r — ^ 
 
 ' LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY Of 
 CALIF OWWM 
 
 SAN WEGO i 
 \ -«->^ 
 
 . V ^ ^ j^ ^Z"
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 MAURICE HEWLETT
 
 '•'■Fiore/iza mia, ben puoi 
 esser contenta"
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLOREN 
 TINES BY MAURICE HEWLETT 
 PRINTED FOR AND PUBLISHED BY 
 THOMAS B MOSHER PORTLAND MAINE 
 MDCCCCXI 
 
 V
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 WHEN, i7i The Bibelot for Apnl, i8g6, 
 ive printed certain Songs of Dead Floren- 
 tines — a series of Italian lyrics i?t large part done 
 into English by the late fohn Addington Sytnonds — 
 it was, confessedly, with the title in mind of a book 
 but recefitly issued. ' 
 
 A few months earlier, Earthwork Out of Tus- 
 cany, being Impressions and Translations of 
 Maurice Hewlett, had been brought out by the 
 same publishers, — a book dismissed with scant, 
 disparaging estimate in The Athenaeum, — though 
 now seen to have held within its all too few pages 
 one indubitable little " Imaginary Portrait," yf/ to 
 be ranked im?nediately after the four elaborately 
 finished cabinet-pieces of the same Jiame and genre 
 by Walter Pater. As for the Masque // appar- 
 
 See Bibliographical Note.
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 e7itly fell still-born from the press : to the best of 
 our knowledge and belief ?io criticism whatever, in 
 any Journal of 7iote in England or America, being 
 passed upo?i it. ^ 
 
 From our personal vieiu-point Mr. Hewletfs 
 morality-play, if one chooses to call it so, is a brill- 
 iant conceptiofi, bringing together as it does, the 
 august shades of the me7i and women of the Renais- 
 sance. It is in very truth "^ masque of death'' s 
 old comedy,'^ and a brief a dialysis may not be co?i- 
 sidered unwelcome to those who ?iow read it for the 
 first time. 
 
 The First Pari opefis with an invocatio?i of 
 Da7ite ; then Beatrice is seen, followed by Laura 
 
 I We reprint the text in its entirety. As Mr. Batteii's 
 illustrations do not lend themselves to satisfactory reprodnc- 
 tion they have been omitted. With the lapse of time it is 
 7171 likely that this thin oblo7ig quarto will lose vabie either in 
 the eyes of the collector or the lover of poetry for its oiv7i sake.
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 and Fetmrch, and ^' quite out of historic sequence, 
 Boccace and his Fiammetla. Then the three ladies 
 of old time dance and recede from sights while the 
 Chorus recites their worth and the renown of their 
 lovers ; whereupon Giotto, Corso Donati, Farinata, 
 Buondehnonte, Guido Cavalcante a7id the Lady 
 Ficcarda Donati appear. Lastly comes Fra Beato 
 Angelico, the scene closing with Chorus giving voice 
 to approval of his lovely life and quiet end. 
 
 Fai-t Second deals with ^^ Love and Ltaly a?id 
 Art their fo sterling, ^^ and immediately we have 
 speech with Fra Lippo Lippi ; then enter Fico del la 
 Mirandola, Bartolommeo Scala, Lionardo da Vinci, 
 all voicing the bitter outcry of the Fsalmist. Sinion- 
 etta now makes moan over the dead days of her 
 youth, and her lover Giuliano, with others of the 
 house of Medici pass over the stage with Lorenzo, 
 greatest ofthern all, upon whom the Three Reproaches 
 habited as bent old women heap their curses for his 
 misdeeds. Foliziano, who was with the Magnificent
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 when he died, then recites an elegy a7id is dismissed 
 into darkness. We now see Cosimo di Medici, hard 
 upon whose footsteps follows Savofiarola with the 
 tivo who most loved and hated him ; and last comes 
 Botticelli whose lament is btvken in upon by the 
 Chorus with a sinister dirge of its own. Then the 
 Sun shines out and Luca della Robbia speaks in 
 his own praise which is fully justified by the ever- 
 discerning Chorus. Quatrains are now respectively 
 recited by Macchiavelli, Cellifii and Pulci, afid the 
 burden of Florence, her destiny and doom, sums 
 itself up in a final invocation of Michael Angelo. 
 So passes the glory of the City of Lilies. 
 
 T. B. M.
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 Here you see, as in a glass, 
 Death and Florence grip and pass. 
 One was scornful as a maid 
 In her bravery fresh arrayed : 
 
 One was brawny, hearted brass 
 
 Which look'd longer, Death or lass ? 
 
 Gentles, you and Death and I 
 Have a friendly fall to try. 
 He is masterful and plays 
 Steadily; looks not for praise. 
 Heeds no blame. Your head is high, 
 High as mine — but by and bye ?
 
