks on each side), that she should not gird Her loins with Charlemagne's sword when foes beset The country of her Petrarch. Spain may well Be minded how from Italy she caught. To mingle with her tinkling Moorish bell, A fuller cadence and a subtler thought. And even the New World, the receptacle Of freemen, may send glad men, as it ought, To greet Vespucci Amerigo's door. While England claims, by trump of poetry, Verona, Venice, the Raveniia-shore, And dearer holds John Milton's Fiesole Than Lauglande's Malvern with the stars in flower. [62] 5: § < 2 w 3 ^ CZJ o p -n. ^ 3 Si< h^ o T CD ^. a P O CASA GUIDI WINDOWS And Vallombrosaj we two went to see Last June^ beloved companion^ where sublime The mountains live in holy families, And the slow pine-woods ever climb and climb Half up their breasts, just stagger as they seize Some gray crag, drop back with it many a time, And straggle blindly down the precipice. The Vallombrosan brooks were strewn as thick That June day, knee-deep with dead beechen leaves. As Milton saw them ere his heart grew sick. And his eyes blind. I think the monks and beeves Are all the same too : scarce have they changed the wick On good St. Gualbert's altar which receives The convent's pilgrims ; and the pool in front (Wherein the hill-stream trout are cast, to wait The beatific vision and the grunt Used at refectory) keeps its weedy state. To baffle saintly abbots who would count The fish across their breviary, nor ''bate The measure of their steps. waterfalls And forests ! sound and silence ! mountains bare. That leap up peak by peak, and catch the palls Of purple and silver mist to rend and share With one another, at electric calls Of life in the sunbeams, — till we cannot dare Fix your shapes, count your number ! we must think Your beauty and your glory helped to fill The cup of Milton's soul so to the brink. He nevermore was thirsty when God's will [63] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS Had shattered to his sense the last chain-link By which he had drawn from Nature's visible The fresh well-water. Satisfied by this. He sang of Adam's paradise, and smiled, Eemembering Vallombrosa. Therefore is The place divine to English man and child. And pilgrims leave their souls here m a kiss. For Italy 's the whole earth's treasury, piled With reveries of gentle ladies. Hung Aside, like ravelled silk, from life's worn stuff; With coins of scholars' fancy, which, being rung On workday counter, still sound silver-proof : In short, with all the dreams of dreamers young, Before their heads have time for slipping off Hope's pillow to the ground. How oft, indeed, We 've sent our souls out from the rigid north, On bare white feet which would not print nor bleed, To climb the Alpine passes, and look forth. Where booming low the Lombard rivers lead To gardens, vineyards, all a dream is worth, — Sights thou and I, love, have seen afterward From Tuscan Bellosguardo, wide awake,^ When, standing on the actual blessed sward Where Galileo stood at nights to take The vision of the stars, we have found it hard, Gazing upon the earth and heaven, to make A choice of beauty. 1 Galileo's villa, close to Floreuce, is built on au emiucuce called Bellosguardo. [64] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS Therefore let us all Refreshed in England or in other land, Bj visions, with their fountain rise and fall, Of this earth^s darling, — we, who understand A little how the Tuscan musical Vowels do round themselves as if they planned Eternities of separate sweetness, — we. Who loved Sorrento vines in picture-book. Or ere in mnecup we pledged faith or glee, — Who loved Rome's wolf with demigods at suck, Or ere we loved truth's own divinity, — Who loved, in brief, the classic hill and brook. And Ovid's dreaming tales and Petrarch's song. Or ere we loved Love's self even, — let us give The blessing of our souls (and wish them strong To bear it to the height where prayers arrive. When faithful spirits pray against a wrong,) To this great cause of southern men who strive In God's name for man's rights, and shall not fail ! Behold, they shall not fail. The shouts ascend Above the shrieks, in Naples, and prevail. Rows of shot corpses, waiting for the end Of burial, seem to smile up straight and pale Into the azure air, and apprehend That final gun-flash from Palermo's coast Which lightens their apocalypse of death. * So let them die ! The world shows nothing lost ; Therefore not blood. Above or underneath, 5 [65 ] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS What matter, brothers, if ye keep your post On duty's side ? As sword returns to sheath. So dust to grave ; but souls find place in heaven. Heroic daring is the true success, The eucharistic bread requires no leaven ; And, though your ends were hopeless, we should bless Your cause as holy. Strive — and, having striven, Take for God's recompense that righteousness ! [66] c AMPANILE, with Cathedral and Baptistry. " The startling bell-toicer Giotto rriised.^ — Old Pictures in Florence, p. 105, " Thy great campanile is still to finish.'''' — Old Pictures in Florence, p. 111. *' Here xohere Giotto 2>lanted His campanile like an nnperplext Fine question heavenward.''^ — Casa Guidi Windows, pp. 24, 25. CASA GUIDI WINDOWS part 3rh30 I WROTE a meditation and a dream, Hearing a little child sing in the street : I leant upon his music as a theme. Till it gave way beneath my heart's full beat Which tried at an exultant prophecy, But dropped before the measure was complete — Alas for songs and hearts ! O Tuscany, O Dante's Florence, is the type too plain? Didst thou, too, only sing of liberty. As little children take up a high strain With unintentioned voices, and break off To sleep upon their mothers' knees again ? Couldst thou not watch one hour ? then sleep enough, That sleep may hasten manhood, and sustain The faint, pale spirit with some muscular stuff. But we who cannot slumber as thou dost ; We thinkers, who have thought for thee, and failed ; We hopers, who have hoped for thee, and lost ; We poets, wandered round by dreams,^ who hailed From this Atrides' roof (with lintel-post Which still drips blood, — the worse part hath prevailed) The fire-voice of the beacons to declare 1 See the opening passage of the Agamemnon of ^schylus. [67] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS Troy taken, sorrow ended, — cozened through A crimson sunset in a misty air, "What now remains for such as we to do ? God's judgments, perad venture, will he bare To the roots of thunder, if we kneel and sue ? From Casa Guidi windows I looked fortli. And saw ten thousand eyes of Florentines Flash back the triumph of the Lombard north, — Saw fifty banners, freighted with the signs And exultations of the awakened earth, Float on above the multitude in lines. Straight to the Pitti. So, the vision went. And so, between those populous rough hands Raised in the sun, Duke Leopold outleant. And took the patriot's oath which henceforth stands Among tlie oaths of perjurers, eminent To catch the lightnings ripened for these lands. Why swear at all, thou false Duke Leopold ? What need to swear ? AVhat need to boast thy blood Unspoilt of Austria, and thy heart unsold Away from Florence ? It was understood God made thee not too vigorous or too bold ; And moil had ])atience with thy quiet mood, And women pity, as they saw thee pace Their festive streets with premature gray hairs. We turned tlic mild dejection of tliy face To princely meanings, took tliy wrinkling cares [68] >ORTRAIT of Michel Aiigelo Buonarroti, painted by him- self. Uffizi Gallery. " They are safe in heaven .... The Michaela and Rafaels, you hum and buzz Rmind the works of^ you of the little mit.^" — Old Pictures in Florence, p. 107, CASA GUIDI WINDOWS For ruffling hopes_, and called thee weak^ not base. Nay, better light the torches for more prayers, And smoke the pale Madonnas at the shrine, — Being still " our poor Grand-duke, our good Grand-duke, Who cannot help the Austrian in his line,''^ — Than write an oath upon a nation's book For men to spit at with scorn^s blurring brine ! Who dares forgive what none can overlook ? For me, I do repent me in this dust Of towns and temples which makes Italy ; I sigh amid the sighs which breathe a gust Of dying century to century Around us on the uneven crater-crust Of these old worlds ; I bow my soul and knee. Absolve me, patriots, of my woman^s fault That ever I believed the man was true ! These sceptred strangers shun the common salt, And therefore, when the general board '?, in view, And they stand up to carve for blind and halt. The wise suspect the viands which ensue. I much repent, that in this time and place, Where many corpse-lights of experience bum From Csesar^s and Lorenzo^s festering race, To enlighten groping reasoners, I could learn No better counsel for a simple case Than to put faith in princes, in my turn. Had all the death-piles of the ancient years Flared up in vain before me ? knew I not [69] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS What stench arises from some purple gears ? And how the sceptres witness whence they got Their brier-wood^ crackling through the atmosphere^s Eoul smoke, by princely perjuries kept hot? Forgive me, ghosts of patriots, — Brutus, thou Who trailest down hill into life again Thy blood-weighed cloak, to indict me with thy slow, Eeproachful eyes ! — for being taught in vain. That, while the illegitimate Caesars show Of meaner stature than the first full strain (Confessed incompetent to conquer Gaul,) They swoon as feebly, and cross Rubicons As rashly, as any Julius of them all ! Forgive, that I forgot the mind which runs Through absolute races, too unsceptical ! I saw the man among his little sons. His lips were warm with kisses while he swore; And I, because I am a woman, I, Who felt my own child's coming life before The prescience of my soul, and held faith high, — I could not bear to tliink, whoever bore, That lips so warmed could shape so cold a lie. From Casa Guidi windows I looked out. Again looked, and beheld a different sight. The Duke had fled before the people's shout " Long live the Duke ! '' A people, to speak right. Must speak as soft as courtiers, lest a doubt Should curdle brows of gracious sovereigns white. [70] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS Moreover, that same dangerous shouting meant Some gratitude for future favors which Were only promised, the Constituent Implied ; the whole being subject to the hitch In " motu proprios/^ very incident To all these Czars, from Paul to Paulovitch. Whereat the people rose up in the dust Of the ruler's flying feet, and shouted still And loudly ; only, this time, as was just. Not " Live the Duke ! " who had fled for good or ill. But " Live the People ! '' who remained and must, The unrenounced and unrenounceable. Long live the people ! How they lived ! and boiled And bubbled in the caldron of the street ! How the young blustered, nor the old recoiled ! And what a thunderous stir of tongues and feet Trod flat the palpitating bells, and foiled The joy-guns of their echo, shattering it ! How down they pulled the Duke's arms everywhere ! How up they set new cafe-signs, to show Where patriots might sip ices in pure air — (The fresh paint smelling somewhat) ! To and fro How marched the civic guard, and stopped to stare When boys broke windows in a civic glow ! How rebel songs were sung to loyal tunes. And bishops cursed in ecclesiastic metres ! How all the Circoli grew large as moons. And all the speakers, moonstruck, — thankful greeters [71] CASA GUIDI AVINDOWS Of prospects which struck poor the ducal boons, A mere free Press and Chambers ! frank repeaters Of great Guerazzi^s praises — " There ^s a man^ The father of the land, who, truly great. Takes off that national disgrace and ban. The farthing-tax upon our Florence-gate, And saves Italia as he only can ! " How all tlie nobles fled, and would not wait. Because they were most noble! which being so. How Liberals vowed to burn their palaces. Because free Tuscans were not free to go ! How grown men raged at Austria's wickedness. And smoked, while fifty striplings in a row Marched straight to Piedmont for the wrong's redress ! You say we failed in duty, — we who wore Black velvet like Italian democrats, Who slashed our sleeves like patriots, nor forswore The true republic in the form of hats ? We chased the archbishop from the Duomo door. We chalked the walls with bloody caveats Against all tyrants. If we did not fight Exactly, we fired muskets up the air To show that victory was ours of right. We met, had free discussion everywhere (Except, perhaps, i' the Chambers) day and night. We proved the poor should be employed . . . that's fair,- And yet tlie rich not worked for anywise, — Pay certified, yet payers abrogated. Full work secured, yet liabilities [72] )ORTUAIT of Raphael Sanzio, painted by himself. lu Uffizi Gallery. " Do their eyes contract to the earth's old'sdope. Now that they see God face to face ? " — Old Pictures in Florence, p. 107. »>••«• CASA GUIDI WINDOWS To overwork excluded, — not one bated Of all our holidays, that still, at twice Or thrice a week, are moderately rated. We proved that Austria was dislodged, or would Or should be, and that Tuscany in arms Should, would, dislodge her, ending the old feud ; And yet to leave our piazzas, shops, and farms. For the simple sake of figliting, was not good — We proved that also. "Did we carry charms Against being killed ourselves, that we should rush On killing others? what, desert herewith Our wives and mothers? — was that duty? Tush!" At which we shook the sword within the sheath Like heroes, only louder; and the flush E/an up the cheek to meet the future wreath. Nay, what we proved, we shouted — how we shouted ! (Especially the boys did), boldly planting That tree of liberty, whose fruit is doubted. Because the roots are not of Nature's granting. A tree of good and evil : none, without it, Grow gods ; alas ! and, with it, men are wanting. holy knowledge, holy liberty ! O holy rights of nations ! If I speak These bitter things against the jugglery Of days that in your names proved blind and weak, It is that tears are bitter. When we see The brown skulls grin at death in churchyards bleak. We do not cry, " This Yorick is too light,'' [73] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS Por death grows deatlilier with that mouth he makes. So with my mocking. Bitter things I write Because my soul is bitter for your sakes, O freedom ! my Florence ! Men who might Do greatly in a universe that breaks And burns, must ever knoio before they do. Courage and patience are but sacrifice ; And sacrifice is ofi'ered for and to Something conceived of. Each man pays a price Tor what himself counts precious, whether true Or false the appreciation it implies. But here, — no knowledge, no conception, nought ! Desire was absent, that provides great deeds From out the greatness of prevenient tliouglit ; And action, action, like a flame that needs A steady breath and fuel, being caught Up, like a burning reed from other reeds. Flashed in the empty and uncertain air. Then wavered, then went out. Behold, who blames A crooked course, when not a goal is there To round the fervid striving of tlie games ? An ignorance of means may minister To greatness ; but an ignorance of aims Makes it impossible to be great at all. So with our Tuscans. Let none dare to say, " Here virtue never can be national ; Here fortitude can never cut a way [74] K)RTRAIT of Leonardo da Vinci, painted by himself. In Uffizi Gallery. " A younger succeeds to an elder brother, iJa Vincis derive in good time from DeUos.^^ — Old Pictures in Floreuce, p. 108. CASA GUIDI WINDOWS Between the Austrian muskets^ out of thrall : I tell you rather, that whoever may Discern true ends here shall grow pure enough To love them, brave enough to strive for them. And strong to reach them, though the roads be rough ; That, having learnt — by no mere apothegm — Not just the draping of a graceful stuff About a statue, broidered at the hem, — Not just the trilling on an opera-stage, Of " liberta "'■' to bravos — (a fair word. Yet too allied to inarticulate rage And breathless sobs, for singing, though the chord Were deeper than they struck it) but the gauge Of civil wants sustained, and wrongs abhorred. The serious, sacred meaning and full use Of freedom for a nation, — then, indeed. Our Tuscans, underneath the bloody dews Of some new morning, rising up agreed And bold, will want no Saxon souls or thews To sweep their piazzas clear of Austria^s breed. Alas, alas ! it was not so this time. Conviction was not, courage failed, and truth Was something to be doubted of. The mime Changed masks, because a mime. The tide as smooth In running in as out, no sense of crime Because no sense of virtue. Sudden ruth Seized on the people : they would have again Their good Grand-duke, and leave Guerazzi, though [75] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS He took tliat tax from Florence. " Much in vain He takes it from the market-carts^ we trow. While urgent that no market-men remain, But all march off, and leave the spade and plough To die among the Lombards. Was it thus The dear j^aternal Duke did ? Live the Duke ! " At which the joy-bells multitudinous. Swept by an opposite wind, as loudly shook. Call back the mild archbishop to his house. To bless the people with his frightened look, — He shall not yet be hanged, you comprehend ! Seize on Guerazzi ; guard him in full view. Or else we stab him in the back to end ! Eub out those chalked devices, set up new The Duke's arms, dofP your Phrygian caps, and mend The pavement of the piazzas broke into By barren poles of freedom : smooth the way For the ducal carriage, lest his Highness sigh, " Here trees of liberty grew yesterday ! '' " Long live the Duke ! ^' How roared the cannonry ! How rocked the bell-towers ! and through thickening spray Of nosegays, wreaths, and kerchiefs tossed on high. How marched the civic guard, the people still Being good at sliouts, especially the boys ! Alas, poor people, of an uniledged will Most fitly expressed by such a callow voice ! Alas, still poorer Duke, incapable Of being worthy even of so much noise ! [ ^G ] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS You think he came back instantly _, with thanks^ And tears in his faint eyes, and hands extended To stretch the franchise through their utmost ranks ? That having, like a father apprehended. He came to pardon fatherly those pranks Played out, and now in filial service ended ? That some love-token, like a prince, he threw To meet the people^s love-call in return ? Well, how he came I will relate to you ; And if your hearts should burn — wliy, hearts ?nnst burn. To make the ashes which things old and new Shall be washed clean in — as this Duke will learn. From Casa Guidi windows gazing then, I saw and witness how the Duke came back. The regular tramp of horse, and tread of men. Did smite the silence like an anvil black And sparkless. With her wide eyes at full strain. Our Tuscan nurse exclaimed, '' Alack, alack, Signora ! these shall be the Austrians.