She thanks me for the crucifix I sent her, And says that she will keep it with one hand
Inflicts a wound, and with the other heals it. [Reading.
"Profoundly I believed that God would
A supernatural faith to paint this Christ; I wished for that which now I see fulfilled So marvellously, exceeding all my wishes. Nor more could be desired, or even so much. And greatly I rejoice that you have made The angel on the right so beautiful; For the Archangel Michael will place you, You, Michael Angelo, on that new day, Upon the Lord's right hand! And waiting that,
How can I better serve you than to pray To this sweet Christ for you, and to beseech
To hold me altogether yours in all things."
Well, I will write less often, or no more, But wait her coming. No one born in Rome
Of the great master of our Tuscan tongue, Whose words, like colored garnet-shirls in lava,
Betray the heat in which they were en- gendered.
A mendicant, he ate the bitter bread Of others, but repaid their meagre gifts With immortality. In courts of princes He was a by-word, and in streets of towns Was mocked by children, like the Hebrew prophet,
Himself a prophet. I too know the cry, Go up, thou bald head! from a generation That, wanting reverence, wanteth the best food There's not room
The soul can feed on.
For age and youth upon this little planet. Age must give way. There was not room enough
Even for this great poet. In his song I hear reverberate the gates of Florence, Closing upon him, never more to open; But mingled with the sound are melodies Celestial from the gates of paradise. The people
Can live elsewhere; but he must pine for He came and he is gone.
And must return to it. I, who am born And bred a Tuscan and a Florentine, Feel the attraction, and I linger here As if I were a pebble in the pavement Trodden by priestly feet. This I endure, Because I breathe in Rome an atmosphere Heavy with odors of the laurel leaves That crowned great heroes of the sword and pen,
In ages past. I feel myself exalted To walk the streets in which a Virgil walked,
Or Trajan rode in triumph; but far more, And most of all, because the great Colonna Breathes the same air I breathe, and is to
An inspiration. Now that she is gone, Rome is no longer Rome till she return. This feeling overmasters me. I know not If it be love, this strong desire to be Forever in her presence; but I know That I, who was the friend of solitude, And ever was best pleased when most alone, Now weary grow of my own company. For the first time old age seems lonely to
[Opening the Divina Commedia. I turn for consolation to the leaves
What manner of man was passing by their
Until he passed no more; but in his vision He saw the torments and beatitudes Of souls condemned or pardoned, and hath left
Behind him this sublime Apocalypse.
I strive in vain to draw here on the margin The face of Beatrice. It is not hers, But the Colonna's. Each hath his ideal, The image of some woman excellent, That is his guide. No Grecian art, nor Roman,
Hath yet revealed such loveliness as hers.
VITTORIA COLONNA at the convent window.
Parting with friends is temporary death, As all death is. We see no more their faces,
Nor hear their voices, save in memory.
But messages of love give us assurance That we are not forgotten. Who shall say That from the world of spirits comes no greeting,
No message of remembrance? It may be The thoughts that visit us, we know not whence,
Sudden as inspiration, are the whispers Of disembodied spirits, speaking to us As friends, who wait outside a prison wall, Through the barred windows speak to those [A pause. As quiet as the lake that lies beneath me, As quiet as the tranquil sky above me, As quiet as a heart that beats no more, This convent seems. Above, below, all peace!
Silence and solitude, the soul's best friends, Are with me here, and the tumultuous world
Makes no more noise than the remotest planet. [A pause. O gentle spirit, unto the third circle Of heaven among the blessed souls as- cended,
Who, living in the faith and dying for it, Have gone to their reward, I do not sigh For thee as being dead, but for myself That I am still alive. Turn those dear eyes, Once so benignant to me, upon mine, That open to their tears such uncontrolled And such continual issue. Still awhile Have patience; I will come to thee at last. A few more goings in and out these doors, A few more chimings of these convent bells,
A few more prayers, a few more sighs and tears,
And the long agony of this life will end, And I shall be with thee. If I am wanting To thy well-being, as thou art to mine, Have patience; I will come to thee at last. Ye winds that loiter in these cloister gardens,
Or wander far above the city walls, Bear unto him this message, that I ever Or speak or think of him, or weep for him.
By unseen hands uplifted in the light Of sunset, yonder solitary cloud Floats, with its white apparel blown abroad, And wafted up to heaven. It fades away, And melts into the air. Ah, would that I Could thus be wafted unto thee, Francesco, A cloud of white, an incorporeal spirit!
A splendid vision! Time rides with the old At a great pace. As travellers on swift steeds
See the near landscape fly and flow behind them,
While the remoter fields and dim horizons Go with them, and seem wheeling round to meet them,
So in old age things near us slip away, And distant things go with us. Pleasantly Come back to me the days when, as a youth,
I walked with Ghirlandajo in the gardens Of Medici, and saw the antique statues, The forms august of gods and godlike men, And the great world of art revealed itself To my young eyes. Then all that man
Are ready with your weapons, and have all A taste for homicide.
I learned that lesson Under Pope Clement at the siege of Rome, Some twenty years ago. As I was standing Upon the ramparts of the Campo Santo With Alessandro Bene, I beheld A sea of fog, that covered all the plain, And hid from us the foe; when suddenly, A misty figure, like an apparition, Rose up above the fog, as if on horseback. At this I aimed my arquebus, and fired. The figure vanished; and there rose a cry
Out of the darkness, long and fierce and
With imprecations in all languages. It was the Constable of France, the Bourbon, That I had slain.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Rome should be grateful to you.
But has not been; you shall hear pres- ently. During the siege I served as bombardier, There in St. Angelo. His Holiness One day was walking with his Cardinals On the round bastion, while I stood above Among my falconets. All thought and
All skill in art and all desire of fame, Were swallowed up in the delightful music Of that artillery. I saw far off, Within the enemy's trenches on the Prati, A Spanish cavalier in scarlet cloak ; And firing at him with due aim and range, I cut the gay Hidalgo in two pieces. The eyes are dry that wept for him in Spain.
His Holiness, delighted beyond measure With such display of gunnery, and amazed To see the man in scarlet cut in two, Gave me his benediction, and absolved me From all the homicides I had committed In service of the Apostolic Church, Or should commit thereafter. From that day
I have not held in very high esteem The life of man.
And who absolved Pope Clement? Made for his Holiness, my latest work, Now let us speak of Art.
And I am proud of it. A single diamond, Presented by the Emperor to the Pope. Targhetta of Venice set and tinted it;
Of what you will. I have reset it, and retinted it
Divinely, as you see. The jewellers Say I've surpassed Targhetta.
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