 PERSONS OF THE MASQUE 
 
 A CHORUS OF TIRED LADIES AND POETS FORGOTTEN 
 
 THE FLORENTINE SHADES 
 
 A HERALD 
 
 THREE REPROACHES 
 
 KING DEATH
 
 THE MASQUE 
 
 FIRST PART 
 
 The Scene is an open loggia giving upon a garden in 
 winter, with leafless trees, and cypresses. The rain stands 
 in pools; over all is the soughing of a great wind. A fit- 
 ful sunshine comes and goes. 
 
 AFTER THE SECOND SOUNDING 
 
 The Chants of twelve poets and twelve ladies, robed 
 alike in sad-coloured habits, comes into the garden, and 
 looking towards a terminal statue of Memory which is in 
 it, says this : 
 
 Of quiet death. 
 
 WE have lost what we had won, 
 Love's reward for love's work done. 
 Sightless Memory receiv'd 
 No news, if we joy'd or griev'd. 
 Were we lov'd ? She lov'd us not.
 
 ^ A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 Pity-worth ? Behov'd us not. 
 
 Yet we count us happier 
 
 Than are they whose keener star 
 
 Shone about them while they stayed 
 
 Here with us ; and when they strayed 
 
 Forbore Death their names to hide : 
 
 We are they who quietly died. 
 
 Invocatio)! of the great ones. 
 
 Here begins that crimson line, 
 Greater none, nor more divine. 
 By thy grimness of achieving, 
 By the scope of thy conceiving, 
 6^(9^-creative, Zr^izz^<?;/-cleaving, 
 Alighieri ! lift thy head 
 From among the sheeted dead. 
 Buonarroti! God\s]us\.\ 
 Come thou too to close the trust :
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 5 
 
 Tell the story 
 
 How the glory 
 
 Of thy burgh was pash'd in dust. 
 
 Dante Alighieri passes^ in sober red habit and 
 cowled ; a tongue of fire above his brow. 
 
 Dante 
 
 The first to speak in Florence^ Florence spurn 'd 
 My song and service. From home to outland 
 
 turn'd, 
 I sensed God^s secrets, eating salted bread. 
 God woke my love by death : they crown'd me, 
 ' dead. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 O lasso ! 
 
 Woe, the dead poet ! Woe, the alien tomb, 
 And brooding brow shadow'd by all HelVs gloom ! 
 How was that City proud and confident
 
 5 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 That past him by. Alas ! all 's woe upon her ! 
 Say, wouldst thou know his heart? His heart 
 
 was riven : 
 To God one half, to Beatrice half was given. 
 But since God saw Heav''n bare without her soul, 
 He took her ; and the cloven heart was whole. 
 
 Beatrice Portinari passes. She is i?i a clear greefi 
 garme?it, and holds her hand to her heart. 
 
 Beatrice 
 
 My spirit, like a sigh, just flutter'd o'er 
 
 Our homestead city ; melted then to soar 
 
 As altar-smoke. But one who 'd mourn'd me wed, 
 
 FoUow'd me from that Feast. I liv'd, being dead. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 God saw her beautiful, and lov'd, and took her ! 
 How dark the city sate
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 (That joyed of late) 
 
 When she, that youngest angel-shape, forsook her. 
 
 Of Daiite and Beatrice, 
 
 This is that man who thought it well 
 Alone to tread the gulfs of Hell^ 
 Who look'd on naked sin beneath 
 The mask of life, and call'd it death. 
 
 Nor lost he there his latest breath, 
 Nor all the pity he had shed ; 
 But it was heap'd on him, and led 
 Him outward from the cavern's teeth. 
 
 And that great utterance he said 
 Liveth, and he who saw the dead 
 Cannot taste death ; for Death's hand shook 
 To feel the burden of his Book.
 
 I A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 And this is She at whose death-moan 
 The wasted City sat alone ; 
 And She whose giving up of life 
 Forewarn 'd him take her soul to wife. 
 
 Ill 
 
 0/ Song, the miraculous child. 
 
 From the nuptial of Spirit and Spirit, 
 
 From the girdle that bound her 3'oung heart, 
 
 Unloosed by the tongue of his art, 
 
 Sprang the burning miraculous Child 
 
 All soothsay that was to inherit, 
 
 To nourish and foster and spread. 
 
 Till all kindreds should leap when he smiled, 
 
 Or panting run whither he led 
 
 At the spell of his treacherous merit. 
 
 O Song, with the throat of a bird 
 
 And loins and core of a youth ;
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 O Song, crystal harbour of truth, 
 
 That sprang from Love mated with Power ! 
 