^^ — ^^ Nay, Be still,''^ I answered ; "do not wake the child ! '' — For so, my two-months' baby sleeping lay In milky dreams upon the bed, and smiled. And I thought, " He shall sleep on, while he may, Through the world's baseness : not being yet defiled. Why should he be disturbed by what is done ? " Then, gazing, I beheld the long-drawn street Live out, from end to end, full in the sun, With Austria^s thousand ; sword and bayonet, [ 77 ] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS Horse, foot, artillery, cannons rolling on Like blind, slow storm-clouds gestant with the heat Of undeveloped lightnings, each bestrode By a single man, dust-white from head to heel, Indifferent as the dreadful thing he rode. Like a sculptured Fate serene and terrible. As some smooth river which has overflowed, Will slow and silent down its current wheel A loosened forest, aU the pines erect. So swept, in mute significance of storm. The marshalled thousands ; not an eye deflect To left or right, to catch a novel form Of Florence city adorned by architect A nd carver, or of beauties live and warm Scared at the casements, — all, straightforward eyes And faces, held as steadfast as their swords. And cognizant of acts, not imageries. The key, Tuscans, too well fits the wards ! Ye asked for mimes, — these bring you tragedies; For purple, — these shall wear it as your lords. Ye played like children, — die like innocents. Ye mimicked lightnings with a torch, — the crack Of the actual bolt, your pastime circumvents. Ye called up ghosts, believing they were slack To follow any voice from Gilboa's tents . . . Here 's Samuel ! — and so. Grand-dukes come back ! And yet they are no prophets, though they come : That awful mantle they are drawing close [78 ] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS Shall be searched one day by the shafts of doom Through double folds now hoodwinking the brows. Eesuscitated monarchs disentomb Grave-reptiles with them in their new life-throes. Let such beware. Behold, the people waits, Like God : as he, in his serene of might, So they, in their endurance of long straits. Ye stamp no nation out, though day and night Ye tread them with that absolute heel which grates And grinds them flat from all attempted height. You kill worms sooner with a garden spade Than you kill peoples ; peoples will not die ; The tail curls stronger when you lop the head : They writhe at every wound, and multiply And shudder into a heap of life that 's made Thus vital from God's own vitality. 'T is hard to shrivel back a day of God^s Once fixed for judgment ; 't is as hard to change The peoples when they rise beneath their loads. And heave them from their backs with violent wrench To crush the oppressor : for that judgment rod^s The measure of this popular revenge. Meanwhile, from Casa Guidi windows, we Beheld the armament of Austria flow Into the drowning heart of Tuscany ; And yet none wept, none cursed, or, if 't was so, They wept and cursed in silence. Silently Our noisy Tuscans watched the invading foe ; [79 ] '* CASA GUIDI WINDOWS They had learnt silence. Pressed against the wall. And grouped upon the church-steps opposite, A few pale men and women stared at all. God knows what they were feeling, with their white Constrained faces, — they so prodigal Of cry and gesture when the world goes right, Or wrong indeed. But here was depth of wrong, And here, still water : they were silent here ; And through that sentient silence struck along That measured tramp from which it stood out clear. Distinct the sound and silence, like a gong At midnight, each by the other awfuUer, — While every soldier in liis cap displayed A leaf of olive. Dusty, bitter thing ! Was such plucked at Novara, is it said ? A cry is up in England, which doth ring The hollow world through, that for ends of trade And virtue, and God's better worshipping, We henceforth should exalt the name of Peace, And leave those rusty wars that eat the soul, — Besides their clippings at our golden fleece. I, too, have loved peace, and from bole to bole Of immemorial undcciduous trees Would write, as lovers use upon a scroll. The holy name of Peace, and set it higli Where none could pluck it down. On trees, I say, Not upon gibbets ! — With the greenery Of dewy branches and the flowery May, [80] N 10 BE and her Daughter. Statue in Uffizi Gallery. " You 're grieved still Niohe '* the f/rander ! " — Old Pictures in Florence, p. 109. CASA GUIDI WINDOWS Sweet mediation betwixt earth and sky Providing, for tlie shepherd^s holiday. Not upon gibbets ! though the vulture leaves The bones to quiet,, which he first picked bare. Not upon dungeons ! though the wretch who grieves And groans within, less stirs the outer air Than any little field-mouse stirs the sheaves. Not upon chain-bolts ! though the slave's despair Has dulled his helpless miserable brain, And left him blank beneath the freeman's whip To sing and laugh out idiocies of pain. Nor yet on starving homes ! where many a lip Has sobbed itself asleep through curses vain. I love no peace which is not fellowship. And which includes not mercy. I would have Bather the raking of the guns across The world, and shrieks against heaven's architrave ; Kather the struggle in the slippery fosse Of dying men and horses, and the wave Blood-bubbling. . . . Enough said ! — by Christy's own cross, And by this faint heart of my womanhood. Such things are better than a Peace that sits Beside a hearth in self-commended mood. And takes no thought how wind and rain bv fits Are howling out of doors against the good Of the poor wanderer. "What ! your peace admits Of outside anguish while it keeps at home ? I loathe to take its name upon my tongue. 6 [81 ] " CASA GUIDI WINDOWS ^T is nowise peace : ^t is treason, stiff with doom ; ■'T is gagged despair, and inarticulate wrong, Annihilated Poland, stifled Eome, Dazed Naples, Hungary fainting ^neath the thong, And Austria wearing a sraootli olive-leaf On her brute forehead, while her hoofs outpress The life from these Italian souls in brief. Lord of peace, who art Lord of righteousness, Constrain the anguished worlds from sin and grief. Pierce them with conscience, purge them with redress. And give us peace which is no counterfeit ! But wherefore should we look out any more From Casa Guidi windows? Shut them straight. And let us sit down by the folded door. And veil our saddened faces, and so wait What next the judgment-heavens make ready for. I have grown too weary of these windows. Sights Come tliick enougli and clear cnougli in thought. Without the sunshine : souls have inner lidits. And since the Grand-duke lias come back, and brouglit This army of the North which thus requites His filial South, we leave liim to be taught. His Soudi, too, has learnt something certainl}''. Whereof the practice will bring profit soon ; And peradventure ofher eyes may see. From Casa Guidi windows, what is done Or undone. Wiiatsoevcr deeds they be. Pope Pius will be glorified in none. [83] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS Eecord that gain, Mazzini ! It shall top Some heights of sorrow. Peter^s rock, so named. Shall lure no vessel any more to drop Among the breakers. Peter's chair is shamed. Like any vulgar throne the nations lop To pieces for their firewood unreclaimed ; And when it burns, too, we shall see as well In Italy as elsewhere. Let it burn. The cross accounted still adorable Is Christ's cross only ! If the thief s would earn Some stealthy genuflexions, we rebel ; And here the impenitent thief s has had its turn. As God knows; and the people on their knees Scoff, and toss back the crosiers stretched like yokes To press their heads down lower by degrees. So Italy, by means of these last strokes. Escapes the danger which preceded these. Of leaving captured hands in cloven oaks, — Of leaving very souls within the buckle Whence bodies struggled outward, — of supposing That free men may like bondsmen kneel and truckle, And then stand up as usual, without losing An inch of stature. Those whom she- wolves suckle Will bite as wolves do in the grapple-closing Of adverse interests. This at last is known (Thank Pius for the lesson), that albeit Among the Popedom's hundred heads of stone Which blink down on you from the roofs retreat [83] " CASA GUIDI WINDOWS In Siena^s tiger-striped cathedral^ Joan And Borgia ^mid their fellows you may greet, A harlot and a devil, — you will see Not a man, still less angel, grandly set With open soul to render man more free. The fishers are still thinking of the net. And, if not thinking of the hook too, we Are counted somewhat deeply in their debt ; But that 's a rare case — so, by hook and crook. They take the advantage, agonizing Christ By rustier nails than those of Cedron^s brook, V the people's body very cheaply priced, — And quote high priesthood out of Holy book. While buying death-fields with the sacrificed. Priests, priests, — there 's no such name ! — God's own, except Ye take most vainly. Through heaven's lifted gate The priestly cphod in sole glory swept When Christ ascended, entered in, and sate (With victor face sublimely overwept) At Deity's right hand to mediate. He alono, he forever. On his breast The Urim and tlie Thummim, fed with fire From the full Godlicad, flicker with the unrest Of human pitiful heart beats. Come up higher. All Christians. Levi's tribe is dispossest. That solitary alb ye shall admire. But not cast lots for. The last chrism, poured right, [84] nnHE Dyinj; Alexander, in ■*- the Utiizi Gallery. '• There V the dyimf Alexander.'''' — Old Pictures in Florence, p. 109. C a I I' ir t < t » L » «. (t J C . C let t c e f < CASA GUIDI WINDOWS "Was on that Head, and poured for burial, And not for domination in men^s sight. What are these churches ? The old temple wall Doth overlook them juggling with the sleight Of surplice, candlestick, and altar-pall ; East church and west church, ay, north church and south, Eome^s church and England^s — let them all repent. And make concordats ^twixt their soul and mouth. Succeed St. Paul by working at the tent. Become infallible guides by speaking truth. And excommunicate their pride that bent And cramped the souls of men. Why, even here. Priestcraft burns out, the twined linen blazes ; Not, like asbestos, to grow white and clear. But all to perish ! while the fire- smell raises To life some swooning spirits, who last year Lost breath and heart in these church-stifled places. Why, almost through this Pius, we believed The priesthood could be an honest thing, he smiled So saintly while our corn was being sheaved For his own granaries ! Showing now defiled His hireling hands, a better help^s achieved Than if they blessed us shepherd-like and mild. False doctrine, strangled by its own amen. Dies in the throat of all this nation. Who Will speak a pope^s name as they rise again ? What woman or what child will count him true ? [85] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS What dreamer praise him with the voice or pen ? What man fight for him ? — Pius takes his due. Record that gain, Mazzini ! — Yes_, but first Set down thy people^s faults ; set down the want Of soul-conviction ; set down aims dispersed. And incoherent means, and valor scant Because of scanty faith, and schisms accursed That wrench these brother-hearts from covenant With freedom and each other. Set down this, And this, and see to overcome it when The seasons bring the fruits thou wilt not miss If wary. Let no cry of patriot men Distract thee from the stern analysis Of masses who cry only ! keep thy ken Clear as thy soul is virtuous. Heroes^ blood Splashed up against thy noble brow in Eome; Let sucli not blind thee to an interlude Which was not also holy, yet did come ^Twixt sacramental actions, — brotherliood Despised even there, and something of the doom Of Remus in tlie trenches. Listen now — Rossi died silent near where Cnesar died. He did not say, " My l-Jrutus, is it thou?^' But Italy unquestioned testified, " / killed him ! / am Brutus. — I avow." At which the wliole worhVs laugh of scorn replied, " A poor maimed copy of Ikutus ! " Too much like. Indeed, to be so unlike ! too unskilled [86] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS At Philippi and the honest battle-pike, To be so skilful where a man is killed Near Pompey^s statue, and the daggers strike At unawares i' the throat. Was thus fulfilled An omen once of Michel Angelo ? — When Marcus Brutus he conceived complete, And strove to hurl him out by blow on blow Upon the marble, at Art^s thunder-heat. Till haply (some pre-shadow rising slow Of what his Italy would fancy meet To be called Brutus) straight his plastic hand Fell back before his prophet-soul, and left A fragment, a maimed Brutus, — but more grand Than this, so named at Eome, was ! Let thy weft Present one woof and warp, Mazzini ! Stand With no man hankering for a dagger^s heft. No, not for Italy ! — nor stand apart, No, not for the Eepublic ! — from those pure Brave men who hold the level of thy heart In patriot truth, as lover and as doer. Albeit they will not follow where thou art As extreme theorist. Trust and distrust fewer. And so bind strong, and keep unstained the cause Which (God^s sign granted) war-trumps newly blown Shall yet annunciate to the world's applause. But now, the world is busy : it has grown A Pair-going world. Imperial England draws [87] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS The flowing ends of the earth from Fez, Canton, Delhi, and Stockholm, Athens and Madrid, The Bussias and the vast Americas, As if a queen drew in her robes amid Her golden cincture, — isles, peninsulas. Capes, continents, far inland countries hid By jasper-sands and hills of chrysopras, All trailing in their splendors through the door Of the gorgeous Crystal Palace. Every nation. To every other nation strange of yore. Gives face to face the civic salutation. And holds up in a proud right hand before That congress the best work which she can fashion By her best means. " These corals, will you please To match against your oaks ? They grow as fast Within my wilderness of purple seas.^^ — " This diamond stared upon me as I passed (As a live god's eye from a marble frieze) Along a dark of diamonds. Is it classed ? " — " I wove these stufPs so subtly that the gold Swims to the surface of the silk like cream And curdles to fair patterns. Yc bcliold ! " — " These delicatest muslins rather seem Than be, you think ? Nay, touch lliem and be bold, Though siK'li veiled Chakhi's face in Hafiz' dream." — '^ 1'liese carpets — you walk slow on them like kings. Inaudible like spirits, while your foot Dips deep in velvet roses and such tilings." — " Even Apollonius might commend tliis flute : [88] I I O s" o o ^ o ? 2 ^ 5" 5" CASA GUIDI WLNDOWS The music, winding through the stops, upsprings To make the player very rich : compute ! ^' " Here 's goblet-glass, to take in with your wine The very sun its grapes were ripened under : Drink light and juice together, and each fine.'* — " This model of a steam-ship moves your wonder ? You should behold it crushing down the brine Like a blind Jove, who feels his way with thunder." — " Here 's sculpture ! Ah, we live too ! why not throw Our life into our marbles? Art has place For other artists after Angelo." — " I tried to paint out here a natural face ; For nature includes Eaffael, as we know. Not E/affael nature. Will it help my case ? " — " Methinks you will not match this steel of ours ! " — " Nor you this porcelain ! One might dream the clay Eetained in it the larvse of the flowers, They bud so round the cup, the old spring-way.'^ — " Nor you these carven woods, where birds in bowers With twisting snakes and climbing cupids play." O Magi of the east and of the west. Your incense, gold, and myrrh are excellent ! — What gifts for Christ, then, bring ye with the rest ? Your hands have worked well : is your courage spent In handwork only ? Have you nothing best. Which generous souls may perfect and present. And He shall thank the givers for ? no light Of teaching, liberal nations, for the poor [89] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS Who sit in darkness when it is not night ? No cure for wicked children? Christ — no cure ! No help for women sobbing out of sight Because men made the laws ? no brothel-lure Burnt out by popular lightnings ? Hast thou found No remedy, my England, for such woes ? No outlet, Austria, for the scourged and bound, No entrance for the exiled ? no repose, Russia, for knouted Poles worked underground. And gentle ladies bleached among the snows ? No mercy for the slave, America ? No hope for Eome, free Erance, chivalric France ? Alas, great nations have great shames, I say. No pity, world, no tender utterance Of benediction, and prayers stretched this way For poor Italia, baffled by mischance ? O gracious nations, give some ear to me ! You all go to your Fair, and I am one Who at the roadside of humanity Beseech your alms, — God's justice to be done. So, prosper ! In the name of Italy, Meantime her patriot dead have benison. They oidy have done well; and, what they did Being perfect, it shall triumph. I a! Ihem slumber: No king of Egypt in a pyramid Is safer from oblivion, though he iniiiiber Full seventy cerements for a coverlid. These dead be seeds of life, and shall encumber [ 90 ] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS The sad heart of the land until it loose The clammy clods, and let out the spring-growth In beatific green through every bruise. The tyrant should take heed to what he doth, Since every victim-carrion turns to use. And drives a chariot, like a god made wroth, Against each piled injustice. Ay, the least, Dead for Italia, not in vain has died ; Though many vainly, ere lifers struggle ceased, To mad dissimilar ends have swerved aside ; Each grave her nationality has pieced By its own majestic breadth, and fortified, And pinned it deeper to the soil. Forlorn Of thanks be, therefore, no one of these graves ! Not hers, — ^w\\o, at her husband's side, in scorn. Outfaced the whistling shot and hissing waves. Until she felt her little babe unborn Eecoil, within her, from the violent staves And bloodhounds of the world : at which her life Dropt inwards from her eyes, and followed it Beyond the hunters. Garibaldi's wife And child died so. And now the seaweeds fit Her body, like a proper shroud and coif. And murmurously the ebbing waters grit The little pebbles while she lies interred In the sea-sand. Perhaps, ere dying thus. She looked up in his face (which never stirred From its clinched anguish) as to make excuse For leaving him for his, if so she erred. [91 ] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS He well remembers that she could not choose. A memorable grave ! Another is At Genoa. There a king may fitly lie, Who, bursting that heroic heart of his At lost No vara, that he could not die, (Though thrice into the cannon^s eyes for this He plunged his shuddering steed, and felt the sky Reel back between the fire-shocks) stripped away The ancestral ermine ere the smoke had cleared. And, naked to the soul, that none might say His kingship covered what was base and bleared AVith treason, went out straight an exile, yea. An exiled patriot. Let him be revered. Yea, verily, Charles Albert has died well; And if he lived not all so, as one spoke, The sin pass softly with the passing-bell : For he was shriven, I think, in cannon-smoke. And, taking off his crown, made visible A hero's forehead. Shaking Austria's yoke. He shattered his own hand and heart. " So best,' His last words were upon his lonely bed, " I do not end like popes and dukes at least — Thank Cod for it." And now that he is dead, Admitting it is proved and maiiifest That he was worthy, with a discrowned head. To measure heights witli patriots, let them stand Beside the man in his Oporto shroud. And each vouchsafe to take him by the hand, [92] QTATUE of Niccola Pisauo, in Portico of the Uffizi. " My sculjttor is N'lcolo the Piin%/^ ' ' — Old Picc'irea in FTr-^rce, p. 113. I ( e f r e r CASA GUIDI WINDOWS And kiss him on the cheeky and say aloud, " Thou, too, hast suffered for our native land ! My brother, thou art one of us ! be proud.'"' Still, graves, when Italy is talked upon. Still, still, the patriot's tomb, the stranger's hate. Still Niobe ! still fainting in the sun. By whose most dazzling arrows violate Her beauteous offspring perished 1 has she won Nothing but garlands for the graves, from