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And is Fra Bastian dead? Is all that light Gone out, that sunshine darkened; all that music

And merriment, that used to make our lives Less melancholy, swallowed up in silence Like madrigals sung in the street at night. By passing revellers? It is strange indeed That he should die before me. 'Tis against The laws of nature that the young should die,

And the old live; unless it be that some Have long been dead who think themselves alive,

Because not buried. Well, what matters it, Since now that greater light, that was my

sun,

Is set, and all is darkness, all is darkness! Death's lightnings strike to right and left of

me,

And, like a ruined wall, the world around me Crumbles away, and I am left alone.

I have no friends, and want none. My own thoughts

Are now my sole companions, — thoughts of her,

That like a benediction from the skies
Come to me in my solitude and soothe me.
When men are old, the incessant thought of
Death

Follows them like their shadow; sits with them

At every meal; sleeps with them when they

sleep;

And when they wake already is awake,
And standing by their bedside. Then, what

folly

It is in us to make an enemy

Of this importunate follower, not a friend!
To me a friend, and not an enemy,
Has he become since all my friends are dead.

II.

VIGNA DI PAPA GIULIO.

POPE JULIUS III. seated by the Fountain of Acqua Vergine, surrounded by Cardinals.

JULIUS.

Tell me, why is it ye are discontent, You, Cardinals Salviati and Marcello,

With Michael Angelo? What has he done, Or left undone, that ye are set against

him?

When one Pope dies, another is soon made;
And I can make a dozen Cardinals,
But cannot make one Michael Angelo.

CARDINAL SALVIATI.

Your Holiness, we are not set against him;
We but deplore his incapacity.
He is too old.

JULIUS.

You, Cardinal Salviati, Are an old man. Are you incapable? "T is the old ox that draws the straightest fur

row.

CARDINAL MARCELLO.

Your Holiness remembers he was charged With the repairs upon St. Mary's bridge; Made cofferdams, and heaped up load on load

Of timber and travertine; and yet for years The bridge remained unfinished, till we gave it To Baccio Bigio.

JULIUS.

Always Baccio Bigio! Is there no other architect on earth? Was it not he that sometime had in charge The harbor of Ancona.

CARDINAL MARCELLO.

Ay, the same.

JULIUS.

Then let me tell you that your Baccio Bigio
Did greater damage in a single day
To that fair harbor than the sea had done
Or would do in ten years.
And im you

think

To put in place of Michael Angelo,
In building the Basilica of St. Peter!
The ass that thinks himself a stag discovers
His error when he comes to leap the ditch.

CARDINAL MARCELLO.

He does not build; he but demolishes The labors of Bramante and San Gallo.

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CARDINAL MARCELLO.

Excuse me; but in each of the Three Chapels Is but a single window.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

Monsignore,

Perhaps you do not know that in the vaulting Above there are to go three other windows.

CARDINAL SALVIATI.

How should we know? You never told us of it.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

If any one could die of grief and shame,
I should. This labor was imposed upon me;
I did not seek it; and if I assumed it,
'T was not for love of fame or love of
gain,

But for the love of God. Perhaps old age
Deceived me, or self-interest, or ambition;
I may be doing harm instead of good.
Therefore, I pray your Holiness, release me;
Take off from me the burden of this work;
Let me go back to Florence.

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Go; and my benediction be upon you. [Michael Angelo goes out. My Cardinals, this Michael Angelo Must not be dealt with as a common mason. He comes of noble blood, and for his crest Bear two bull's horns; and he has given us proof

That he can toss with them. From this day forth

Unto the end of time, let no man utter
The name of Baccio Bigio in my presence.
All great achievements are the natural fruits
Of a great character. As trees bear not
Their fruits of the same size and quality,

III.

BINDO ALTOVITI.

A street in Rome. BINDO ALTOVITI, standing at the door of his house. MICHAEL ANGELO, passing.

BINDO.

Good-morning, Messer Michael Angelo!

MICHAEL ANGELO.

Good-morning, Messer Bindo Altoviti!

BINDO.

What brings you forth so early?

MICHAEL ANGELO.

The same reason That keeps you standing sentinel at your door,

The air of this delicious summer morning. What news have you from Florence?

BINDO.

Nothing new; The same old tale of violence and wrong. Since the disastrous day at Monte Murlo, When in procession, through San Gallo's gate, Bareheaded, clothed in rags, on sorry steeds, Philippo Strozzi and the good Valori

Were led as prisoners down the streets of
Florence,

Amid the shouts of an ungrateful people,
Hope is no more, and liberty no more.
Duke Cosimo, the tyrant, reigns supreme.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

Florence is dead: her houses are but tombs ; Silence and solitude are in her streets.

BINDO.

Ah yes; and often I repeat the words
You wrote upon your statue of the Night,
There in the Sacristy of San Lorenzo:

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