 O Song, when thy harping was blurr'd, 
 
 Thoughtest thou, O So7ig, in thy ruth, 
 
 What blood had water'd thy flower 
 
 Ere yet one tendril had stirr'd ? 
 
 What paling of virginal bosoms, 
 
 What prayerful, and tearful, and sooth 
 
 Upgiving of strength, that thy blossoms 
 
 Should bud in that clamorous hour? 
 
 But Song set his delicate feet 
 
 In the way of the World and the mire ; 
 
 Song tasted the fruit of desire. 
 
 And laugh'd at the clouding of eyes 
 
 (For he knew love's filming was sweet). 
 
 So So7ig held revel, and loud 
 
 Sang he with passionate cries : 
 
 And his raiment was golden and proud. 
 
 Thus the cup of his wrath was complete.
 
 lo A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 IV 
 
 Song as a child was full of peace 
 Laid in the bosom of Beatrice. 
 
 sweet lady, O griev'd heart, 
 
 How fared So?ig and his brother Arfi 
 
 Laura comes, a youthful Matroii in a high-waisted 
 goum, a child at either hand. She looks 
 patiently before her, with good courage. 
 
 Laura 
 
 1 gave my love to him who lov'd my face, 
 I did him wifely service with good grace ; 
 Nor lean'd aside to what my Poet said : 
 But I may thank him now that I am dead. 
 
 Petrarch. He has a laurel-wreath, and bears a 
 little crystal twn wherein is his own heart. 
 
 Petrarch 
 
 My voice was as the swan's that dirgeth death ; 
 My joys were frail things, lighter than a breath.
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES ii 
 
 But, like the night, I froze them to a brede — 
 They wove me crowns thereof, and wrapt me 
 dead. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 The Chorus tells of his consolation. 
 
 " Merci," she laugh'd him once ; a glove discarded, 
 
 A parting, and a meeting : 
 With these his poet's hunger was rewarded ; 
 
 But in her greeting, 
 Or when the light of her died down and fiutter'd 
 
 As stars at dawning. 
 Or at her coming various song-birds utter'd 
 
 The rosy birth of morning ; 
 Or when he knelt and took her hand's warm 
 sheathing, 
 
 His heart on fire 
 Shot golden words unto his lips, which breathing 
 
 Did lift him higher 
 
 Than ever long assuagement of desire.
 
 12 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 Boccace passes, crotvned with floivers, a wreath' d 
 thyrsus in his hand. 
 
 BOCCACE 
 
 Heavy the blossoms, sultry-sweet the wine, 
 And all the air gold-dusted with sun-shine. 
 I found a girl's warm bosom for my head, 
 And — God was good ! I lov'd till I was dead. 
 
 Fia77imetta passes. She is robed like a King's 
 daughter., and carries a pair of golden shears. 
 
 FlAMMETTA 
 
 I brought my burning wealth up from the South, 
 1 kiss'd him with the kisses of my mouth : 
 The low slow laugh when Southern love is fed 
 Was longer mine : I cloyed him, he is dead. 
 
 Chorus Of Boccace's book. 
 
 And of the sweet?iess of his Lady. 
 
 Yes, thou art dead, Boccace! 
 
 Thy garden-plot, a hundred starry flowers,
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 13 
 
 Yet springs, is fragrant yet of soft light loves, 
 
 Love languid, love askance, love under bowers 
 Of myrtle trees, love eager, love that proves 
 
 How love may ache, alas ! 
 And she, thy confident fair 
 
 That set her gleaming teeth 
 To the rind of thy fruits, laid bare 
 
 Her white throat soft as death 
 
 To warm to thy amorous breath. 
 She let down the pride of her hair, 
 
 A flood and tangle of gold. 
 And sat embower'd there 
 
 Like pale Queen Helen of old : 
 
 Scarlet her lips, but the white of her globed 
 breasts is untold ! 
 
 The three Ladies dance a stately solemn measure, to 
 this versing: 
 
 The Measure. 
 
 Beatrice^ the white Lady, 
 Lead our mystic pageantry ;
 
 14 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 Laura, slim and carcanetted, 
 Shy as violets dew-wetted ; 
 
 Fiammetta, lissom, young, 
 Golden as the arum's tongue, 
 
 Follow in the antic round, 
 Eyes demurely cast to ground. 
 
 High-born, stately, queens, we pass 
 Treading daintily the grass. 
 
 Beatrice 
 
 I was nine when I was wooed, 
 Never word my poet could. 
 
 Laura 
 
 Wedded wife was I, my poet 
 
 Won my looks but could not know it. 
 
 Fiammetta 
 
 Great King's daughter though I were, 
 I chose my poet debonnair.
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 15 
 
 The three Ladies 
 
 Twine white arms, tread the measure : 
 Ours the grace and theirs the treasure. 
 