Fate ? Nothing but death-songs ? Yes, be it understood Life throbs in noble Piedmont ! while the feet Of Eome's clay image, dabbled soft in blood. Grow flat with dissolution, and, as meet. Will soon be shovelled off like other mud. To leave the passage free in church and street. And I, who first took hope up in this song. Because a child was singing one . . . behold. The hope and omen were not, haply, wrong ! Poets are soothsavers still, like those of old Who studied flights of doves ; and creatures young And tender, mighty meanings may unfold. The sun strikes through the windows, up the floor ; Stand out in it, my own young Florentine, Not two years old, and let me see thee more ! It grows along thy amber curls, to shine Brighter than elsewhere. Now, look straight before, And fix thy brave blue English eyes on mine, [93] CASA GUIDI WINDOWS And from my soul, which fronts the future so, With unabashed and unabated gaze. Teach me to hope for, what the angels know When they smile clear as thou dost. Down God^s ways With just alighted feet, between the snow And snowdrops, where a little lamb may graze, Thou hast no fear, my lamb, about the road. Albeit in our vain-glory we assume That, less than we have, thou hast learnt of God. Stand out, my blue-eyed prophet ! — thou to whom The earliest world-day light that ever flowed. Through Casa Guidi windows chanced to come ! Now shake the glittering nimbus of thy hair. And be God's witness that the elemental New springs of life are gushing everywhere To cleanse the water-courses, and prevent all Concrete obstructions which infest the air ! That earth 's alive, and gentle or ungentle Motions within her signify but growth ! — The ground swells greenest o'er the laboring moles. Howe'er the uneasy world is vexed and wroth, Young children, lifted liigh on parent souls. Look round them with a smile upon the mouth, And take for music every bell that tolls ; (Who said we should be better if like these ?) But we sit murmuring for the future, though Posterity is smiling on our knees. Convicting us of folly. Let us go — [94 ] T/'ASAllI'S portrait of Ghiberti, in Hall of Cosimo T., in Palazzo Veccliio. " jS^or ei'er teas man of them all indeed^ From these to Ghiberti and Ghirlandajo, Could say that he missed my critic-meed. " — Old Pictures in Florence, p. 113 CASA GUIDI WINDOWS We will trust God. The blank interstices Men take for ruins, He will build into With pillared marbles rare, or knit across With generous arches, till the fane 's complete. This world has no perdition, if some loss. Such cheer I gather from thy smiling, sweet ! The self-same cherub-faces which emboss The Yeil, lean inward to the Mercy-seat. [95] THE DANCE THE DANCE YOU remember down at Florence our Cascine Where the people on the feast-days walk and drive, And through the trees, long-drawn in many a green way, O'er-roofing hum and murmur like a hive, The river and the mountains look alive ? n You remember the piazzone there, the stand-place Of carriages a-brim with Florence beauties. Who lean and melt to music as the band plays. Or smile and chat with some one who afoot is, Or on horseback, in observance of male duties ? ni 'T is so pretty, in the afternoons of summer. So many gracious faces brought together ! Call it rout, or call it concert, they have come here, In the floating of the fan and of the feather, To reciprocate with beauty the fine weather. [99] THE DANCE IV While the flower-girls ofi'er nosegays (because they too Go with other sweets) at every carriage-door ; Here, by shake of a white finger, signed away to Some next buyer, who sits buying score on score, PiKng roses upon roses evermore. V And last season, when the French camp had its station In the meadow-ground, things quickened and grew gayer Through the mingling of the liberating nation With this people ; groups of Frenchmen everywhere. Strolling, gazing, judging lightly — " who was fair/^ VI Then the noblest lady present took upon her To speak nobly from her carriage for the rest : " Pray these officers from France to do us honor By dancing with us straightway/' The request Was gravely apprehended as addrest. VII And the men of France, bareheaded, bowing lowly, Led out each a proud signora to the space Which the startled crowd had rounded for them — slowly, Just a touch of still emotion in his face. Not presuming, through the symbol, on the grace. [100] PORTRAIT of Ghirlandajo (Domcnico Bigordi), from his fresco of Joachim's Expulsion from the Temple, iu Santa Maria Novella. " Xot that I expect the great BUfordi . ... to hear m^;." — Old Pictures in Florence, p. 1 14 THE DANCE VIII There was silence in the people : some lips trembled, But none jested. Broke the music at a glance ; And the daughters of our princes, thus assembled, Stepped the measure with the gallant sons of France, Hush ! it might have been a Mass, and not a dance. IX And they danced there till the blue that overskied us Swooned with passion, though the footing seemed sedate ; And the mountains, heaving mighty hearts beside us. Sighed a rapture in a shadow, to dilate, And touch the holy stone where Dante sate. X Then the sons of France, bareheaded, lowly bowing. Led the ladies back where kinsmen of the south Stood, received them ; till, with burst of overflowing Feeling, husbands, brothers, Florence's male youth. Turned and kissed the martial strangers mouth to mouth. XI And a cry went up, — a cry from all that people ! — You have heard a people cheering, you suppose. For the member, mayor . . . with chorus from the steeple ? This was different, scarce as loud perhaps (who knows ?), For we saw wet eyes around us ere the close. [101 ] THE DANCE XII Amd we felt as if a nation, too long borne in By hard wrongers, — comprehending in such attitude That God had spoken somewhere since the morning, That men were somehow brothers, by no platitude, Cried exultant in great wonder and free gratitude. [ 102] PORTRAIT of Alessandro Botticelli, ill his ])ictiire of The Adoration of the Maiii. Uffizi Gallery. Sandra .... cliii'alrir, hellicose/" — Old Pictures in Florence, p. 114 OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE THE morn when first it thunders in March, The eel in the pond gives a leap, they say As I leaned and looked over the aloed arch Of the villa-gate this warm March day, No flash snapped, no dumb thunder rolled In the valley beneath where, white and wide And washed by the morning water-gold, Florence lay out on the mountain-side. II Eiver and bridge and street and square Lay mine, as much at my beck and call^ Through the live translucent bath of air. As the sights in a magic crystal ball. And of all I saw and of all I praised, The most to praise and the best to see Was the startling bell-tower Giotto raised: But why did it more than startle me? [ 105 ] OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE III Giotto, how, with that soul of jours, Could you play me false who loved you so ? Some slights if a certain heart endures Yet it feels, I would have your fellows know ! I^ faith, I perceive not why I should care To break a silence that suits them best. But the thing grows somewhat hard to bear When I find a Giotto join the rest. IV On the arch where olives overhead Print the blue sky witli twig and leaf, (That sharp-curled leaf which they never shed) ^Twixt the aloes, I used to lean in chief. And mark through the winter afternoons. By a gift God grants me now and then. In the mild decline of those suns like moons. Who walked in Plorence, besides her men. V They might chirp and chaffer, come and go For pleasure or profit, her men alive — My business was hardly with them, I trow. But with empty cells of the human hive; — With the chapter-room, the cloister-porch, The church's apsis, aisle or nave. Its crypt, one fingers along with a torch. Its face set full for the sun to shave. [ 106] PORTRAIT of Filippfno Lippi, in Uffizi Gallery. Painted by himself. llie icromjed Lippiiio. " - • . . — Old Pictures in Florence, p. 114 OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE YI Wherever a fresco peels and drops, Wherever an outline weakens and wanes Till the latest life in the painting stops. Stands One whom each fainter pulse-tick pains : One, wishful each scrap should clutch the brick. Each tinge not wholly escape the plaster, — A lion who dies of an ass''s kick, The wronged great soul of an ancient Master. TEI For oh, this world and the wrong it does ! They are safe in heaven with their backs to it. The Michaels and Rafaels, vou hum and buzz Eound the works of, you of the little wit ! Do their eyes contract to the earth's old scope, Now that they see God face to face. And have all attained to be poets, I hope ? 'T is their holiday now, in any case. YIII Much they reck of your praise and you ! But the wronged great souls — can they be quit Of a world where their work is all to do. Where you style them, you of the little wit. Old Master This and Early the Other, Not dreaming that Old and New are fellows : [ 107] OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE A younger succeeds to an elder brother. Da Vincis derive in good time from Dellos.^ IX And here where your praise might yield returns. And a handsome word or two give help. Here, after your kind, the mastiff girns And the puppy pack of poodles yelp. What, not a word for Stefano ^ there. Of brow once prominent and starry. Called Nature's Ape and the world's despair For his peerless painting ? (see Yasari.) There stands the Master. Study, my friends. What a man*s work comes to ! So he plans it. Performs it, perfects it, makes amends For the toiling and moiling, and then, sic transit ! Happier the thrifty blind-folk labor. With upturned eye while the hand is busy. Not sidling a glance at the coin of their neighbor ! ^Tis looking downward that makes one dizzy. ^ Dello Delli, whose reputation was founded on his skill in painting small figures on " cassoni " for wedding ganneuts and the like. No existing work can be attributed to him with certainty. 2 Although extravagantly praised by Vasari, no authenticated picture by Stefano (1301-1350) exists in Florence. [108 ] nORONATIOX of the Virgin, by Lorenzo Monaco. In Utfizi Galk'i-v. " Xot a churli.sh saint, Lorenzo Monaco .' " — Old Pictures in Florence, p. 11-4 " Brother Lorenzo stanch his shii/h i>eer/' — Fra Lippo Lippi, p. 1-9 , OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE XI '' If you knew their work you would deal your dole/' May I take upon me to instruct you ? When Greek Art ran and reached the goal^ Thus much had the world to boast infructn — The Truth of Man, as by God first spoken. Which the actual generations garble. Was re-uttered, and Soul (which Limbs betoken) And Limbs (Soul informs) made new in marble. XII So, you saw yourself as you wished you were. As you might have been, as you cannot be ; Earth here, rebuked by Olympus there ; And grew content in your poor degree With your little power, by those statues* godhead. And your little scope, by their eyes' full sway, And your little grace, by their grace embodied. And your little date, by their forms that stay. XIII You would fain be kinglier, say, than I am ? Even so, you will not sit like Theseus. You would prove a model ? The Son of Priam Has yet the advantage in arms' and knees' use. You're wroth — can you slay your snake like Apollo ? You 're grieved — still Niobe 's the grander ! You live — there 's the Racers' frieze to follow : You die — there 's the dying Alexander. [ 109 1 OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE XIV So, testing your weakness by their strength, Your meagre charms by their rounded beauty, Measured by Art in your breadth and length, You learned — to submit is a mortal's duty. — When I say " you ''' 't is the common soul. The collective, I mean : the race of Man That receives life in parts to live in a whole, And grow here according to God's clear plan. XV Growth came when, looking your last on them all. You turned your eyes inwardly one fine day And cried with a start — What if we so small Be greater and grander the while than they ! Are they perfect of lineament, perfect of stature ? In both, of such lower types are we Precisely because of our wider nature ; For time, theirs — ours, for eternity. XVI To-day's brief passion limits their range ; It seethes with the morrow for us and more. They are perfect — how else ? they shall never change •. We are faulty — why not ? we have time in store. The Artificer's hand is not arrested With us ; we are rough-hewn, no-wise polished : They stand for our copy, and, once invested With all they can teach, we shall see them abolished. [110] OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE XVII ^T is a life-long toil till our lump be leaven — The better ! What ■'s come to perfection perishes. Things learned on earth, we shall practise in heaven : Works done least rapidly, Art most cherishes. Thyself shalt afford the example, Giotto ! Thy one work, not to decrease or diminish. Done at a stroke, was just (was it not ?) " ! " Thy great Campanile is still to finish. XVIII Is it true that we are now, and shall be hereafter. But what and where depend on lifers minute ? Hails heavenly cheer or infernal laughter Our first step out of the gulf or in it ? Shall Man, such step within his endeavor, Man's face, have no more play and action Than joy which is crystallized forever, Or grief, an eternal petrifaction ? XIX On which I conclude, that the early painters. To cries of " Greek Art and what more wish you ? Replied, "To become now self-acquainters. And paint man, man, whatever the issue ! Make new hopes shine through the flesh they fray. New fears aggrandize the rags and tatters : To bring the invisible full into play ! Let the visible go to the dogs — what matters ? '" [111 ] OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE XX Give these, I exhort you, their guerdon and glory For daring so much, before the}' well did it. The first of the new, in our racers story. Beats the last of the old ; 't is no idle quiddit. The worthies began a revolution. Which if on earth you intend to acknowledge. Why, honor them now ! (ends my allocution) Nor confer your degree when the folks leave college. XXI There 's a fancy some lean to and others hate — That, when this life is ended, begins New work for the soul in another state. Where it strives and gets weary, loses and wins : Where the strong and the weak, this world^s congeries, Eepeat in large what they practised in small. Through life after life in unlimited series ; Only the scale 's to be changed, that 's all. XXII Yet I hardly know. When a soul has seen By the means of Evil that Good is best. And, through earth and its noise, what is heaven's serene, — When our faith in the same has stood the test — Why, the child grown man, you burn the rod. The uses of labor are surely done ; There remaineth a rest for the people of God : And I have had troubles enough, for one. [ 112] A LESSIO BALDOVINETTI'S Madoima aud Saints, in Uffizi Gallery. '■'' the someiohat pettif,"' ,' '. • Of f hired touch and tempera criipihly ^-^^ . . . . Alesao lUddorineft't.^^ — Old Pictures in Florence, p. 114 OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE XXIII But at any rate I have loved the season Of Art^s spring-birth so dim and dewy ; My sculptor is Nicolo, the Pisan, My painter — who but Cimabue? Nor ever was man of them all indeed, Prom these to Ghiberti and Ghirlandajo, Could say that he missed my critic-meed. So, now to my special grievance — heigh ho ! XXIV Their ghosts still stand, as I said before. Watching each fresco flaked and rasped, Blocked up, knocked out, or whitewashed o^er : — No getting again what the church has grasped ! The works on the wall must take their chance ; ^^ Works never conceded to England's thick clime ! '^ (I hope they prefer their inheritance Of a bucketful of Italian quick-lime.) XXV When they go at length, with such a shaking Of heads o'er the old delusion, sadly Each master his way through the black streets taking. Where many a lost work breathes though badly — Why don't they bethink them of who has merited ? Why not reveal, while their pictures dree Such doom, how a captive might be out-ferreted ? Why is it they never remember me ? 8 [ 113 ] OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE XXVI Not that I expect the great Bigordi, Nor Sandro to hear me, chivalric, bellicose ; Nor the wronged Lippino ; and not a word I Say of a scrap of Fra Angelico^s : But are you too fine, Taddeo Gaddi, To grant me a taste of your intonaco, Some Jerome that seeks the heaven with a sad eye ? Not a churlish saint, Lorenzo Monaco ? XXVII 1 Could not the ghost with the close red cap, My Pollajolo, the twice a craftsman. Save me a sample, give me the hap Of a muscular Christ that shows the draughtsman? No Virgin by him the somewhat petty. Of finical touch and tempera crumbly - — Could not Alesso Baldovinetti Contribute so much, I ask him humbly ? xxvni Margheritone of Arezzo, With the grave-clothes garb and swaddling barret (Why purse up mouth and beak in a pet so. You bald old saturnine poll-clawed parrot?) 1 The pictures alluded to in this and the following stanza are said to have been Browning's own property. [ 114] O w >" t= c ± <=: — • f~ ►^ ?r c (r\ a :r. c — • w C ?: hr- '^ OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE Not a poor glimmering Crucifixion,, Where in the foreground kneels the donor ? If such remain, as is my conviction, The hoarding it does you but little honor. XXIX They pass ; for them the panels may thrill, The tempera grow alive and tinglish ; Their pictures are left to the mercies still Of dealers and stealers, Jews and the English, Who, seeing mere money's worth in their prize. Will sell it to somebody calm as Zeno At naked High Art, and in ecstasies Before some clay-cold vile Carlino ! ^ XXX No matter for these ! But Giotto, you, Have you allowed, as the town-tongues babble it, — Oh, never ! it shall not be counted true — - That a certain precious little tablet '■^ Which Buonarroti eyed like a lover, — Was buried so long in oblivion's womb And, left for another than I to discover. Turns up at last ! and to whom ? — to whom ? 1 Carlo Dolci, a painter of the seventeenth century, when art had begun to decline. ^ A famous " Last Supper " mentioned by Vasari, which went astray from San Spirito and was afterwards found in some obscure corner, and purchased by a stranger. [115] OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE XXXI I, that have haunted the dim Sau Spirito, (Or was it rather the Oguissaiiti ?) Patient on altar-step planting a weary toe ! Nay, I shall have it yet ! Betur amcmtil My Koh-i-noor — or (if that's a platitude) Jewel of Giamschid, the Persian Soft's eye ; So, in anticipative gratitude. What if I take up my hope and prophesy ? XXXII When the hour grows ripe, and a certain dotard Is pitched, no parcel that needs invoicing, To the worse side of the Mont St. Gothard, We shall begin by way of rejoicing ; None of that shooting the sky (blank cartridge). Nor a civic guard, all plumes and lacquer. Hunting Kadetzky^s soul like a partridge Over Morello with squib and cracker. XXXIII This time we ^11 shoot better game and bag 'em hot — No mere display at the stone of Dante, But a kind of sober Witanagemot (Ex: "Casa Guidi,^^ quod vicleas ante) Shall ponder, once Freedom restored to Plorence, How Art may return that departed with her. Go, hated house, go each trace of the Loraine^s, And bring us the days of Orgagna hither ! [ 116] o o ^ o p- I— I OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE XXXIV How we shall prologize, how we shall perorate, Utter fit things upon art and history, Feel truth at blood-heat and falsehood at zero rate Make of the want of the age no mystery; Contrast the fructuous and sterile eras, Show — monarchy ever its uncouth cub licks Out of the bear's shape into Chimsera's, While Pure Art's birth is still the republic's. XXXV Then one shall propose in a speech (curt Tuscan, Expurgate and sober, with scarcely an " issmo^ To end now our half-told tale of Cambuscan, And turn the bell-towers' alt to altissimo : And fine as the beak of a young beccaccia The Campanile, the Duomo's fit ally. Shall soar up in gold full fifty braccia. Completing Florence, as Florence, Italy. XXXVI Shall I be alive that morning the scaffold Is broken away, and the long-pent fire. Like the golden hope of the world, unbaffled Springs from its sleep, and up goes the spire While " God and the People " plain for its motto. Thence the new tricolor flaps at the sky ? At least to foresee that glory of Giotto And Florence together, the first am I ! [ 117] FRA LIPPO LIPPI FRA LIPPO LIPPI 1855 I AM poor brother Lippo, by your leave ! You need not clap your torches to my face. Zooks, what ^s to blame ? you think you see a monk ! What, 't is past midnight, and you go the rounds. And here you catch me at an alley's end Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar ? The Carmine 's my cloister : hunt it up. Do, — harry out, if you must show your zeal, Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole, And nip each softling of a wee white mouse, Weke, WeJcey that 's crept to keep him company ! Aha, you know your betters ? Then you ''11 take Your hand away that 's fiddling on my throat. And please to know me likewise. Who am I ? Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend Three streets off — he 's a certain . . . how d' ye call ? Master — a . . . Cosimo of the Medici, r the house that caps the corner. Boh ! you were best Eemember and tell me, the day you 're hanged. How you affected such a guUet's-gripe ! But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves Pick up a manner nor discredit you : [ 121 ] FRA LIPPO LIPPI Zooks, are we pilchards^ that they sweep the streets And count fair prize what comes into their net ? He 's Judas to a tittle, that man is ! Just such a face ! Why, sir, you make amends. Lord, I 'm not angry ! Bid your hangdogs go Drink out this quarter-florin to the health Of the munificent House that harbors me (And many more beside, lads ! more beside !) And all 's come square again. I 'd like his face — His, elbowing on his comrade in the door With the pike and lantern, — for the slave that holds John Baptist^s head a-dangle by the hair With one hand (" Look you, now,^^ as who should say) And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped ! It 's not your chance to have a bit of chalk, A wood-coal or the like ? or you should see ! Yes, I 'm the painter, since you style me so. What, brother Lippo's doings, up and down, You know them and they take you ? like enough ! I saw the proper twinkle in your eye — ^Tell you, I liked your looks at very first. Let 's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch. Here 's spring come, and the nights one makes up bands To roam the town and sing out carnival, And 1 \e been three weeks shut within my mew, A-painting for the great man, saints and saints And saints again. I could not paint all night — Ouf ! I leaned out of window for fresh air. There came a hurry of feet and little feet, [ 122 ] >OUTllArr of Cosimo de' Medici (called Pater Patria;), by Pon- toriuo. In Uffizi Gallery. ** \\ Jio (li/i J : ^yjit/, one,, sir, irJio is lodyituf irith n friend Three streets off . . . . Cosimo of the Medici."' — Fra Lippo Lippi, p. 121 .• • • FRA LIPPO LIPPI A sweep of lute-strings^ laughs, and whifts of song, — Flower d' the broorrij Take away love, and our earth is a tomb ! Flower o' the quince^ I let Lisa go, and what good in life since ? Flower o* the thyme — and so on. Eound they went. Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight, — three slim shapes. And a face that looked up . . . zooks, sir, flesh and blood. That 's all I 'm made of ! Into shreds it went. Curtain and counterpane and coverlet. All the bed- furniture — a dozen knots. There was a ladder ! Down I let myself. Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped. And after them. I came up with the fun Hard by Saint Laurence, hail fellow, well met, — Floioer o' the rose. If Fve been merry, what matter who knows ? And so as I was stealing back again To get to bed and have a bit of sleep Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast With his great round stone to subdue the flesh. You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see ! Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head — Mine 's shaved — a monk, you say — the sting 's in that ! If Master Cosimo announced himself, [ 123 ] FRA LIPPO LIPPI Mum ^s the word naturally ; but a monk ! Come, what am I a beast for ? tell us, now ! I Avas a baby when my mother died And father died and left me in the street. I starved there, God knows how, a year or two On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks. Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day, My stomach being empty as your hat. The wind doubled me up and down I went. Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand, (Its fellow was a stinger as I knew) And so along the wall, over the bridge. By the straight cut to the convent. Six words there. While I stood munching my first bread that month : " So, boy, you 're minded,'^ quoth the good fat father, Wiping his own mouth, 't was refection-time, — " To quit this very miserable world ? Will you renounce '^ . . . " the mouthful of bread ? '^ thought I ; By no means ! Brief, they made a monk of me ; I did renounce the world, its pride and greed. Palace, farm, villa, shop, and banking-house. Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici Have given their hearts to — all at eight years old. Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure, 'T was not for nothing — the good bellyful, The warm serge and the rope that goes all round. And day-long blessed idleness beside ! '^ Let 's see what the urchin 's fit for " — that came next. [ 124 ] QT. JEROME, by Era Lippo Lippi. In Academy. " / rise up to-morrow and go to work On Jerome knorkhtf/ at his poor olcVhr^xist With his (/re a ^ ►*» *• a ANDREA DEL SARTO ANDREA DEL SARTO {Called " THE FAULTLESS PAINTER.") 1855 BUT do not let us quarrel any more, No, ray Lucrezia ; bear with me for once : Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. You turn your face, but does it bring your heart ? I ''11 work then for your friend^'s friend, never fear. Treat his own subject after his own way. Fix his own time, accept too his own price. And shut the money into this small hand When next it takes mine. Will it ? tenderly ? Oh, I '11 content him, — but to-morrow. Love ! I often am much wearier than you think. This evening more than usual, and it seems As if — forgive now — should you let me sit Here by the window with your hand in mine And look a half hour forth on Fiesole, Both of one mind, as married people use. Quietly, quietly the evening through, I might get up to-morrow to my work Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try. To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this ! [ 137 ] ANDREA DEL SARTO Your soft hand is a woman of itself, And mine the man^s bared breast she curls inside. Don^t count the time lost, neither ; jou must serve For each of the five pictures we require : It saves a model. So ! keep looking so — My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds ! — How could you ever prick those perfect ears, Even to put the pearl there ! oh, so sweet — My face, my moon, my everybody's moon. Which everybody looks on and calls his. And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn. While she looks — no one's : very dear, no less. You smile ? why there 's my picture ready made. There 's what we painters call our harmony ! A common grayness silvers everything, — All in a twilight, you and I alike — You at the point of your first pride in me (That 's gone you know), — but I, at every point ; My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. There 's the bell clinking from the chapel-top ; That length of convent-wall across the way Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside ; The last monk leaves the garden ; days decrease. And autumn grows, autumn in everything. Eh ? the whole seems to fall into a shape As if I saw alike my work and self And all that I was born to be and do, A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand. [ 138] ^ O £, ?: 5 -• f-* - crq ^ " 5" s" t-" tJ> p " I-' 6 ^. rii ^ °s. =• =■ e ■ £ =• '^ c g S ANDREA DEL SARTO How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead ; So free we seem, so fettered fast we are ! I feel he laid the fetter : let it lie ! This chamber for example — turn your head — All that ^s behind us ! You don't understand Nor care to understand about my art. But you can hear at least when people speak : And that cartoon, the second from the door — It is the thing. Love ! so such things should be — Behold Madonna ! — I am bold to say. I can do with my pencil what I know. What I see, wliat at bottom of my heart I wish for, if I ever wish so deep — Do easily, too — when I say, perfectly, I do not boast, perhaps : yourself are judge Who listened to the Legate's talk last week. And just as much they used to say in France. At any rate 't is easy, all of it ! No sketches first, no studies, that 's long past : I do what many dream of all their lives — Dream ? strive to do, and agonize to do. And fail in doing. I could count twenty such On twice your fingers, and not leave this town. Who strive — you don't know how the others strive To paint a little thing like that you smeared Carelessly passing with your robes afloat, — Yet do much less, so much less. Someone says, (I know his name, no matter) — so much less ! Well, less is more, Lucrezia : I am judged. [ 1^9 ] ANDREA DEL SARTO There burns a truer light of God in them_, In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain^ Heart, or whatever else,, than goes on to prompt This low-pulsed forthright craftsman^s hand of mine. Their works drop grouudward, but themselves, I know, Reach many a time a heaven that 's shut to me. Enter and take their place there sure enough. Though they come back and cannot tell the world. My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here. The sudden blood of these men ! at a word — Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. I, painting from myself and to myself. Know what I do, am unmoved by men^s blame Or their praise either. Somebody remarks Morello^s outline there is wrongly traced, His hue mistaken ; what of that ? or else, Rightly traced and well ordered ; what of that ? Speak as they please, what does the mountain care ? Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp. Or what 's a heaven for ? All is silver-gray Placid and perfect with my art : the worse ! I know both what I want and what might gain; And yet how profitless to know, to sigh '^ 1 lad I been two, another and myself, Our head would have overlooked the world ! " No doubt. Yonder 's a work now, of that famous youth The Urbinate who died live years ago. ('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.) Well, I can fancy how he did it all, [ 140 ] ANDREA DEL SARTO Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see, Eeaching, that heaven might so replenish him. Above and through his art — for it gives way ; That arm is wrongly put — and there again — ■ A fault to pardon in the drawing^s lines. Its body, so to speak : its soul is right. He means right -— that, a child may understand. Still, what an arm ! and I could alter it : But all the play, the insight and the stretch — Out of me, out of me ! And wherefore out ? Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul. We might have risen to Rafael, I and you. Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think — More than I merit, yes, by many times. But had you — oh, with the same perfect brow. And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth. And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare — Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind ! Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged " God and the glory ! never care for gain. '- The present by the future, what is that ? U Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo ! Rafael is waiting : up to God, all three ! " I might have done it for you. So it seems : Perhaps not. All is as God overrules. Beside, incentives come from the soul's self; The rest avail not. Why do I need you ? What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo ? [ i« ] ANDREA DEL SARTO In this world, who can do a thing, will not ; And who would do it, cannot, I perceive : Yet the will 's somewhat — somewhat, too, the power And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. 'T is safer for me, if the award be strict. That I am something underrated here. Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. I dared not, do you know, leave home all day, For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. The best is when they pass and look aside ; But they speak sometimes ; I must bear it all. "Well may they speak ! That Francis, that first time, And that long festal year at Fontainebleau ! I surely then could sometimes leave the ground, Put on the glory, E-afael's daily wear. In that humane great monarch's golden look, — One finger in his beard or twisted curl Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile, One arm about my shoulder, round my neck, The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, I painting proudly with his breath on me. All his court round him, seeing with his eyes. Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts, — And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond, This in the background, waitiug on my work. To crown the issue with a last reward ! A good time, was it not, my kingly days ? [ 142 ] PORTRAIT of Fra Lippo Lippi, in his Coronation of the Virij;in. " Up shall* cdm4 Out of a corner lohen you hast expect,^ .... who but Lippo ! 1 ! " — Fra Lippo Lippi, p. 133 ANDREA DEL SARTO And had you not grown restless . . . but I know — ''T is done and past ; ^t was right, my instinct said ; Too live the life grew, golden and not gray, And I ^m the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt Out of the grange whose four walls make his world. How could it end in any other way ? You called me, and I came home to your heart. The triumph was, to have ended there ; then, if I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost ? Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold, You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine ! " Rafael did this, Andrea painted that ; The Romanes is the better when you pray, But still the other's Yirgin was his wife — '' Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge Both pictures in your presence ; clearer grows My better fortune, I resolve to think. For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives. Said one day Agnolo, his very self. To Rafael ... I have known it all these years . . , (When the young man was flaming out his thoughts Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see. Too lifted up in heart because of it) " Friend, there 's a certain sorry little scrub Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how. Who, were he set to plan and execute As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings, Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours ! '^ To Rafael's ! — And indeed the arm is wrong. [ 143 ] ANDREA DEL SARTO I hardly dare . . . yet, only you to see, Give the chalk here — quick, thus the line should go ! Ay, but the soul ! he ''s Eafael ! rub it out ! Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth, (What he ? why, who but Michel Agnolo ? Do you forget already words like those ?) If really there was such a chance, so lost, — Is, whether you^re — not grateful — but more pleased. Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed ! This hour has been an hour ! Another smile ? If you would sit thus by me every night I should work better, do you comprehend ? I mean that I should earn more, give you more. See, it is settled dusk now ; there ^s a star ; Morello 's gone, the watch-lights show the wall, The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. €ome from the window, love, — come in, at last. Inside the melancholy little house We built to be so gay with. God is just. King Francis may forgive me : oft at nights When I look up from painting, eyes tired out. The walls become illumined, brick from brick Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold. That gold of his I did cement them with ! Let us but love each other. Must you go ? That Cousin here again ? lie waits outside ? Must see you — you, and not with me ? Those loans ? More gaming debts to pay ? you smiled for that ? Well, let smiles buy me ! have you more to spend ? [ 144 ] O a- Oi O -^ i I? a pLi I— < ?^ f 1-3 ^ J? > ^ 5 '^ S-' s^ oj ? "i ;5 ^ ANDREA DEL SARTO "While hand and eye and something of a heart Are left me, work ^s my ware, and what ^s it worth ? I ''11 pay my fancy. Only let me sit The gray remainder of the evening out. Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly How I could paint, were I but back in Prance, One picture, just one more — the Yirgin^'s face^ Not yours this time ! I want you at my side To hear them — that is, Michel Agnolo — Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. Will you ? To-morrow, satisfy your friend. I take the subjects for his corridor. Finish the portrait out of hand — there, there. And throw him in another thing or two If he demurs ; the whole should prove enough To pay for this same Cousin^s freak. Beside, What ^s better and what ^s all I care about. Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff ! Love, does that please you ? Ah, but what does he. The Cousin ! what does he to please you more ? I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. I regret little, I would change still less. Since there my past life lies, why alter it ? The very wrong to Francis ! — it is true I took his coin, was tempted and complied. And built this house and sinned, and all is said. My father and my mother died of want. Well, had I riches of my own ? you see 10 [ 145 ] ANDREA DEI. SARTO How one gets rich ! Let each oue bear his lot. They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died : And I have labored somewhat in my time And not been paid profusely. Some good son Paint my two hundred pictures — let him try ! No doubt, there 's something strikes a balance. Yes, You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night. This must suffice me here. What would one have ? In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance — Four great walls in the New Jerusalem Meted on each side by the angel's reed. For Leonard, Eafael, Agnolo and me To cover — the three first without a wife. While I have mine ! So — still they overcome Because there 's still Lucrezia, — as I choose. Again the Cousin's whistle 1 Go, my Love. [ 1^6] THE STATUE AND THE BUST THE STATUE AND THE BUST THERE ^S a palace in Florence^ the world knows well. And a statue watches it from the square. And this story of both do our townsmen tell. Ages ago, a lady there. At the farthest window facing the East Asked, " Who rides by with the royal air? " The bridesmaids^ prattle around her ceased ; She leaned forth, one on either hand ; They saw how the blush of the bride increased — They felt by its beats her heart expand — As one at each ear and both in a breath Whispered, "The Great-Duke Ferdinand/' That selfsame instant, underneath, The Duke rode past in his idle way, Empty and fine like a swordless sheath. Gay he rode, with a friend as gay. Till he threw his head back — " Who is she ? " — "A bride the Eiccardi brings home to-day .''' [ 149] THE STATUE AND THE BUST Hair in heaps lay heavily Over a pale brow spirit-pure — Carved like the heart of the coal-black tree. Crisped like a war-steed's encolure — And vainly sought to dissemble her eyes Of the blackest black our eyes endure. And lo, a blade for a knight's emprise Filled the fine empty sheath of a man, — The Duke grew straightway brave and wise. He looked at her, as a lover can ; She looked at him, as one who awakes : The past was a sleep, and her life began. Now, love so ordered for both their sakes, A feast was held that selfsame night In the pile which the mighty shadow makes. (For Via Larga is three-parts light, But the palace overshadows one. Because of a crime which may God requite ! To Florence and God the wrong was done, Tlirougli the first republic's murder there By Cosimo and his cursed sou.) The Duke (with tlic statue/s face in the square) Turned in the midst of his multitude At the bright approach of the bridal pair. [150] ^^ 5 ^ I ^ o "^ THE STATUE AND THE BUST Face to face the lovers stood A single minute and no more, While the bridegroom bent^ as a man subdued Bowed till his bonnet brushed the floor — For the Duke on the lady a kiss conferred, As the courtly custom was of yore. In a minute can lovers exchange a word ? If a word did pass, which I do not think. Only one out of the thousand heard. That was the bridegroom. At day's brink He and his bride were alone at last In a bed-chamber by a taper's blink. Calmly he said that her lot was cast, That the door she had passed was shut on her TiU the final catafalk repassed. The world meanwhile, its noise and stir. Through a certain window facing the East She could watch like a convent's chronicler. Since passing the door might lead to a feast. And a feast might lead to so much beside. He, of many evils, chose the least. " Freely I choose too," said the bride : " Your window and its world suffice," Keplied the tongue, while the heart replied — [ 151 ] THE STATUE AND THE BUST " If I spend the night with that devil twice. May his window serve as my loop of hell Whence a damned soul looks on paradise ! " I fly to the Duke who loves me well. Sit by his side and laugh at sorrow Ere I count another ave-bell. '' 'T is only the coat of a page to borrow, And tie my hair in a horse-boy^s trim, And I save my soul — but not to-morrow/^ - (She checked herself and her eye grew dim) " My father tarries to bless my state : I must keep it one day more for him. " Is one day more so long to wait ? Moreover the Duke rides past, I know ; We shall see each other, sure as fate/' She turned on her side and slept. Just so ! So we resolve on a thing and sleep : So did the lady, ages ago. That night the Duke said, " Dear or cheap As the cost of this cup of bliss may prove To body or soul, I will drain it deep." And on the morrow, bold with love. He beckoned the bridegroom (close on call. As his duty bade, by tlie Duke's alcove) L162] IV/TADONNA and Child, from Andrea del Sarto's Holy Pamily, in Pitti Gallery. ^l ** Raphael did tli'is, Andrea- pcihdt.id that,: i The Roman s is the better Wiwn yov_ pxay^, But still the others Virgin was his wife.'"' — Andrea del Sarto, p. 143 THE STATUE AND THE BUST And smiled " 'T was a very funeral, Your lady Avill think, this feast of ours, — A shame to efface, whate^'er befall ! " What if we break from the Arno bowers, And try if Petraja, cool and green, Cure last nighty's fault with this morning's flowers? The bridegroom, not a thought to be seen On his steady brow and quiet mouth, Said, " Too much favor for me so mean ! " But, alas ! my lady leaves the South ; Each wind that comes from the Apennine Is a menace to her tender youth : " Nor a way exists, the wise opine, If she quits her palace twice this year. To avert the flower of life's decline." Quoth the Duke, " A sage and a kindly fear. Moreover Petraja is cold this spring : Be our feast to-nieht as usual here ! '^ '&' And then to himself — " Which night shall bring Thy bride to her lover's embraces, fool — Or I am the fool, and thou art the king ! '^ Yet my passion must wait a night, nor cool — For to-night the Envoy arrives from France Whose heart I unlock with thyself, my tool. [ 153] THE STATUE AND THE BUST '^ I need thee still and might miss perchance. To-day is not wholly lost, beside, With its hope of my lady's countenance : " For I ride — what should I do but ride ? And passing the palace, if I list, May glance at its window — well betide ! y> So said, so done : nor the lady missed One ray that broke from the ardent brow, Nor a curl of the lips where the spirit kissed. Be sure that each renewed the vow. No morrow's sun should arise and set And leave them then as it left them now. But next day passed, and next day yet, With still fresh cause to wait one day more Ere each leaped over the parapet. And still, as love's brief morning wore. With a gentle start, half smile, half sigh. They found love not as it seemed before. They thouglit it would work infallibly. But not in despite of heaven and earth : The rose would blow when the storm passed by. Meantime they could profit in winter's dearth By store of fruits that supplant the rose : The world and its ways have a certain worth : [ 154 ] THE STATUE AND THE BUST And to press a point while these oppose Were simple policy ; better wait : We lose no friends and we gain no foes. Meantime, worse fates than a lover's fate. Who daily may ride and pass and look Where his lady watches behind the grate ! And she — she watched the square like a book Holding one picture and only one. Which daily to find she undertook : When the picture was reached the book was done. And she turned from the picture at night to scheme Of tearing it out for herself next sun. So weeks grew months, years ; gleam by gleam The glory dropped from their youth and love. And both perceived they had dreamed a dream ; Which hovered as dreams do, still above : But who can take a dream for a truth ? Oh, hide our eyes from the next remoVe ! One day as the lady saw her youth Depart, and the silver thread that streaked Her hair, and, worn by the serpent's tooth. The brow so puckered, the chin so peaked, — And wondered who the woman was. Hollow-eyed and haggard-cheeked, [ 155 ] THE STATUE AND THE BUST Fronting her silent in the glass — " Summon here/"' she suddenly said, Before the rest of my old self pass, (t " Him, the Carver, a hand to aid, Who fashions the clay no love will change. And fixes a beauty never to fade. " Let Robbia's craft so apt and strange Arrest the remains of young and fair, And rivet them while the seasons range. " Make me a face on the window there. Waiting as ever, mute the while. My love to pass below in the square ! " And let me think that it may beguile Dreary days which the dead must spend Down in their darkness under the aisle, "To say, ' What matters it at the end? I did no more while my heart was warm Than does that image, my pale-faced friend.' " Where is the use of the lip's red charm, The heaven of hair, the pride of the brow. And the blood that blues the inside arm — " Unless we turn, as the soul knows how, The earthly gift to an end divine ? A lady of clay is as good, I trow." [ 156 ] S=2 si ^rt E ir ? P o > THE STATUE AND THE BUST But long ere Eobbia's cornice, fine With flowers and fruits which leaves enlace. Was set where now is the empty shrine — (And, leaning out of a bright blue space. As a ghost might lean from a chink of sky. The passionate pale lady^s face — Eyeing ever, with earnest eye And quick-turned neck at its breathless stretch. Some one who ever is passing by — ) The Duke had sighed like the simplest wretch In Florence, " Youth — my dream escapes ! Will its record stay ? '' And he bade them fetch Some subtle moulder of brazen shapes — " Can the soul, the will, die out of a man Ere his body find the grave that gapes ? " John of Douay shall effect my plan, Set me on horseback here aloft, Alive, as the crafty sculptor can, " In the very square I have crossed so oft : That men may admire, when future suns Shall touch the eyes to a purpose soft, " While the mouth and the brow stay brave in bronze Admire and say, ^ When he was alive How he would take his pleasure once ! ' [157] THE STATUE AND THE BUST " And it shall go hard but I contrive To listen the while,, and laugh in my tomb At idleness which aspires to strive/^ So ! While these wait the trump of doom. How do their spirits pass, I wonder. Nights and days in the narrow room? Still, I suppose, they sit and ponder What a gift life was, ages ago. Six steps out of the chapel yonder. Only they see not God, I know, Nor all that chivalry of his. The soldier- saints who, row on row. Burn upward each to his point of bliss — Since, the end of life being manifest. He had burned his way thro^ the world to this. I hear you reproach, " But delay Avas best, For their end was a crime.^^ — Oh, a crime will do As well, I reply, to serve for a test. As a virtue golden through and through. Sufficient to vindicate itself And prove its worth at a moment's view ! Must a game be played for the sake of pelf ? Where a button goes, 't were an epigram To offer the stamp of the very Guelph. [ 158] ^ •<-'^: c»*. ^ > <; ^ . "^^ f cT o t^ CA 2 >- 5 Cd •tS Si w Er* H c ?5 > hr: &: > ^ S "^ rS c fid 2 ^ s ^ c- r; c__ •T s - C! ^ fi- ^" 2 r: >4 cc_ THE RING AND THE BOOK Charactered in a word ; and, what ^s more strange. He had companionship in privilege. Found four courageous conscientious friends : Absolve, applaud all five, as props of law, Sustainers of society ! — perchance A trifle over-hasty with the hand To hold her tottering ark, had tumbled else ; But that ^s a splendid fault whereat we wink, Wishing your cold correctness sparkled so ! ^' Thus paper second followed paper first. Thus did the two join issue — nay, the four. Each pleader having an adjunct. " True, he killed — So to speak — in a certain sort — his wife. But laudably, since thus it happed ! " quoth one : Whereat, more witness and the case postponed. "Thus it happed not, since thus he did the deed. And proved himself thereby portentousest Of cutthroats and a prodigy of crime. As the woman that he slaughtered was a saint. Martyr and miracle ! '' quoth the other to match : Again, more witness, and the case postponed. " A miracle, ay — of lust and impudence ; Hear my new reasons ! '' interposed the first : " — Coupled with more of mine ! " pursued his peer. " Beside, the precedents, the authorities ! '' From both at once a cry with an echo, that ! That was a firebrand at each fox's tail Unleashed in a cornfield : soon spread flare enough, As hurtled thither and there heaped themselves [171 ] THE RING AND THE BOOK From earth's four corners, all authority And precedent for putting wives to death, Or letting wives live, sinful as they seem. How legislated, now, in this respect, Solon and his Athenians ? Quote the code Of Eomulus and Rome ! Justinian speak ! Nor modern Baldo, Bartolo be dumb ! The Roman voice was potent, plentiful ; Cornelia de Sicariis hurried to help Pompeia de Parricidiis; Julia de Something-or-other jostled Lex this-and-that ; King Solomon confirmed Apostle Paul : That nice decision of Dolabella, eh ? That pregnant instance of Theodoric, oh ! Down to that choice example ^lian gives (An instance I find much insisted on) Of the elephant who, brute-beast though he were. Yet understood and punished on the spot His master's naughty spouse and faithless friend; A true tale wliich lias edified each child. Much more sliall ilourish favoured by our court 1 Pages of proof this way, and that way proof. And always — once again the case postponed. Thus wrangled, brangled, jangled tliey a month, — Only on paper, pleadings all in print. Nor ever was, except i' the brains of men. More noise by word of mouth than you hear now — Till the court cut all short with " Judged, your cause. Receive our sentence ! Praise God ! We pronounce [ na] L^1UUAK1>»1 r.VLAUJ^ HI Via Lai'sa, now Via Cavour; architecture of Michelozzi, 15th century. '"'' liiccardi v^here they lived, his race J' * « '^. . — The Ring and the Book, p. 1G5 "-^ feast was held that selfsame niyht In the pile which the mighty shadow makes.'''' — The Statue and the Bust, p. 150 " Those great rings serve more purjMses than Just To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse ! " — Fra Lippo Lippi, p. 129 THE RING AND THE BOOK Count Guido devilish and damnable : His wife Pompilia in thought, word and deed. Was perfect pure, he murdered her for that : As for the Four who helped the One, all Five — Why, let employer and hirelings share alike In guilt and guilt^s reward, the death their due ! "" So was the trial at end, do you suppose ? " Guilty you find him, death you doom him to ? Ay, were not Guido, more than needs, a priest. Priest and to spare ! '^ — this was a shot reserved ; I learn this from epistles which begin Here where the print ends, — see the pen and ink Of the advocate, the ready at a pinch ! — " My client boasts the clerkly privilege. Has taken minor orders many enough. Shows still sufficient chrism upon his pate To neutralize a blood-stain : presbyter , PrimcB tonsurce, siihdiacomis, Sacerdos, so he slips from underneath Your power, the temporal, slides inside the robe Of mother Church : to her we make appeal By the Pope, the Church's head ! " A parlous plea. Put in with noticeable effect, it seems ; " Since straight," — resumes the zealous orator. Making a friend acquainted with the facts, — " Once the word ' clericalitv ' let fall. Procedure stopped and freer breath was drawn [ 1^^ ] THE RING AND THE BOOK By all considerate and responsible Eome/' Quality took the decent part, of course; Held by the husband, who was noble too : Or, for the matter of that, a churl would side With too-refined susceptibility, And honor which, tender in the extreme, Stung to the quick, must roughly right itself At all risks, not sit still and whine for law As a Jew would, if you squeezed him to the wall. Brisk-trotting through the Ghetto. Nay, it seems, Even the Emperor's Envoy had his say To say on the subject ; might not see, unmoved. Civility menaced throughout Christendom By too harsh measure dealt her champion here. Lastly, what made all safe, the Pope was kind. From his youth up, reluctant to take life. If mercy might be just and yet show grace ; Much more unlikely then, in extreme age. To take a life the general sense bade spare. ^T was plain that G uido would go scatheless yet. But human promise, oh, how short of shine ! How topple down the piles of hope we rear ! How history proves . . . nay, read Herodotus ! Suddenly starting from a nap, as it were, A dog-sleep witli one shut, one open orb. Cried the Pope's great self, — Innocent by name And nature too, and eighty-six years old, Antonio Pignatelli of Naples, Pope [ m] THE RIxNG AND THE BOOK Who had trod many lands, known many deeds, Probed many hearts, beginning with his own^ And now was far in readiness for God, — 'T was he who first bade leave those souls in peace. Those Jansenists, re-nicknamed Molinists, ('Gainst whom the cry went, like a frowsy tune. Tickling men's ears — the sect for a quarter of an hour V the teeth of the world which, clown-like, loves to chew Be it but a straw 'twixt work and whistling- while. Taste some vituperation, bite away. Whether at marjoram -sprig or garlic-clove," Aught it may sport with, spoil, and then spit forth) '^ Leave them alone," bade he, '^ those Molinists ! Who may have other light than we perceive. Or why is it the whole world hates them thus ? '''' Also he peeled ofP that last scandal-rag Of Nepotism ; and so observed the poor That men would merrily say, " Halt, deaf and blind. Who feed on fat things, leave the master's self To gather up the fragments of his feast. These be the nephews of Pope Innocent ! — His own meal costs but five carlines a day, Poor-priest''s allowance, for he claims no more/^ - — He cried of a sudden, this great good old Pope, When they appealed in last resort to him, " I have mastered the whole matter : I nothing doubt Though Guido stood forth priest from head to heel. Instead of, as alleged, a piece of one, — And further, were he, from the tonsured scalp [ 1^5 ] THE RING AND THE BOOK To the sandaled sole of him, my son and Christ's, Instead of touching us by finger-tip As you assert, and pressing up so close Only to set a blood-smutch on our robe, — I and Christ would renounce all right in him. Am I not Pope, and presently to die. And busied how io render my account. And shall I wait a day ere I decide On doing or not doing justice here ? Cut off his head to-morrow by this time, Hang up his four mates, two on either hand. And end one business more ! " So said, so done — Eather so writ, for the old Pope bade this, I find, with his particular chirograph. His own no such infirm hand, Friday night ; And next day, February Twenty Two, Since our salvation Sixteen Ninety Eight, — Not at the proper head-and-hanging-place On bridge-foot close by Castle Angelo, Where custom somewhat staled the spectacle, ('T was not so well i' the way of Eome, beside. The noble Rome, the Eome of G uido's rank) But at the city's newer gayer end, — The cavalcading promenading place Beside the gate and opposite the church Under the Pincian gardens green with Spring, 'Neath the obelisk 'twixt the fountains in the Square, [ I'^C ] o ri a B S ""' o CO THE RING AND THE BOOK Did Guido and his fellows find their fate. All Eome for witness, and — mj writer adds — Eemoustrant in its universal grief, Since Guido had the suffrage of all Eome. This is the bookful ; thus far take the truth, The untempered gold, the fact untampered with, The mere ring-metal ere the ring be made ! And what has hitherto come of it ? Who preserves The memory of this Guido, and his wife Pompilia, more than Ademollo's name, The etcher of those prints, two crazie each. Saved by a stone from snowhig broad the Square With scenic backgrounds ? Was this truth of force ? Able to take its own part as truth should, Sufficient, self-sustaining ? Wliy, if so — Yonder ''s a fire, into it goes my book. As who shall say me nay, and what the loss ? You know the tale already : I may ask, Eather than think to tell you, more thereof, — Ask you not merely who were he and she. Husband and wife, what manner of mankind. But how you hold concerning this and that Other yet-unnamed actor in the piece. The young frank handsome courtly Canon, now, The priest, declared the lover of the wife. He who, no question, did elope with her. For certain bring the tragedy about, Giuseppe Caponsacchi ; — his strange course 12 [ 177 1 THE RING AND THE BOOK V the matter, was it right or wrong or both ? Then the old couple, slaughtered with the wiie By the husband as accomplices in crime, Those Comparini, Pietro and his spouse, — What say you to the right or wrong of that. When, at a known name whispered through the door Of a lone villa on a Christmas night. It opened that the joyous hearts inside Might welcome as it were an angel-guest Come in Christ^s name to knock and enter, sup And satisfy the loving ones he saved ; And so did welcome devils and their death ? I have been silent on that circumstance Although the couple passed for close of kin To wife and husband, were by some accounts Pompilia's very parents : you know best. Also tliat infant the great joy was for. That Gaetano, the wife's two-weeks^ babe, The husband^'s first-born child, his son and heir. Whose birth and being turned his night to day — Why must the father kill the mother thus Because she bore his son and saved himself ? Well, British Public, ye who like me not, (God love you !) and will have your proper laugh At the dark question, laugh it ! I laugh first. Truth must prevail, the