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Was changed by Clement Seventh from a Republic

Into a Dukedom, I no longer wish

To be a Florentine. That dream is ended. The Grand Duke Cosimo now reigns supreme; All liberty is dead. Ah, woe is me!

I hoped to see my country rise to heights Of happiness and freedom yet unreached By other nations, but the climbing wave Pauses, lets go its hold, and slides again Back to the common level, with a hoarse Death-rattle in its throat. I am too old To hope for better days. I will stay here And die in Rome. The very weeds, that

grow

Among the broken fragments of her ruins,

MICHAEL ANGELO.

Is Aretino dead?

BENVENUTO.

He lives in Venice,

And not in Florence.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

'Tis the same to me. This wretched mountebank, whom flatterers Call the Divine, as if to make the word Unpleasant in the mouths of those who speak it

And in the ears of those who hear it, sends

me

A letter written for the public eye,
And with such subtle and infernal malice,
I wonder at his wickedness. 'Tis he

Is the express great devil, and not you.
Some years ago he told me how to paint
The scenes of the Last Judgment.

BENVENUTO.

I remember.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

Well, now he writes to me that, as a Christian, He is ashamed of the unbounded freedom With which I represent it.

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The boldness of my marvellous work unpunished;

And the more marvellous it is, the more 'Tis sure to prove the ruin of my fame! And finally, if in this composition

I had pursued the instructions that he gave

me

Concerning heaven and hell and paradise,
In that same letter, known to all the world,
Nature would not be forced, as she is now,
To feel ashamed that she invested me
With such great talent; that I stand myself
A very idol in the world of art.

He taunts me also with the Mausoleum
Of Julius, still unfinished, for the reason
That men persuaded the inane old man
It was of evil augury to build

His tomb while he was living; and he speaks
Of heaps of gold this Pope bequeathed to me,
And calls it robbery; that is what he says.
What prompted such a letter?

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BENVENUTO.

Vanity.

He is a clever writer, and he likes
To draw his pen, and flourish it in the face
Of every honest man, as swordsmen do
Their rapiers on occasion, but to show
How skilfully they do it. Had you followed
The advice he gave, or even thanked him
for it,

You would have seen another style of fence.
'Tis but his wounded vanity, and the wish
To see his name in print. So give it not
A moment's thought; it will soon be forgot-

ten.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

I will not think of it, but let it pass

For a rude speech thrown at me in the street,

As boys threw stones at Dante.

BENVENUTO.

And what answer Shall I take back to Grand Duke Cosimo? He does not ask your labor or your service ; Only your presence in the city of Florence, With such advice upon his work in hand As he may ask, and you may choose to give.

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Many statues Will there be room for in my work. Their station

Already is assigned them in my mind.
But things move slowly. There are hin-
drances,

Want of material, want of means, delays
And interruptions, endless interference
Of Cardinal Commissioners, and disputes
And jealousies of artists, that annoy me.
But I will persevere until the work
Is wholly finished, or till I sink down
Surprised by death, that unexpected guest,
Who waits for no man's leisure, but steps in,
Unasked and unannounced, to put a stop
To all our occupations and designs.
And then perhaps I may go back to Flor-

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MICHAEL ANGELO.

Truly, as you say, Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater To raise the dead to life than to create Phantoms that seem to live. The most ma

jestic

Of the three sister arts is that which builds; The eldest of them all, to whom the others Are but the hand-maids and the servitors,

Eccellenza,

That is impossible. Do I not see you
Attack the marble blocks with the same fury
As twenty years ago?

MICHAEL ANGELO.

'T is an old habit.

I must have learned it early from my nurse At Setignano, the stone-mason's wife;

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With it he sent me something of his making,

A Mercury, with long body and short legs,
As if by any possibility

A messenger of the gods could have short legs.
It was no more like Mercury than you are,
But rather like those little plaster figures
That peddlers hawk about the villages
As images of saints. But luckily
For Topolino, there are many people
Who see no difference between what is best
And what is only good, or not even good;
So that poor artists stand in their esteem
On the same level with the best, or higher.

URBINO.

How Eccellenza laughed!

Never!

Bitter is servitude at best. Already
So many years hast thou been serving me;
But rather as a friend than as a servant.
We have grown old together. Dost thou

think

So meanly of this Michael Angelo

As to imagine he would let thee serve,

When he is free from service? Take this

purse,

Two thousand crowns in gold.

URBINO.

Two thousand crowns!

MICHAEL ANGELO.

Ay, it will make thee rich. Thou shalt not die

A beggar in a hospital.

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VII.

THE OAKS OF MONTE LUCA.

MICHAEL ANGELO, alone in the woods.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

How still it is among these ancient oaks!
Surges and undulations of the air
Uplift the leafy boughs, and let them fall
With scarce a sound. Such sylvan quietudes
Become old age. These huge centennial oaks,
That may have heard in infancy the trum-

pets

Of Barbarossa's cavalry, deride
Man's brief existence, that with all his strength
He cannot stretch beyond the hundredth year.
This little acorn, turbaned like the Turk,

Which with my foot I spurn, may be an oak
Hereafter, feeding with its bitter mast
The fierce wild boar, and tossing in its arms
The cradled nests of birds, when all the men
That now inhabit this vast universe,
They and their children, and their children's
children,

Shall be but dust and mould, and nothing

more.

Through openings in the trees I see below

me

The valley of Clitumnus, with its farms
And snow-white oxen grazing in the shade
Of the tall poplars on the river's brink.
O Nature, gentle mother, tender nurse!
I, who have never loved thee as I ought,
But wasted all my years immured in cities,
And breathed the stifling atmosphere of
streets,

Now come to thee for refuge. Here is peace.
Yonder I see the little hermitages
Dotting the mountain side with points of
light,

And here St. Julian's convent, like a nest
Of curlews, clinging to some windy cliff.
Beyond the broad, illimitable plain
Down sinks the sun, red as Apollo's quoit,
That, by the envious Zephyr blown aside,

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