 Let the ghostly ladies pass 
 Like the mist on springing grass. 
 
 Beatrice 
 
 I was wedded ere my years 
 Number'd twelve : I shed no tears. 
 
 Laura 
 
 Children bore I to my lord 
 
 As thy years ; I sighed no word. 
 
 FlAMMETTA 
 
 Wedded I, but love is free : 
 Not my husband pleasured me. 
 
 The THREE Ladies 
 
 x\ll the years and all the blisses 
 Come and go like children's kisses.
 
 [6 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 We are dead, and now, alas ! 
 Shadows of us haunt the grass. 
 
 The three Ladies pass away; but the Chorus, looking 
 still upon their poets, says this : 
 
 Of the Great Three. 
 
 Lo ! now, the mighty triad of old Florence 
 Mewed like strong eagles in Death^s pale abhor- 
 rence. 
 The first set patient at his prison-bars, 
 Look'd up and saw his lady with the stars ; 
 The next, slow-pacing, holding him apart, 
 Pierc'd his own breast to Laura in his heart ; 
 And last the Reveller, flushing high, did pass, 
 Look'd down on Fiam7netta couch 'd in grass. 
 O strength, that scann'd all Heaven, and Man, 
 
 and Earth ! 
 O glory, that could give such seeing birth.
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 17 
 
 II 
 
 Of the Duomo. 
 
 They built a shrine anon to speak those three, 
 Soaring aloft, dome-shadow'd like a world, 
 Deep-founded as the good brown Earth their fee, 
 And set about with massy, rich-empearl'd 
 Smooth marble (like the soul of Poetry), 
 And winding leafage of vine and olive curl'd, 
 Down drooping o'er the column'd tracery. 
 How goodly shone the vasty fabric hurl'd 
 Tow'rd Heaven up, yet cleaving sturdily 
 To Earth's broad bosom and the grey street's 
 
 track, 
 Barr'd like a great moth's wing with rose and 
 
 black. 
 Knew all men best when (breath'd by God) its 
 
 flower 
 Spear'd up of his desire, the lily-tower.
 
 i8 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 III 
 
 Of 7iew Shades. 
 
 Break off, break off, my heart, here are new 
 
 comers, 
 Perpetual youth and age perpetual ; 
 One with the bashful bloom of early summers, 
 The other gnaw'd on like the years that fall. 
 Who is this dreamer with his dreams at call, 
 And happy morning face, and wholesome breath ? 
 Who this lean vagrant, choking down his gall 
 As he should grudge to void it upon Death ? 
 
 The first Giotto^ figured as a young man carrying 
 a shock of spring boughs. 
 
 Giotto 
 
 The hills that call each other thro' the night, 
 The stars that sing of silence, the trees of light, 
 I knew ! I knew ! " Thy brethren they," He 
 
 saith. 
 There came a sister soon, meek Sister Death.
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 19 
 
 The other is Corso Donatio like an old man with 
 blood upon his hair. 
 
 Corso 
 
 I had the fire-streak'd blood no pomp could hold 
 Of Gothic blazon or CerchVs dirty gold. 
 A ban-dog hounding sheep, I fought and bled 
 That, living, Florence fear'd me : I hush her, dead. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 One doth make what one doth mar ; 
 One brings peace, another war. 
 
 See what Florence'' children are — 
 One bit her, one did kiss the scar. 
 
 A company of four Shades comes next. 
 
 Farinata in his armour, with a 7iaked sword ; 
 
 Farinata 
 
 The fire that rages in me outburns Hell ; 
 I am the pride of Flore?ice I
 
 20 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 Buondelvi07ite in a white silke?i doublet ; 
 
 BUONDELMONTE 
 
 I rang a knell 
 That day they drain'd me whiter than my vest: 
 After 't was Florence bled. 
 
 Giiido Cai'alcante with a lute, and a peacock's 
 feather stuck in his cap. 
 
 GuiDO 
 
 My way was best. 
 From lip to lip I past, from grove to grove : 
 I am like Florence; they call me Light o' Love. 
 
 Last Piccarda Donati with the Minoress"* cord 
 sandals. 
 
 Piccarda 
 
 Reared in a goshawk's nest, I flew to peace ; 
 Plighted to sin, I wedded the white Christ: 
 His arm upheld me when they marr'd our ease, 
 For I was stricken whiter than the mist.
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 21 
 
 In a sudden ray of light a single Shade comes to close 
 the tale. 
 
 Fra Beato A?igelico, in black and white habit. 
 He carries a lily in one hafid. On his shoulder 
 burns a star. 
 
 Fra Beato 
 
 The mystic flame-enwrapt Jerusalem 
 
 Was set before me like a clouded gem. 
 