proverb vows ; and truth — Here is it all i' the book at last, as first There it was all i' the heads and hearts of Eome [ 1^8 ] THE RING AND THE BOOK Gentle and simple, never to fall nor fade Nor be forgotten. Yet, a little while. The passage of a century or so, Decads thrice five, and here 's time paid his tax. Oblivion gone home with her harvesting. And all left smooth again as scythe could shave. Far from beginning with you London folk, I took my book to Eome first, tried truth's power On likely people. " Have you met such names ? Is a tradition extant of such facts ? Your law-courts stand, your records frown a-row : What if I rove and rummage 1'^ " — Why, you ''11 waste Your pains and end as wise as you began ! '^ Everyone snickered : " names and facts thus old Are newer much than Europe news we find Down in to-day's Diario. Records, quotha ? Why, the French burned them, what else do the French ? The rap-and-rending nation ! And it tells Against the Church, no doubt, — another gird At the Temporality, your Trial, of course ? '' " — Quite otherwise this time,^'' submitted I ; " Clean for the Church and dead against the world. The flesh and the devil, does it tell for once." " — The rarer and the happier ! All the same. Content you with your treasure of a book, And waive what 's wanting ! Take a friend^s advice ! It 's not the custom of the country. Mend Your ways indeed and we may stretch a point : Go get you manned by Manning and new-manned [ 1^9 ] THE RING AND THE BOOK By Newman and, mayhap, wise-manned to boot By Wiseman, and we ''11 see or else we won't ! Thanks meantime for the story, long and strong, A pretty piece of narrative enough, Which scarce ought so to drop out, one would think, From the more curious annals of our kind. Do you tell the story, now, in off-hand style, Straight from the book ? Or simply here and there, (The while you vault it through the loose and large) Hang to a hint ? Or is there book at all. And don^t you deal in poetry, make-believe, And the white lies it sounds like ? '' Yes and no ! From the book, yes ; thence bit by bit I dug The lingot truth, that memorable day, Assayed and knew my piecemeal gain was gold, — Yes ; but from something else surpassing that. Something of mine whicli, mixed up with the mass. Made it bear hammer and be firm to file. Fancy with fact is just one fact Ihe more ; To-wit, that fancy has informed, Irnnspicrced, Thridded and so thrown fast the facts else free, As right through ring and ring runs the djereed And binds the loose, one bar without a break. I fused my live soul and that inert stufl', ikfore attempting smithcraft, on the night After the day when — truth thus grasped and gained The book was shut and done with and laid by [ i«o ] in 2 ?3 = o ^ tS! ^ I— I 2 c 3 o THE RING AND THE BOOK On the cream-colored massive agate^ broad 'Neath the twin cherubs in the tarnished frame O' the mirror, tall thence to the ceiling-top. And from tlie reading, and that slab I leant Mj elbow on, the while I read and read, I turned, to free myself and find the world. And stepped out on the narrow terrace, built Over the street and opposite the church. And paced its lozenge-brickwork sprinkled cool ; Because Felice-church-side stretched, a-glow Through each square window fringed for festival, Whence came the clear voice of the cloistered ones Chanting a chant made for midsummer nights — I know not what particular praise of God, It always came and went with. June. Beneath V the street, quick shown by openings of the sky When flame fell silently from cloud to cloud, Eicher than that gold snow Jove rained on Ehodes, The townsmen walked by twos and threes, and talked, Drinking the blackness in default of air — A busy human sense beneath my feet : While in and out the terrace-plants, and round One branch of tall datura, w^axed and weaned The lamp-fly lured there, wanting the white flower. Over the roof o"* the liglited church I looked A bowshot to the street's end, north away Out of the Eoman gate to the Roman road By the river, till I felt the Apennine. And there w'ould lie Arezzo, the man's town, [181] THE RING AND THE BOOK. The woman's trap and cage and torture-place. Also the stage where the priest played his part, A spectacle for angels, — ay, indeed. There lay Arezzo ! Farther then I fared, Feeling my way on through the hot and dense, Eomeward, until I found the wayside inn By Castelnuovo's few mean hut-like homes Huddled together on the hill-foot bleak. Bare, broken only by that tree or two Against the sudden bloody splendor poured Cursewise in day^s departure by the sun O^er the low house-roof of that squalid inn Where they three, for the first time and the last, Husband and wife and priest, met face to face. Whence I went on again, the end was near. Step by step, missing none and marking all, Till Rome itself, the ghastly goal, I reached. Why, all the while, — how could it otherwise ? — The life in me abolished the death of things, Deep calling unto deep : as then and there Acted itself over agahi once more The tragic piece. I saw witli my own eyes In Florence as I trod the terrace, breathed The beauty and the fearfulness of night, How it had run, tliis rouiul from Kome to Rome — Because, you are to know, Ihiy lived at Rome, Pompilia's parents, as they tliought themselves. Two poor ignoble hearts who did their best Part God's way, part the other way than God's, [ 182 ] THE RING AND THE BOOK To someliow make a shift and scramble through The world^s mud, careless if it splashed and spoiled. Provided they might so hold high, keep clean Their chikVs soul, one soul white enough for three, And lift it to whatever star should stoop. What possible sphere of purer life than theirs Should come in aid of whiteness hard to save. I saw the star stoop, that they strained to touch. And did touch and depose their treasure on, As Guido Franceschini took away Pompilia to be his for evermore, AVhile they sang " Now let us depart in peace. Having beheld thy glory, Guido's wife ! " I saw the star supposed, but fog o^ the fen. Gilded star-fashion by a glint from hell; Having been heaved up, haled on its gross way, By hands unguessed before, invisible help From a dark brotherhood, and specially Two obscure goblin creatures, fox-faced this, Cat-clawed the other, called his next of kin By Guido the main monster, — cloaked and caped. Making as they were priests, to mock God more, — Abate Paul, Canon Girolamo. These who had rolled the starlike pest to Rome And stationed it to suck up and absorb The sweetness of Pompilia, rolled again That bloated bubble, with her soul inside. Back to Arezzo and a palace there — Or say, a fissure in the honest earth [ 183 ] THE RING AND THE BOOK Whence long ago had curled the vapor first. Blown big by nether fires to appal day : It touched home,, broke, and blasted far and wide. I saw the cheated couple find the cheat And guess what foul rite they were captured for, — Too fain to follow over hill and dale That child of theirs caught up thus in the cloud And carried by the Prince o' the Power of the Air Whither he would, to wilderness or sea. I saw them, in the potency of fear. Break somehow through the satyr-family (For a gray mother with a monkey-mien, Mopping and mowing, was apparent too, As, confident of capture, all took hands And danced about the captives in a ring) — Saw them break through, breathe safe, at Eome again, Saved by the selfish instinct, losing so Their loved one left with haters. These I saw. In recrudescency of baffled hate. Prepare to Avring the uttermost revenge From body and soul thus left them : all was sure. Fire laid and caldron set, the obscene ring traced. The victim stripped and prostrate: wliat of God? The cleaving of a cloud, a cry, a crash, Quenched lay llieir caldron, cowered i' the dust the crew. As, in a glory of armor like Saint George, Out again sprang the young good beauteous priest Bearing away the lady in his arms, Saved for a splendid minute and no more [ 1«4 J o H -c O THE RING AND THE BOOK For, whom i^ the path did that priest come upon, He and the poor lost lady borne so brave, — Checking the song of praise in me, had else Swelled to the full for God^s will done on earth — Whom but a dusk misfeatured messenger. No other than the angel of this life, Whose care is lest men see too much at once. He made the sign, such God glimpse must suffice. Nor prejudice the Prince o^ the Power of the Air, Whose ministration piles us overhead What we call, first, earth's roof and, last, heaven's floor. Now grate o' the trap, then outlet of the cage : So took the lady, left the priest alone. And once more canopied the world with black. But through the blackness I saw Rome again. And where a solitary villa stood In a lone garden-quarter : it was eve, The second of the year, and oh so cold ! Ever and anon there flittered through the air A snow-flake, and a scanty couch of snow Crusted the grass-walk and the garden-mould. All was grave, silent, sinister, — when, ha ? Glimmeringly did a pack of were-wolves pad The snow, those flames were Guido's eyes in front, And all five found and footed it, the track. To where a threshold-streak of warmth and light Betrayed the villa-door with life inside. While an inch outside were those blood-bright eyes. And black lips wrinkling o'er the flash of teeth, [ 185 ] THE RING AND THE BOOK And tongues that lolled — God that madest man ! Tliey parleyed in their language. Then one whined — That was the policy and master-stroke — Deep in his throat whispered what seemed a name — " Open to Caponsacchi ! '' G uido cried : '' Gabriel ! " cried Lucifer at Eden-gate. Wide as a heart, opened the door at once, ShoAviiig the joyous couple, and their child The two-weeks' mother, to the wolves, the wolves To them. Close eyes ! And when the corpses lay Stark-stretched, and those the wolves, their wolf-work done. Were safe-embosomed by the night again, I knew a necessary change in things; As when the worst watch of the night gives way, And there comes duly, to take cognizance. The scrutinizing eye-point of some star — And wlio despairs of a new daybreak now ? Lo, the first ray protruded on those five ! It reached them, and each felon writhed transfixed. Awhile they palpitated on the spear Motionless over Tophet : stand or fall ? " I say, the spear should fall — should stand, I say ! " Cried the world come to judgment, granting grace Or dealing doom according to world's wont, Those world's-bystanders grou])ed on Home's cross-road At prick and summons of tlie })rimal curse Which bids man love as well as make a lie. There prattled they, discoursed the right and wrong, I 18C ] THE RING AND THE BOOK Turned wrong to rights proved wolves sheep and sheep wolves, So that you scarce distinguished fell from fleece ; Till out spoke a great guardian of the fold. Stood up, put forth his hand that held the crook. And motioned that the arrested point decline : Horribly oft', the wriggling dead-weight reeled. Rushed to the bottom and lay ruined there. Though still at the pita's mouth, despite the smoke O' the burning, tarriers turned again to talk And trim the balance, and detect at least A touch of wolf in what showed whitest sheep, A cross of sheep redeeming the whole wolf, — Yex truth a little longer : — less and less. Because years came and went, and more and more Brought new lies w^ith them to be loved in turn. Till all at once the memory of the thing, — The fact that, wolves or sheep, such creatures were, — Which hitherto, however men supposed. Had somehow plain and pillar-like prevailed T the midst of them, indisputably fact. Granite, time''s tooth should grate against, not graze, — Why, this proved sandstone, friable, fast to fly And give its grain away at wish o' the wind. Ever and ever more diminutive, Base gone, shaft lost, only entablature. Dwindled into no bigger than a book. Lay of the column ; and that little, left By the roadside ^mid the ordure, shards and weeds. t 187] THE RING AND THE BOOK Until I liaply, wandering that lone way, Kicked it up, turned it over, and recognized. For all the crumblement, this abacus. This square old yellow book, could calculate By this the lost proportions of the style. This was it from, my fancy with those facts, I used to tell the tale, turned gay to grave. But lacked a listener seldom ; such alloy. Such substance of me interfused the gold Which, Avrought into a shapely ring therewith, Hammered and filed, fingered and favored, last Lay ready for the renovating wash O' the water. '' How much of the tale was true ? " I disappeared ; the book grew all in all ; The lawyers' pleadings swelled back to their size, — Doubled in two, the crease upon them yet, For more commodity of carriage, see ! — And these are letters, veritable sheets That brought posthaste the news to Florence, writ At Rome the day Count Guido died, we find, To stay the craving of a client there. Who bound the same and so produced my book. Lovers of dead truth, did ye fare the worse ? Lovers of live truth, found ye false my tale ? Well, now ; there 's nothing in nor out o' the world Good except truth : yet this, the something else, What 's this then, which proves good yet seems untrue [ 188 ] W •-< 1— 1 tc o Q >- fe3 B o '~»s 3 to 03 p S5 z^ 3 P l-S 1—1 ■n C5 5^ ? <:♦•* n ?' rt C3 D-i a; H" CO ^ <"«■ THE RING AND THE BOOK This that I mixed with truth, motions of mine That quickened, made the inertness malleolable O* the gold was not mine, — what''s 3^onr name for this? Are means to the end, themselves in part the end ? Is fiction which makes fact alive, fact too ? The somehow may be thishow. I find first Writ down for very A B C of fact, " In the beginning God made heaven and earth " ; Erom which, no matter with what lisp, I spell And speak you out a consequence — that man, Man, — as befits the made, the inferior thing, — Purposed, since made, to grow, not make in turn. Yet forced to try and make, else fail to grow, — Formed to rise, reach at, if not grasp and gain The good beyond liim, — which attempt is growth, — Repeats God's process in man's due degree. Attaining man's proportionate result, — Creates, no, but resuscitates, perhaps. Inalienable, the arch-prerogative Which turns thought, act — conceives, expresses too ! No less, man, bounded, yearning to be free, May so project his surplusage of soul In search of body, so add self to self By owning what lay ownerless before, — So find, so fill full, so appropriate forms — That, althougli nothing which liad never life Shall get life from him, be, not having been. Yet, something dead may get to live again, [ 189 ] THE RING AND THE BOOK Something with too much life or not enough. Which, either way imperfect, ended once : An end whereat man's impulse intervenes. Makes new beginning, starts the dead alive, Completes the incomplete and saves the thing. Man^s breath were vain to liglit a virgin wick, — Half-burned-out, all but quite-quenched wicks o"* the lamp Stationed for temple-service on this earth, These indeed let him breathe on and relume ! For such man's feat is, in the due degree, — Mimic creation, galvanism for life. But still a glory jjortioned in the scale. Why did the mage say, — feeling as we are wont For truth, and stopping midway short of truth. And resting on a lie, — "I raise a ghost " ? " Because,^' he taught adepts, " man makes not man. Yet by a special gift, an art of arts. More insight and more outsight and much more Will to use both of these than boast my mates, I can detach from me, commission forth Half of my soul ; which in its pilgrimage O'er old unwandered waste ways of the world. May chance upon some fragment of a whole. Rag of ticsh, scrap of bone in dim disuse. Smoking flax that fed fire once : prompt therein I enter, spark-like, put old powers to play, Pusli lines out to the limit, lead forth last (By a moonrise througli a ruin of a crypt) What shall b(; mistily seen, murmuringly heard, 1 liw ] THE RING AND THE BOOK Mistakeiilj felt : then write my name with Paust's ! ^' Oh, Eaust, why Faust ? Was not Elisha once ? — Who bade them lay his staff on a corpse-face. There was no voice, no hearing : he went in Therefore, and shut the door upon them twain. And prayed unto the Lord : and he w^ent up And lay upon the corpse, dead on the couch. And put his mouth upon its mouth, his eyes Upon its eyes, his hands upon its hands. And stretched him on the flesh ; the flesh waxed warm And he returned, walked to and fro the house, And went up, stretched him on the flesh again. And the eyes opened. ''T is a credible feat With the right man and way. Enough of me ! The Book ! I turn its medicinable leaves In London now till, as in Florence erst, A spirit laughs and leaps through every limb. And lights my eye, and lifts me by the hair. Letting me have my will again with these — How title I the dead alive once more ? Count Guido Franceschini the Aretine, Descended of an ancient house, though poor, A beak-nosed bushy-bearded black-haired lord, Lean, pallid, low of stature yet robust. Fifty years old, — having four years ago Married Pompilia Comparini, young, Good, beautiful, at Bome, where she was born, [191 ] THE RING AND THE BOOK And brought her to Arezzo, where they lived Unhappy lives, whatever curse the cause, — This husband, taking four accomplices, EoUowcd this wife to Eome, wliere she was fled From their Arezzo to find peace again. In convoy, eight months earlier, of a ])riest, Aretine also, of still nobler birth, Giuseppe Caponsacchi, — caught her there Quiet in a villa on a Christmas night. With only Pietro and Violante by. Both her putative parents ; killed the three. Aged, they seventy each, and she seventeen. And, two weeks since, the mother of his babe First-born and heir to what the style was worth O' the Guido who determined, dared and did This deed just as he purposed point by point. Then, bent upon escape, but hotly pressed. And captured with his co-mates that same night. He, brought to trial, stood on this defence — Injury to his honor caused the act; And since his wife was false, (as manifest By tiiglit from home in such companionsliip,) Death, punislunent deserved of the false wife And faithless parents who abetted her I' the flight aforesaid, wronged nor God nor man. " Nor false she, nor yet faithless they," replied The accuser ; '' cloaked and masked this murder glooms ; True was P()m])ilia, loyal too the pair; Out of the man's own heart a monster curled f \m ] THE RING AND THE BOOK Which — crime coiled with connivancy at crime — His victim's breast, he tells you, hatched and reared ; Uncoil we and stretch stark the worm of hell ! ^' A month the trial swayed this way and that Ere judgment settled down on Guidons guilt ; Then was the Pope, that good Twelfth Innocent, Appealed to : who well weighed what went before, Affirmed the guilt and gave the guilty doom. Let this old woe step on the stage again ! Act itself o'er anew for men to judge, Not by the very sense and sight indeed — (Which take at best imperfect cognizance. Since, how heart moves brain, and how both move hand, What mortal ever in entirety saw ?) — No dose of purer truth than man digests. But truth with falsehood, milk that feeds him now, Not strong meat he may get to bear some day — To-wit, by voices we call evidence. Uproar in the echo, live fact deadened down. Talked over, bruited abroad, whispered away. Yet helping us to all we seem to hear : For how else know we save by worth of word ? Here are the voices presently shall sound In due succession. First, the world's outcry Around the rush and ripple of any fact Fallen stonewise, plumb on the smooth face of things; The world's guess as it crowds the bank o' the pool. 13 [ 193 ] THE RING AND THE BOOK At what were figure and substance, by their splash : Then, by vibrations in the general mind, At depth of deed already out of reach. This threefold murder of