 I trod the ways of Florence : steep the tread, 
 
 But leading swiftly to the blessed dead. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Of lovely life. 
 
 Of quick recompetise. 
 
 Thou shalt be called the Son of Peace 
 
 And Star of Bethlehem : 
 
 In thee the ardent striver 
 
 Found placid requiem ; 
 
 In thee, the still contriver, 
 
 In thee, the honest liver.
 
 12 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 Dreaming thy soaring ecstasies 
 
 Within the hum of men. 
 
 Like to the soothing of doves, 
 
 Like to the plashing of rain, 
 
 So as the cloud-shadow moves 
 
 To sober the Sun's beating pain, 
 
 Thy music, thy chrism, thy prayers, 
 
 Bade Hope lift again : 
 
 Hope of wings fretty with fire. 
 
 Of eyes looking out to the deep 
 
 Heart of the azure, and higher — 
 
 Yearning to creep 
 
 Into the folds of the mantle of God, 
 
 Haply to sleep. 
 
 The light endures for a space, and then goes out as the 
 Prate's shade passes. The ram descends and veils the 
 scene. The end of the first part.
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 23 
 
 THE SECOND PART 
 
 P>egins under a cold clear sky. Enters the Herald, a 
 young boy in a short GreekisJi cloak and Phrygian cap. 
 He carries a jP<?;/-pipe and speaks eagerly this sonnet. 
 
 Of 7iew promise. 
 
 THE Tale is now of Love and Italy 
 And Art their fosterling, of that new time 
 When first the Sun scatter'd the hoary rime 
 Of older fashions, and leapt eagerly 
 Forward and up to flood the new with glee. 
 Then, when the world was young and saw in 
 
 rhyme 
 And colour move all Nature., the sublime 
 Prism and chord of God lay plain to see. 
 Then every maid held godhead, every flower 
 A sacrament, the fever and old dread 
 Of living — ecstasy ! of loving — power ! 
 So Love call'd from the grave the mighty dead :
 
 24 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 And he that voiced the music of the spheres, 
 Plato the prophet, murmured down the years. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Of fulfilment. 
 
 The boy is a shade, 
 And the cup he quaffs 
 Is down to the lees : 
 Only Death laughs. 
 
 First comes Lippo Lippi alofie^ figured as a young 
 Satyr in a monk's frock. 
 
 Lippo 
 
 I peered for God and found him underneath 
 A girl's shy eyes. Up then came Master Death, 
 Saying, " You monk, bow down to me instead ; 
 Here is no god for you." My wench was dead.
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 25 
 
 Then come three scholars together. 
 
 First Gio. Pico of Mirandola. He is a youth in 
 soft raiment, reading in a Hebrew book. 
 
 Pico 
 
 Men call'd me Paragon; I challenged Rome; 
 Ro77ie frown'd, I fled : on many a dusty tome 
 I ponder'd, yet found not the true Godhead ; 
 But, loving much, God came and laid me dead. 
 
 Then Bartolommeo Scala in his btirgher^s dress, 
 and spectacles pushed o?i to his forehead. 
 
 Scala 
 
 They dubb'd me inexpert, and set me slave 
 At lacquey work : my heart to Greek I gave. 
 Had I that fair sort that I coveted ? 
 I strove, I strain'd to reach, I clutch 'd — 'twas 
 dead.
 
 26 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 Then LioJiardo da Vmci with a lo?ig white beard. 
 He walks pai?ij'ully with a crutch. 
 
 LlONARDO 
 
 Too curious ! Art short solace gave my spirit. 
 Too curious ! Power contented not my merit. 
 Too curious ! Life itself me wearied. 
 The living tire to death : we wait, w^e dead. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 O foolish Wise! 
 
 Blind, blind, blind ! 
 
 As sheep in the rain. 
 
 Blind as the Worm that beguiled 
 
 The Mother of Caijt. 
 
 Then comes La Siitionetta, as a virgin of lovely sorrow- 
 ful countenance, in a white robe. Round her loins is a 
 black snake that carries his tail ever in his mouth. She 
 bears a chaplet of yew ; and is attended by seven young 
 maids in mourning weeds.
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 27 
 
 SiMONETTA 
 
 Grief of Simonetta. 
 
 Once a virgin of virgins, 
 Crown'd as with fire, and pale, 
 I stoopt to my own undoing, 
 I lay as corn to the flail. 
 
 The Seven 
 
 As a lily-stalk snapt by hail 
 She fell to her girdle's undoing, 
 Nor tears could avail. 
 
 Simonetta 
 
 As the hawk on his wrist he was hard, 
 As the quail's my blithesomeness froze ; 
 I stood asham'd in the pasture, 
 My eyes were wide as the roe's.
 