the day before, — Say, Half-Rome^s feel after the vanished truth ; Honest enough, as the way is : all the same, Harboring in the centre of its sense A hidden germ of failure, shy but sure, To neutralize that honesty and leave That feel for truth at fault, as the way is too. Some prepossession such as starts amiss. By but a hair^s breadth at the shoulder-blade. The arm o^ the feeler, dip he ne^er so bold ; So leads arm waveringly, lets fall wide 0' the mark its finger, sent to find and fix Truth at the bottom, that deceptive speck. With this Half-Kome, — the source of swerving, call Over-belief in Guidon's right and wrong Eather than in Pompilia's wrong and right : Who shall say how, who shall say why ? ^T is there — The instinctive theorizing whence a fact Looks to the eye as the eye likes the look. Gossip in a public place, a sample-speech. Some worthy, with his previous hint to find A husband^s side the safer, and no whit Aware lie is not ^acus the while, — How such an one supposes and states fact To whosoever of a multitude Will listen, and perhaps prolong thereby [ 194 ] hj E O 7^ 1-^ THE RING AND THE BOOK The not-unpleasant flutter at the breast. Born of a certain spectacle shut in By the church Lorenzo opposite. So, they lounge Midway the mouth o^ the street, on Corso side, ^Twixt palace Fiano and palace Ruspoli, Linger and listen ; keeping clear o' the crowd. Yet wishful one could lend that crowd one^s eyes, (So universal is its plague of squint) And make hearts beat our time that flutter false : — All for the trutVs sake, mere truth, nothing else ! How Half-Eome found for Guido much excuse. Next, from Eome's other half, the opposite feel For truth with a like swerve, like unsuccess, — Or if success, by no skill but more luck This time, through siding rather with the wife. Because a fancy-fit inclined that way, Than with the husband. One wears drab, one pink ; Who wears pink, ask him " "Which shall win the race, Of coupled runners like as egg and egg ? " " — Why, if I must choose, he with the pink scarf. ''' Doubtless for some such reason choice fell here A piece of public talk to correspond At the next stage of the story ; just a day Let pass and we^ day brings the proper change. Another sample-speech i' the market-place O' the Barberini by the Capucins ; Where the old Triton, at his fountain- sport, Bernini's creature plated to the paps, [ 195] THE RING AND THE BOOK Puffs up steel sleet which breaks to diamond dust, A spray of sparkles snorted from his conch. High over the caritellas, out o' the way 0^ the motley merchandizing multitude. Our murder has been done three davs 02:0, The frost is over and gone, the south wind laughs. And, to the very tiles of eacli red roof xV-sraoke i' the sunshine, Eome lies gold and glad : So, listen how, to the other half of Eome, Pompilia seemed a saint and martyr both ! Then, yet another day let come and go. With pause prelusive still of novelty. Hear a fresh speaker ! — neither this nor that Half-Eome aforesaid ; something bred of both : One and one breed the inevitable three. Such is the personage harangues you next ; The elaborated product, terfium quid: Eome's first commotion in subsidence gives The curd 0^ the cream, flower o' the wheat, as it were. And finer sense o' the city. Is this plain ? You get a reasoned statement of the case. Eventual verdict of the curious few Who care to sift a business to the bran Nor coarsely bolt it like the simpler sort. Here, after ignorance, instruction speaks ; Here, clarity of candor, history's soul. The critical mind, in short : no gossip-guess. What the superior social section thinks, [ 196] THE RING AND THE BOOK In person of some man of quality Who — breathing musk from lace-work and brocade, His solitaire amid the flow of frill, Powdered peruke on nose, and bag at back. And cane dependent from the ruffled wrist — Harangues in silvery and selectest phrase ^Neath waxlight in a glorified saloon Where mirrors multiply the girandole : Courting the approbation of no mob. But Eminence This and All-Illustrious That Who take snuff softly, range in well-bred ring. Card-table-quitters for observance' sake. Around the argument, the rational word — Still, spite its weight and worth, a sample-speech. How Quality dissertated on the case. So much for Eome and rumor ; smoke comes first : Once let smoke rise untroubled, we descry Clearlier what tongues of flame may spire and spit To eye and ear, each with appropriate tinge According to its food, or pure or foul. The actors, no mere rumors of tlie act. Intervene. First you hear Count Guidons voice, In a small chamber that adjoins the court. Where Governor and Judges, summoned thence, Tommati, Venturini and the rest, Find the accused ripe for declaring truth. Soft-cushioned sits he ; yet shifts seat, shirks touch, [197] THE RING AND THE BOOK As, with a twitchy brow and wincing lip And cheek that changes to all kinds of white. He proffers his defence, in tones snbdued Near to mock-mildness now, so mournful seems The obtuser sense truth fails to satisfy ; Now, moved, from pathos at the wrong endured. To passion ; for the natural man is roused At fools who first do wrong then pour the blame Of their wrong-doing, Satan-like, on Job. Also his tongue at times is hard to curb ; Incisive, nigh satiric bites the phrase, Eough-raw, yet somehow claiming privilege — It is so hard for shrewdness to admit Folly means no harm when she calls black white ! — Eruption momentary at the most, Modified forthwith by a fall o' the fire. Sage acquiescence ; for the world 's the world, And, what it errs in. Judges rectify : He feels lie has a fist, then folds his arms Crosswise and makes his mind up to be meek. And never once does he detach his eye From tliose ranged there to slay him or to save. But does his best man's-service for himself. Despite, — what twitches brow and makes lip wince, His limbs' late taste of what was called the Cord, Or Vigil-torture more facetiously. Even so ; they were wont to tease the truth Out of loth witness (toying, trifling time) By torture : ^t was a trick, a vice of the age, [ 198 ] THE RING AND THE BOOK Here, there and every where_, what would you have ? Eeligion used to tell Humanity She gave him warrant or denied him course. And since the course was much to his own mind, Of pinching flesh and pulling bone from bone To unhusk truth a-hiding in its hulls. Nor whisper of a warning stopped the way, He, in their joint behalf, the burly slave. Bestirred him, mauled and maimed all recusants, While, prim in place, Religion overlooked ; And so had done till doomsday, never a sign Nor sound of interference from her mouth. But that at last the burly slave wiped brow. Let eye give notice as if soul were there. Muttered " ''T is a vile trick, foolish more than vile. Should have been counted sin ; I make it so : At any rate no more of it for me — Nay, for I break the torture-engine thus ! " Then did Religion start up, stare amain, Look round for help and see none, smile and say " What, broken is the rack ? Well done of thee ! Did I forget to abrogate its use ? Be the mistake in common with us both ! — One more fault our blind age shall answer for, Down in my book denounced though it must be Somewhere. Henceforth find truth by milder means Ah but, Pteligion, did we wait for thee To ope tlie book, that serves to sit upon. And pick such place out, we should wait indeed ! [199] THE RING AND THE BOOK That is all history : and what is uot now. Was then^ defeudauts found it to their cost. How Guido, after being tortured, spoke. Also hear Caponsacchi who comes next, Man and priest — could you comprehend the coil ! — In days when that was rife which now is rare. How, mingling each its multifarious wires. Now heaven, now earth, now heaven and earth at once, Had plucked at and perplexed their puppet here, Played off the young frank personable priest ; Sworn fast and tonsured plain heaven's celibate, And yet earth's clear-accepted servitor, A courtly spiritual Cupid, squire of dames By law of love and mandate of the mode. The Church's own, or why parade her seal. Wherefore that chrism and consecrative work ? Yet verily the world's, or why go badged A prince of sonneteers and lutanists. Show color of each vanity in vogue Borne with decorum due on blameless breast ? All that is changed now, as he tells the court How he liad played the part excepted at ; Tells it, moreover, now the second time : Since, for his cause of scandal, his own share I' the flight from home and husband of the wife, He has been censured, punished in a sort By relegation, — exile, we should say. To a short distance for a little time, — [200] tH re « n>_ «^ 1^ ^ C3 srj- g_ !5» o n CJ9 IS » ^ 05 ■ -• H ^ r* P- I? c t=3 »-< o_ ^ ^. re N S' ►5' ^ re ►^ c-t- •-J re W 3 re ?r THE RING AND THE BOOK Whence he is summoned on a sudden now^ Informed that she, he thought to save, is lost, And, in a breath, bidden re-tell his tale. Since the first telling somehow missed effect. And then advise in the matter. There stands he. While the same grim black-panelled chamber blinks As though rubbed shiny with the sins of Eome Told the same oak for ages — wave-washed wall Against which sets a sea of wickedness. There, where you yesterday heard Guido speak, Speaks Caponsacchi ; and there face him too Tommati, Yenturini and the rest Who, eight months earlier, scarce repressed the smile, Forewent the wink ; waived recognition so Of peccadillos incident to youth. Especially youth high-born ; for youth means love. Vows can^t change nature, priests are only men. And love likes stratagem and subterfuge : Which age, that once was youth, should recognize. May blame, but needs not press too hard upon. Here sit the old Judges then, but with no grace Of reverend carriage, magisterial port. For why? The accused of eight months since, — the same Who cut the conscious figure of a fool. Changed countenance, dropped bashful gaze to ground. While hesitating for an answer then, — Now is grown judge himself, terrifies now This, now the other culprit called a judge. Whose turn it is to stammer and look strange, [ ^01 ] THE RING AND THE BOOK As he speaks rapidly, aiigril}', speech that smites : And they keep silence, bear blow after blow. Because the seeming- solitary man. Speaking for God, may have an audience too, Invisible, no discreet judge provokes. How the priest Caponsacchi said his say. Then a soul sighs its lowest and its last After the loud ones, — so much breath remains Unused by the four-days'-dying ; for she lived Thus long, miraculously long, 't was thought, Just that Pompilia might defend herself. How, while the hireling and the alien stoop. Comfort, yet question, — since the time is brief, And folk, allowably inquisitive. Encircle the low pallet where she lies In the good house that helps the poor to die, — Pompilia tells the story of her life. For friend and lover, — leech and man of law Do service; busy helpful ministrants As varied in their calling as their mind. Temper and age : and yet from all of these. About the white bed under the arched roof, Is somehow, as it were, evolved a one, — Small separate sympathies combined and large. Nothings that were, grown something very much : As if the bystanders gave each his straw. All he had, though a trifle in itself. Which, plaited all together, made a Cross [ 202 ] THE RING AND THE BOOK Fit to die looking on and praying with, Just as well as if ivory or gold. So, to the common kindliness she speaks, There being scarce more privacy at the last For mind than body : but she is used to bear, And only unused to the brotherly look. How she endeavored to explain her life. Then, since a Trial ensued, a touch o^ the same To sober us, flustered with frothy talk. And teach our common sense its helplessness. For why deal simply with divining-rod. Scrape where we fancy secret sources flow, And ignore law, the recognized machine. Elaborate display of pipe and wheel Framed to unchoke, pump up and pour apace Truth till a flowery foam shall wash the world? The patent truth-extracting process, — ha ? Let us make that grave mystery turn one wheel. Give you a single grind of law at least ! One orator, of two on either side. Shall teach us the puissance of the tongue — That is, o' the pen which simulated tongue On paper and saved all except the sound Which never was. Law's speech beside law's thought ? That were too stunning, too immense an odds : That point of vantage law lets nobly pass. One lawyer shall admit us to behold The manner of the making out a case, [ 203 ] THE RING AND THE BOOK Pirst fashion of a speech ; the chicl: in egg, The masterpiece law's bosom incubates. How Don Giacinto of the Arcangeli, Called Procurator of the Poor at Eome, Now advocate for Guido and his mates, — The jolly learned man of middle age, Cheek and jowl all in laps with fat and law. Mirthful as mighty, yet, as great hearts use. Despite the name and fame that tempt our flesh, Constant to that devotion of the hearth. Still captive in those dear domestic ties ! — How he, — having a cause to triumph with. All kind of interests to keep intact. More than one efficacious personage To tranquillize, conciliate and secure. And above all, public anxiety To quiet, show its Guido in good hands, — Also, as if such burdens were too light, A certain family-feast to claim his care. The birthday-banciuet for the only son — Paternity at smiling strife with law — How he brings botli to buckle in one bond; And, thick at throat, with waterish under-eye, Turns to his task and settles in his seat And puts his utmost means in practice now : Wlieezes out law-phrase, whiffles Latin forth. And, just as though roast lamb would never be. Makes logic levigate the big crime small : Bubs palm on j^alm, rakes foot with itchy foot, [ ^04 ] THE RING AND THE BOOK Conceives and inchoates the argument, Sprinkling each flower appropriate to the time, — Ovidian quip or Ciceronian crank, A-bubble in the larynx while he laughs. As he had fritters deep down frying there. How he turns, twists, and tries the oily thing Shall be — first speech for Guido 'gainst the Fisc. Then with a skip as it were from heel to head, Leaving yourselves fill up the middle bulk O^ the Trial, reconstruct its shape august. From such exordium clap we to the close ; Give you, if we dare wing to such a height. The absolute glory in some full-grown speech On the other side, some finished butterfly, Some breathing diamond-flake with leaf-gold fans. That takes the air, no trace of worm it was, Or cabbage-bed it had production from. Giovambattista o' the Bottini, Fisc, Pompilia''s patron by the chance of the hour. To-morrow her persecutor, — composite, he. As becomes who must meet such various calls — Odds of age joined in him with ends of youth. A man of ready smile and facile tear. Improvised hopes, despairs at nod and beck, And language — ah, the gift of eloquence ! Language that goes, goes, easy as a glove. O'er good and evil, smoothens both to one. Rashness helps caution with him, fires the straw. In free enthusiastic careless fit, [ 205 ] THE RING AND THE BOOK On the first proper pinnacle of rock Which offers, as reward for all that zeal. To lure some bark to founder and bring gain : While calm sits Caution, rapt with heavenward eye, A true confessor's gaze, amid the glare Beaconing to the breaker, death and hell. " Well done, thou good and faithful ! " she approves " Hadst thou let slip a faggot to the beach, ITie crew might surely spy thy precipice And save their boat ; the simple and the slow Might so, forsooth, forestall the wrecker's fee! Let the next crew be wise and hail in time ! " Just so compounded is the outside man. Blue juvenile pure eye and pippin cheek. And brow all prematurely soiled and seamed With sudden age, bright devastated hair. Ah, but you miss the very tones o' the voice. The scrannel pipe that screams in heights of head, As, in his modest studio, all alone. The tall wight stands a-tiptoe, strives and strains. Both eyes shut, like the cockerel that would crow. Tries to his own self amorously o'er What never will be uttered else than so — Since to the four walls, Forum and Mars' Hill, Speaks out the poesy whicli, penned, turns prose. Clavecinist debarred Iiis instrument. He yet thrums — shirking neither turn nor trill. With desperate finger on dumb table-edge — The sovereign rondo, shall conclude his Suite, [ 206 ] PORTRAIT by Raphael, known as "The Veiled Lady," in the Pitti Gallery. Supposed to represent the Fornariua, whom Raphael loved. His lady of the sonnt,is. " — One Word Morei p. 2"17 t ^ O * *4? <* It C I C I t I O C < ^ r r It o « ^ - » 1 I * » THE RING AND THE BOOK Charm an imaginary audience there, From old Corelli to young Haendel, both F the flesh at Rome, ere he perforce go print The cold black score, mere music for the mind — The last speech against Guido and his gang. With special end to prove Pompilia pure. How the Fisc vindicates Pompilia^s fame. Then comes the all but end, the ultimate Judgment save yours. Pope Innocent the Twelfth, Simple, sagacious, mild yet resolute. With prudence, probity and ■ — what beside From the other world he feels impress at times. Having attained to fourscore years and six, — How, when the court found Guido and the rest Guilty, but law supplied a subterfuge And passed the final sentence to the Pope, He, bringing his intelligence to bear This last time on what ball behoves him drop In the urn, or white or black, does drop a black. Send five souls more to just precede his own. Stand him in stead and witness, if need were, How he is wont to do God^s work on earth. The manner of his sitting out the dim Droop of a sombre February day In the plain closet where he does such work. With, from all Peter's treasury, one stool. One table and one lathen crucifix. There sits the Pope, his thoughts for company ; [ 207 ] X ■ f ; THE RING AND THE BOOK Grave but not sad, — nay, something like a cheer Leaves the lips free to be benevolent, Which, all day long, did duty firm and fast. A cherishing there is of foot and knee, A chafing loose-skinned large-veined hand witli hand, — What steward but knows when stewardship earns its wage, May levy praise, anticipate the lord ? He reads, notes, lays the papers down at last. Muses, then takes a turn about the room ; Unclasps a huge tome in an antique guise, Primitive print and tongue half obsolete. That stands him in diurnal stead ; opes page, Finds place where falls the passage to be conned According to an order long in use : And, as he comes upon the evening's chance, Starts somewhat, solemnizes straight his smile. Then reads aloud that portion first to last. And at the end lets flow his own thoughts forth Likewise aloud, for respite and relief. Till by the dreary relics of the west Wan through the half-moon window, all his light, He bows tlie head while the lips move in prayer. Writes some three brief lines, signs and seals the same, Tinkles a hand-bell, bids the obsequious Sir Who puts foot presently o' the closet-sill He watched outside of, bear as superscribed That mandate to the Governor forthwith : Then heaves abroad his cares in one good sigh, Traverses corridor with no arm's help, [ 208 ] THE RING AND THE BOOK And so to sup as a clear conscience should. The manner of the judgment of the Pope. Then must speak Guido yet a second time^, Satan's old saw being apt here — skin for skin, All a man hath that will he give for life. While life was graspable and gainable, And bird-like buzzed her wings round Guidons brow. Not much truth stiffened out the web of words He wove to catch her : when away she flew And death came, death's breath rivelled up the lies. Left bare the metal thread, the fibre fine Of truth, i' the spinning : the true words shone last. How Guido, to another purpose quite. Speaks and despairs, the last night of his life, In that New