 28 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 The Seven 
 
 With her lapful of flowers she uprose : 
 All tenderly white was her vesture, 
 She blush'd like a rose. 
 
 SiMONETTA 
 
 I was woo'd in the time of wild crocus, 
 I sank with a trembling of knees ; 
 He took me up on his pillion 
 And rode away thro' the trees. 
 
 The Seven 
 
 The willow must bend to the breeze ! 
 
 She pined in her king's pavilion, 
 
 She longed for her peace. 
 
 Oh, the land swept black by the shower. 
 
 The lash and the rain ! 
 
 She bow'd like a tired sweet flower, 
 
 She moan'd for her pain !
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 29 
 
 SiMONETTA 
 
 Because, being fairer than the dawn, I trod 
 The flowery way that lures a soul from God^ 
 And gaged my youth against man's hardihead ; 
 Therefore I wear the bleak smile of the dead. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Blind. 
 Blind, blind, blind! 
 As monk in his cell ; 
 Blind as the Corn-mother's child 
 That played by the mouth of Hell. 
 
 Then come the house of Medici. First is Ginliano de' 
 Medici in hunter's green. He carries a broken shaft in 
 his hand. Following him are seven lads (sons of princes) 
 dressed in sables. 
 
 GlULIANO 
 
 Retribution. 
 Once as a tiger-whelp I was athirst, 
 And gnaw'd the breast where kindly I was nurs'd.
 
 JO A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 But thirstier the blades that cut me red, 
 And sent me shaggy to the secret dead. 
 
 The Seven Princes 
 Swart as the heart of the South, 
 Proud as the rock-springing pine, 
 Sweet water cool'd never thy drouth, 
 Nor fruit of the vine ! 
 Last of old Cosimo's line, 
 Cut off quick in thy youth, 
 Thy blood was outpour'd like wine ; 
 They show'd thee no ruth, 
 
 Who in life had none for the old, nor the roses 
 of youth. 
 
 Then Clarice Orsini ; a grey-hair'' d woman bowed 
 
 beneath a golden yoke. 
 Clarice 
 
 I had small solace for my life of anguish, 
 Pluck'd out from Ro7ne and set in Florence to 
 languish :
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 3] 
 
 A pride that froze my tears ere they could shed, 
 And children — would they were as I am, dead! 
 
 And then Lorenzo as a king crowned with thorns 
 and holding a leaden sceptre. 
 
 Lorenzo 
 
 I am that Medici, swart, keen, and wanton, 
 That spent all Florence on the thin-lipt phantom 
 Of lust so dry it never could be fed : 
 At last, unshrived, still burning, I fell dead. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Woe ! Woe ! the staring hearth : woe ! the tired 
 
 city, 
 Weary of bloodshed, vacant-eyed for pity ! 
 Woe to brown Fisa ! Havoc on Volterra ! 
 Woe, all Woe upon us ! 
 
 The Reproaches. 
 Three grey women hold the gate. 
 With sudden firelit eyes, and hate
 
 32 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 Cradled in each beaten breast. 
 
 Stay ! Heed them ; one out-hates the rest. 
 
 Three Reproaches, like to bent women, appear stretch- 
 ing out arms towards the shade of Lorenzo. 
 
 The first Reproach 
 
 Pisa. 
 First woe was when the sword was set, 
 Sword and Fire to my own young brood. 
 Never a woe like the mother's cry 
 That watches in chains the ebb of her blood — 
 Woe to thee ! Pisa was I. 
 
 The second Reproach 
 
 The maids' doivry. 
 Next woe was the shaming of maids, 
 Stript to the smock and sold to sin. 
 Never such woe as to lay the lure, 
 Smirch and soil what once was clean — 
 Woe ! who shall ravish the poor.
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 33 
 
 The third Reproach 
 
 Tyranjiy. 
 
 Third woe was the land in chains, 
 Golden seeming and brave in silk. 
 Where is woe as for brother and brother 
 Bruise the bosom that gave them milk — 
 Woe ! who traffick'd his mother. 
 
 Ere the Chor^is can curse him, Poliziano comes behind 
 him with a muffled rote, and weeping. 
 
 Poliziano 
 
 Elegy. 
 Grant me, gods, a fount of tears, 
 
 So that night and day 
 
 Weeping I may drown old grief. 
 
 Mourning quench the years. 
 
 So the widow'd turtle may 
 
 Give her heart relief ; 
 
 So the fainting snowy swan, 
 
 So the nightingale, 
 
 All their sorrows, utter lonely passion, do bewail.
 
 34 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 Woe for us, and woe, and woe ! 
 
 Grief is bow'd and grey ; 
 
 yove hath carv'd our goodly Trei 
 
 With his thunderblow ! 
 
 Woe the Muses' broken lay, 
 
 Woe the melody ! 
 