Prison by Castle Angelo At the bridge foot : the same man, another voice. On a stone bench in a close fetid cell, Where the hot vapor of an agony. Struck into drops on the cold wall, runs down — Horrible worms made out of sweat and tears — There crouch, well-nigh to the knees in dungeon-straw, Lit by the sole lamp suffered for their sake. Two awe-struck figures, this a Cardinal, That an Abate, both of old styled friends O' the thing part man part monster in the midst, So changed is Pranceschini's gentle blood. The tiger-cat screams now, that whined before, That pried and tried and trod so gingerly, 14 [ 209 ] THE RING AND THE BOOK Till in its silkiness the trap-teeth joined; Then jou know how the bristling fury foams. They listen, this wrapped in his folds of red, While his feet fumble for the filth below ; The other, as beseems a stouter heart, Working his best with beads and cross to ban The enemy that comes in like a flood Spite of the standard set up, verily And in no trope at all, against him there ; .For at the prison-gate, just a few steps Outside, already, in the doubtful dawn, Thither, from this side and from that, slow sweep And settle down in silence solidly. Crow-wise, the frightful Brotherhood of Death. Black-hatted and black-hooded huddle they. Black rosaries a-dangling from each waist ; So take they their grim station at the door, Torches lit, skuU-and-cross-bones-banner spread. And that gigantic Christ with open arms. Grounded. Nor lacks there aught but that the group Jkeak forth, intone the lamentable psalm, " Out of the deeps. Lord, have I cried to thee ! '' — When inside, from the true profound, a sign Shall bear intelligence that the foe is foiled. Count Guido Franceschini has confessed. And is absolved and reconciled with God. Then they, intoning, may begin their march. Make by the longest way for the People's Square, Carry the criminal to his crime's award : [ ^10 ] Graiiduca, in the Pitti Gallery. " Madonna that visits Florence in a vision." — One Word More, p. 218 THE RING AND THE BOOK A mob to cleave, a scaffolding to reach. Two gallows and Mannaia crowning all. How Guido made defence a second time. Finally, even as thus by step and step I led you from the level of to-day Up to the summit of so long ago, Here, whence I point you the wide prospect round — Let me, by like steps, slope you back to smooth, Land you on mother-earth, no whit the worse. To feed o^ the fat o' the furrow : free to dwell. Taste our time's better things profusely spread For all who love the level, corn and wine. Much cattle and the many-folded fleece. Shall not my friends go feast again on sward, Though cognizant of country in the clouds Higher than wistful eagle's horny eye Ever unclosed for, 'mid ancestral crags. When morning broke and Spring was back once more. And he died, heaven, save by his heart, unreached ? Yet heaven my fancy lifts to, ladder-like, — As Jack reached, hoipen of his beanstalk- rungs ! A novel country : I might make it mine By choosing which one aspect of the year Suited mood best, and putting solely that On panel somewhere in the House of Fame, Landscaping what I saved, not what I saw : — Might fix you, whether frost in goblin-time [211 ] THE RING AND THE BOOK Startled the moon with his abrupt bright laugh^ Or^ August's hair afloat in filmy fire, She fell, arms wide, face foremost on the world, Swooned there and so singed out the strength of things. Thus were abolished Spring and Autumn both. The land dwarfed to one likeness of the land. Life cramped corpse-fashion. Rather learn and love Each facet-flash of the revolving year ! — Eed, green and blue that whirl into a white. The variance now, the eventual unity, Which make the miracle. See it for yourselves, This man's act, changeable because alive ! Action now shrouds, nor shows the informing thought ; Man, like a glass ball with a spark a-top. Out of the magic fire that lurks inside. Shows one tint at a time to take the eye : Which, let a finger touch the silent sleep. Shifted a hair's-breadth shoots you dark for bright, Sufl'uses bright with dark, and baffles so Your sentence absolute for shine or shade. Once set such orbs, — white styled, black stigmatized, - A- rolling, see them once on the other side Your good men and your bad men every one From Guido Franccscliini to Guy Faux, Oft would you rub your eyes and change your names. Such, British Public, ye who like me not, (God love you ! ) — whom I yet have labored for, Perchance more careful whoso runs may read [ 212 ] O ? S 5 re ^ t% 2 ~ 5S ■* »;, ^ •>. 2" ^ n I— I O THE RING AND THE BOOK Than erst when all, it seemed, could read who ran, — Perchance more careless whoso reads may praise Than late when he who praised and read and wrote Was apt to find himself the selfsame me, — Such labor had such issue, so I wrought Tliis arc, by furtherance of such alloy. And so, by one spirt, take away its trace Till, justifiably golden, rounds my ring. A ring without a posy, and that ring mine ? lyric Love, half angel and half bird And all a wonder and a wild desire, — Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun, Took sanctuary within the holier blue. And sang a kindred soul out to his face, — Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart — When the first summons from the darkling earth Eeached thee amid thy chambers, blanched their blue, And bared them of the glory — to drop down, To toil for man, to suffer or to die, — This is the same voice : can thy soul know change ? Hail then, and hearken from the realms of help ! Never may I commence my song, my due To God who best taught song by gift of thee. Except with bent head and beseeching hand — That still, despite the distance and the dark. What was, again may be ; some interchange Of grace, some splendor once thy very thought, [ 213 ] THE RING AND THE BOOK Some benediction anciently th}^ smile : — Never conclude, but raising hand and head Thither where eyes, that cannot reach, yet yearn For all hope, all sustainment, all reward. Their utmost up and on, — so blessing back In those thy realms of help, that heaven thy home, Some whiteness which, I judge, thy face makes proud, Some wanness where, I think, thy foot may fall ! [ 214 ] ONE WORD MORE ONE WOBD 3IORE'^ To E. B. B. London, September, 1855. THEEE they are,, my fifty men and women Naming me the fifty poems finished ! Take them. Love, the book and me together : Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also. II Eafael made a century of sonnets, Made and wrote them in a certain volume Dinted with the silver-pointed pencil Else he only used to draw Madonnas : These, the world might view — but one, the volume. Who that one, you ask ? Your heart instructs you. Did she live and love it all her lifetime ? Did she drop, his lady of the sonnets. Die, and let it drop beside her pillow Where it lay in place of Rafael's glory, 1 Originally appended to the collection of fifty poems called " Men and Women." [ 217 ] ONE WORD MORE Eafael's cheek so duteous and so loving — Cheek, the ^vorld was wont to hail a painter's, Rafael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's ? Ill You and I would rather read that volume, (Taken to his beating bosom by it) Lean and list the bosom-beats of Rafael, Would we not ? than wonder at Madonnas — Her, San Sisto names, and Her, Foligno, Her, that visits Florence in a vision, Her, that 's left with lilies in the Louvre — Seen by us and all the world in circle. IV You and I will never read that volume. Guido Reni, like his own eye's apple Guarded long the treasure-book and loved it. Guido Reni dying, all Bologna Cried, and tlie world cried too, ^' Ours, the treasure ! Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished. V Dante once prepared to paint an angel : Whom to please? You whisper "Beatrice." While he mused and traced it and retraced it, (Peradventure witli a pen corroded Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for. When, his left-hand in* the hair o' the wicked, [ 218 ] rpORRE AL GALLO, from which many of Galileo's astronomical observations were made. " Galileo, on his turret. " — One Word More, p. 224 .,«:.; ONE WORD MORE Back he held the brow and pricked its stigma, Bit into the live man's flesh for parchment, Loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle, Let the wretch go festering through Florence) — Dante, who loved well because he hated. Hated wickedness that hinders loving, Dante standing, studying his angel, — In there broke the folk of his Inferno. Says lie — " Certain people of importance " (Such he gave his daily dreadful line to) " Entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet/' Says the poet — "Then I stopped my painting." VI You and I would rather see that angel. Painted by the tenderness of Dante, Would we not ? — than read a fresh Inferno. VII You and I will never see that picture. While he mused on love and Beatrice, While he softened o'er his outlined angel. In they broke, those "people of importance " : We and Bice bear the loss for ever. VIII What of RafaeFs sonnets, Dante's picture ? This : no artist lives and loves, that longs not Once, and only once, and for one only, [ 219 ] ONE WORD MORE (Ah, the prize ! ) to find his love a language Fit and fair and simple and sufficient — Using nature that 's an art to others, Not, this one time, art that ^s turned his nature. Ay, of all the artists living, loving, None but would forego his proper dowry, — Does he paint ? he fain would write a poem, — Does lie write? he fain would paint a picture, Put to proof art alien to the artist's. Once, and only once, and for one only, So to be the man and leave the artist. Gain the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow. IX Wherefore ? Heaven's gift takes earth's abatement ! He who smites the rock and spreads the water. Bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him, Even he, the minute makes immortal. Proves, perchance, but mortal in the minute. Desecrates, belike, the deed in doing. While he smites, how can he but remember, So he smote before, in such a peril. When they stood and mocked — '^ Shall smiting help us? " AVhen they drank and sneered — "A stroke is easy ! " When they wiped their mouths and went their journey. Throwing him for thanks — " But drought was pleasant." Thus old memories mar the actual triumph ; Thus the doing savors of disrelish ; Thus achievement lacks a gracious somewhat; [ 2^0 ] ONE WORD MORE O'er-importuiied brows becloud the mandate. Carelessness or consciousness — the gesture. For he bears an ancient wrong about him, Sees and knows again those phalanxed faces, Hears, yet one time more, the ^customed prelude — " How should st thou, of all men, smite, and save us ? '* Guesses what is like to prove the sequel — " Egypt^s flesh-pots — nay, the drought was better/'' X Oh, the crowd must have emphatic warrant ! Theirs, the Sinai-forehead^s cloven brilliance. Right-arm's rod-sweep, tongue's imperial fiat. Never dares the man put off the prophet. XI Did he love one face from out the thousands, (Were she Jethro's daughter, white and wifely, Were she but the ^Ethiopian bondslave,) He would envy yon dumb patient camel. Keeping a reserve of scanty water Meant to save his own life in the desert; Ready in the desert to deliver (Kneeling down to let his breast be opened) Hoard and life together for his mistress. XII I shall never, in the years remaining. Paint you pictures, no, nor carve you statues, [ 221 ] .*■.: ONE WORD MORE Make you music that should all-express me ; So it seems : I stand on my attainment. This of verse alone, one life allows me ; Yerse and nothing else have I to give you. Other heights in other lives, God willing : All the gifts from all the heights, your own, Love ! XIII Yet a semblance of resource avails us — Shade so finely touched, love's sense must seize it. Take these lines, look lovingly and nearly. Lines I write the first time and the last time. He who works in fresco, steals a hair-brush. Curbs the liberal hand, subservient proudly. Cramps his spirit, crowds its all in little. Makes a strange art of an art familiar, Fills his lady's missal-marge with flowerets. He who blows thro' bronze, may breathe thro' silver, Fitly serenade a slumbrous princess. He who writes, may write for once as I do. XIV Love, you saw me gather men and women. Live or dead or fashioned by my fancy. Enter each and all, and use their service. Speak from every mouth, — the speech, a poem. Hardly shall I tell my joys and sorrows, Hopes and fears, belief and disbelieving : I am mine and yours — the rest be all men's, [ 222 ] ONE WORD MORE Karshish, Cleon, Norbert and the fifty. Let me speak this once in my true person. Not as Lippo_, Eoland or Andrea, Though the fruit of speech be just this sentence — Pray you, look on these my men and women, Take and keep my fifty poems finished ; Where my heart lies, let my brain lie also ! Poor the speech ; be how I speak, for all things. XV Not but that you know me ! Lo, the moon's self ! Here in London, yonder late in Florence, Still we find her face, the thrice-transfigured. Curving on a sky imbrued with color. Drifted over Piesole by twilight, Came she, our new crescent of a hair^s-breadth. Full she flared it, lamping Samminiato, Eounder ^twixt the cypresses and rounder. Perfect till the nightingales applauded. Now, a piece of her old self, impoverished. Hard to greet, she traverses the houseroofs. Hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver. Goes dispiritedly, glad to finish. XVI What, there's nothing in the moon note-worthy ? Nay : for if that moon could love a mortal. Use, to charm him (so to fit a fancy) [ 223 J It ONE WORD MORE All her magic (^t is the old sweet mythos), She would turn a new side to her mortal^ Side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, steersman — Blank to Zoroaster on his terrace. Blind to Galileo on his turret. Dumb to Homer, dumb to Keats — him, even ! Think, the wonder of the moonstruck mortal — When she turns round, comes again in heaven. Opens out anew for worse or better ! Proves she like some portent of an iceberg Swimming full upon the ship it founders. Hungry with huge teeth of splintered crystals? Proves she as the paved work of a sapphire Seen by Moses when he climbed the mountain ? Moses, Aaron, Nadab and Abihu Climbed and saw the very God, the Highest, Stand upon the paved work of a sapphire. Like the bodied heaven in his clearness Shone the stone, the sapphire of that paved work, When they ate and drank and saw God also ! XVII What were soon ? None knows, none ever shall know. Only this is sure — the sight were other, Not the raoon^s same side, born late in Florence, Dying now impoverished here in London. God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with. One to show a woman w lun he loves her ! [ 224 ] 2 > .tit; ONE WORD MORE XVIII This I say of me, but think of you^ Love ! This to you — yourself my moon of poets ! Ah, but that ^s the world^s side, there ^s the wonder, Thus they see you, praise you, think they know you ! There, in turn I stand Avith them and praise you. Out of my own self, I dare to phrase it. But the best is when I glide from out them. Cross a step or two of dubious twilight. Come out on the other side, the novel Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of. Where I hush and bless myself with silence. XIX Oh, their Eafael of the dear Madonnas, Oh, their Dante of the dread Inferno, Wrote one song — and in my brain I sing it. Drew one angel — borne, see, on my bosom ! E. B. r,\: 15 [ 225 ] INDEX ?*1 i!iv Index Angelico, Fra (da Fiesole), 36, 114, 129. Apollo, Statue of, Uffizi Gallery, 109. Arezzo, Province of, 40 ; town of, 181, 182, 183, 192. Arno, four bridges over, 24. Baccio Bandinelli's statue of Gio- vanni della Banda Nere, Piazza of San Lorenzo, 164. Baldovinetti, Alesso, Madonna and Saints, Uffizi Gallery, 114. Bandiera, the brothers, 54. Bargello chapel, 45. Beatrix, 45, 218. Bellosguardo, site of Galileo's villa, 64. Bigordi, Domenico, 114. Bridge of Santa Trinita, 167. Bruuelleschi's church, San Lorenzo. 44. Buonarroti (Michelangelo), 43, 62, 115. Campanile of Giotto, 25, 105, 111, 117. Carlo Dolci, 115. Carmine, Carmelite cloister of the, 121,126, 130. Casa Guidi, 22, 39, 68, 77, 79, 82, 94, 167. Cascine, The, 99; piazza in the, 99. Castellani, 163. Cellini's Perseus, 43. Charles Albert, 92. Charles of Anjou, sees Ciraabue's Virgin and Child, 34. Chiusi, province Siena, 163. Cimabue, 34, 35; discovers Giotto, 35. Circoli, The, 71. Cosimo Pater Patriae, 121, 123; his palace (Palace of the Medici), 129. Crystal Palace, London, 88-90. Dante, 44, 45, 218, 219, 225; bust on gate of San Gallo, 60. Dante's stone, 44, 45, 101, 116. Da Vinci, Leonardo, 108, 146. Dello Delli, 108. Duomo, Palazzo del, 72, 117. Dying Alexander, The, Uffizi Gallery, 109. Ferdinand I. de' Medici, Equestrian statue of, Piazza dell' Annunziata, 149, 150. 157. Fiesole, 62, 137, 138, 223. Filicaja, Vincenza da, 23. Francis L of France, patron of An- drea del Sarto, 142, 144, 145. Galileo's Tower, 224. Gallo gate, 60. Garibaldi, Death of wife and child of, 91, 92. Ghiberti, Lorenzo, 113. Ghirlandajo (Domenico Bigordi), 113. Giotto, 24, 36, 45, 58, 106, 111, 117; Last Supper, 115; Saints, in Chapel of the Medici, Santa Croce, 127. Glad Borgo (Borgo Allegri), 34. Gualbert, St., Altar of, Fiesole, 63. Guerazzi, 72, 75, 76. Guidi, 130. Guido Reni, 218. •a- m .u [ 229 ] INDEX Jerome, St., Painting of by Fra Lippo Lippi, Academy of Fine Arts, 123. Joconde, by Lionard, in the Louvre, lfJ5. Lapaccia, Monna, 124. Leopold, Grand-duke, 41, 42, 68-70, 75-77, 82. Lippino Lippi, 114. Lippo Lippi, Fra, 121-134. Lippo Lippi's, Fra, fresco of St. Law- rence, Prato, 132; altar-piece for S. Ambrogio, 133, 134; painting of St. Jerome, Academy of Fine Arts, 123. Loggia dei Lanzi, 43. Lorenzo the Magnificent, 32. Lucrezia, wife of Andrea del Sarto, 137-146. Machiavelli, Niccolo, 34 Margheritone, 36; Crucifixion, Santa Croce church, 114. Massa-Carrara, Province of, 40. Mazziiu, Giuseppe, 83, 86, 87. Metternich, Prince, 46. Michelangelo (see also Buonarroti), 107, 141, 143, 144, 146. Michelangelo's Tomb of the Medici, 25; bust of Brutus, 43, 87; snow statue for Pietro, 26, 27. Monaco, Lorenzo, 114, 129. Mont St. Gothard, 116. Moreilo, 116, 140, 144. Niccolo gate, 60. Niobe, Group of, Uffizi Gallery, 109. Novara, 80, !)2. OONISSANTI, 116. Orcagna (Orgagna), the brothers, Fresco of Inferno by, 34, 116. Petka.ta, Villa, 153. Petrarch's bust on gate of San Niccolo, 60. Piazza of tlie Grand-duke, 31. Pienza, 40. Pillar, Piazza Santa Trinita, 167. Pisano, Niccola (Nicolo, the Pisan), 113. Pisa, Province of, 40. Pitti palace, 22, 38, 42, 45, 68. Pius IX. (Pio Nono), 53, 54, 82, 83, 85. Pollajolo, 114. Porta Romana, 181. Prato cathedral. Frescos of the Bap- tist in, 122. Racers, Frieze of the, 109. Radetzky, Count Johann, 116. Raphael (Raffael), 36, 62, 107, 141- 144, 146; Madonnas by, 217, 218, 225. Riccardi, The Palazzo, Piazza dell' Annunziata, 149, 150, 165. Robbia, della, 156. Rossi, Count, 86. Samminiato, 223. Sandro Botticelli, 114. San Felice, Church of, 22, 167, 181. San Lorenzo, Church of, 25, 123, 165. San Lorenzo, Piazza of, 164, 106. San Spirito, Church of, 116. Santa Croce church, 44. • Santa Maria Novella, Church of, 33.. Sarto, Andrea del, 137-146; Ma- donna, Pitti Galler.v, 139, 143; copy of portrait of Leo X., 140, 141 . Savonarola, 31, 32; martyrdom of, 150. Siena cathedral. Tombs of Borgia and Pope Joan in, 84. Siena, Province of, 40. Stefano, 108. Strozzi, Palace of the, 167. Taddeo Gaddi, Church of Santa Maria Novella, 114. Theseus, Statue of, Uffizi Gallery, 109. Vallombuosa, 63. Vasari, George, 108, 140. Via Larga, 26, 150. [ 230 ] ^ ^rV^ TO oyK^tS iSL BOKKOWBO LOAN DEPT. ^ ^ 5 LD21A-60m-3,'70 (X5382sl0)476-A32 .General Library University of California Berkeley