 Woe, Apollo, woe God Pati, 
 
 Woe, ye Sisters Nine, 
 
 Woe, green-kirtled Dryads, woe, my Bacchus, to 
 
 thy vine ! 
 Mourning let me quench the years, 
 And my grief to drown, 
 Grant me, gods, a waterflood, 
 Grant a fount of tears. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 To Lorenzo. 
 
 One there was 
 
 Who, loving much, did weep for thee. So pass 
 
 Death may not smite
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 35 
 
 The lamp to shiver quite 
 
 That little flame within that was a Poet's light. 
 
 Next comes Cosimo, Pater Pat?'icB, an old ma?i 
 richly habited, having the ears of Midas. 
 
 COSIMO 
 
 Laboured I well, that bound the state to mine 
 In gyves that chafed, but held throughout the line ? 
 They crown 'd me with a name our foes might 
 
 dread, 
 But curs'd me for my sons when I was dead. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 The little Great. 
 Blind, blind, blind ! 
 As a bird in the snow. 
 Blind as the king that did cherish 
 The son that wrought him a woe.
 
 36 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 Savonarola^ carryi?ig a smouldering torch. 
 
 Savonarola 
 
 God set in me a heart to burn like pain, 
 
 And Florence fed the fire. In vain, in vain, 
 
 I augur'd life; the fire was heap'd; I led 
 
 The way for Florence : Fhrrence mock'd me dead. 
 
 Following is his enemy ^ Fra Francesco the Minorite^ 
 carrying a distorting glass. 
 
 Fra Francesco 
 
 For Francis'' sake I spurn'd him of Saint Mark : 
 
 Is that soul sure that dareth him embark 
 
 On death's dull sea that death may serve hatred ? 
 
 I know not what they won, nor care, being dead. 
 
 Next the Frate's Cha?npion, Fra £>o??ienico, coivled 
 
 in white, ivith an anchor. 
 Fra Domenico 
 
 I trusted in the prophet sent from God ; 
 Side to his side the way to death I trod.
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 37 
 
 The flame leapt heavenward — O true he said ! 
 Our spirits soar'd ; we left but ashes dead. 
 
 Sandro Botticelli, holding a hollow sphere. 
 Sandro 
 
 Latest of all, and loneliest, I endured 
 In heaviness of days with light obscured : 
 Green earth grown grey, sun cold, the comely head 
 Of my life's flower snapt short — Art with her, 
 dead ! 
 
 The Chorits breaks in upon him with this lament, what 
 time the rain descends and the wind blows shrill. 
 
 The dirge. 
 
 What shall it profit, O Man, 
 That the pitiful soil of thy years, 
 Sterile, acheth a span 
 Of waste furrow'd by tears ? 
 Waste sown with tears,
 
 38 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 Flowering pale for a span, 
 Wither'd anon like the years ; 
 What profit, O Man ? 
 
 Twenty thou groanest to learn. 
 Twenty thou thinkest to fly. 
 Twenty drag, and thy turn 
 Cometh to die. 
 
 What profit, O Man, 
 What the harvest of years, 
 Strown like corn to the fan, 
 Cut as with sickle the ears ? 
 
 Corn that is sown with tears, 
 Winnow'd as chaff by the fan ; 
 Gone the harvest of years : — 
 Death is profit, O Man ! 
 
 Of Loss. 
 
 And Profit.
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 39 
 
 When the Sun gleams again, you see Liica della Robbia, 
 clothed in apple-green, with a bunch of yellow and blue 
 flowers in his hand. 
 
 LUCA 
 
 Mine was a glad small spirit unafraid ; 
 
 I breathed it out, the stone walls flower'd, and 
 
 made 
 Florence a garden. So without a dread 
 I laid my tools aside and blossom'd, dead. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Praise of Luca. 
 
 Thou shalt be called the Son of Man 
 And Spirit of the Earth, 
 That met young Love and kiss'd her 
 And wreath'd her lips with mirth; 
 April with eyes aglister, 
 Green May her buxom sister, 
 Shy loves and tender fruitage 
 Were children of thy birth.
 
 40 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 Wherein, perhaps, the dirge is answer\i. 
 
 \Mth eyes seeking the Sun, 
 
 And heart loving the Day, 
 
 Knowing no evil to shun, 
 
 Guileless, walking the way, 
 
 Breathing the secret of children and flowers 
 
 Into thy clay ! 
 
 Man with the faith of a child, 
 
 Child with a strength superhuman ; 
 
 Lover, that told of the Virgin most mild. 
 
 Wedded to no man : 
 
 Holy art thou, that could call her arise 
 
 God, but a woman ! 
 
 Niccolo MacchiaveUi, bearifig a skull wreath' d ivith 
 floivers. 
 
 Macchiavel 
 
 That kings might feast I sweated God away ; 
 To insolent stripling feet I bow'd my grey
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 41 
 
 Wise brows. A smirk, a shrug, a wagging head — 
 I used this way : they use it on me dead. 
 
 Benvenuto Celli7ii, blindfold. 
 
 Benvenuto 
 
 The glory of their princedoms, and their power 
 Who go in purple, I knew my little hour. 
 What time my brain-trap gript them all, I led 
 Whither I would. What profiteth me dead ? 
 
 Luigi Fulci, gnawmg a stone, 
 
 PULCI 
 
 Let who wins laugh : I laugh'd at Heaven and 
 
 Earth. 
 Dante saw Grief 2iX\di lov'd her; I chose Mirth. 
 Mirth and I laugh'd till we were out of breath. 
 And left one laughing still — the jester. Death.
 
 42 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 
 Chorus 
 
 The hirden of Florence, 
 A boy singing 
 
 His love and pain ; 
 
 The watch-bell ringing, 
 
 Blood shed like rain ! 
 
 A dreamy maid, 
 
 And a voice like a cry — 
 
 " Betrayed, betrayed ! 
 
 How shall we die?" 
 
 Sigh^ wind, sigh. 
 
 The squire at hawking. 
 The grass in flower ; 
 Shame stalking 
 In the lady's bower. 
 " Love like a drought 
 Doth scorch and dry : 
 My heart is out. 
 Now let me die ! " 
 Sigh, wind, sigh.
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 43 
 
 All the burning 
 Of all the South, 
 Turn'd to mourning 
 Thy singing mouth. 
 The fire kindled, 
 Soar'd to the sky ; 
 The song dwindled, 
 The lute lay by. 
 Sigh^ wind, sigh. 
 
 " How shall I sing 
 With my lady cold ? 
 She died in the Spring; 
 I am grown old." 
 This is the load 
 Of the singer's cry — 
 "If 6^^^/ is God 
 He will let me die ! " 
 Sigh, wind, sigh.
 
 44 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 
 Then the CJioriis invokes the last Shade. 
 
 Chorus ^. . ^ , 
 
 Finis coronat ! 
 
 Now, last and greatest of these, 
 Buonarroti the Seer, 
 Wielder of dark mysteries, 
 Graver that knew no peer! 
 Poet, thinker in stone. 
 Painter, Maker of men, 
 Naked, silent, alone, 
 Gods walking again ! 
 Thee, last, who art first, 
 Thee, King, we invoke ; 
 Tell of Florence accurs'd, 
 Her dolorous stroke. 
 
 Michael Angelo comes crown'd ; his robe full of 
 weeping eyes, 
 
 Michael Angelo 
 
 The gaunt long life of unfulfill'd desire. 
 
 The hireling's ashes on the poet's fire !
 
 A MASQUE OF DEAD FLORENTINES 45 
 
 I praj-ed in stone. Their scorn was on their head : 
 In me they slew the last of their great dead. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Florence was. 
 Blind, Wind, blind ! 
 As the owl in the day : 
 Florence was, and is not ; 
 She passeth away 1
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 A Masque of Dead Florentines, / wherein some of 
 Death's Choicest Pieces, and / the Great Game that he 
 played therewith, / are fruitfully set forth. / [Motto : 
 " Fiorenza mia, ben puoi esser contenta."] / ^Publishers' 
 Device^ / By Maurice Hewlett / Pictured by J. D. Batten 
 / J. M. Dent & Co. / — London, / MDCCCXCV. 
 
 Oblong, 4to, cloth, gilt top. Pp. viii-i + 52. 
 
 To this first edition dedicated " To my proved com- 
 panion of Florentine days and other seasons of fair and 
 foul weather — this northern fruit to my wife,'''' Mr. Hew- 
 lett added the following prefatory note : 
 
 '■'■ Itwill sicfficiently be seen that this poem does not treat 
 of Florentine histo7y ; that it fiouts chronology. Nullum 
 tempus occurrit regi. Alay this maxim be ttuisted to 
 further the poet ? The painters adopted it when they 
 yoked Lucrece, Susanna, atid the daughters of Danaus to 
 Chastity's chariot; attd T>2in\.e fojind \J\yss&s in the same 
 pit with Guido da Montefeltro. Let this serve as my 
 excuse for setting Giotto after Boccace, and for worse dis- 
 courtesies to Time's travels^
 
 HERE ENDS A MASQUE OF DEAD 
 FLORENTINES BY MAURICE HEWLEIT 
 PRINTED FOR THOMAS B MOSHER 
 AND PUBLISHED BY HIM AT XLV EX- 
 CHANGE STREET PORTLAND MAINE 
 MDCCCCXI
 
 B 000 008 52