MICHAEL ANGELO. FLED to Viterbo, the old Papal city Where once an Emperor, humbled in his pride, Held the Pope's stirrup, as his Holiness Alighted from his mule! A fugitive From Cardinal Caraffa's hate, who hurls His thunder's at the house of the Colonna, With endless bitterness ! — Among the nuns In Santa Catarina's convent hidden, Herself in soul a nun! And now she chides

" Profoundly I believed that God would grant

you 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

you To hold me altogether yours in all things.”

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.
He came and he is gone. The people knew

not What manner of man was passing by their

doors, 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 Ro-

man,
Hath yet revealed such loveliness as hers.

II.

Well, I will write less often, or no more,
But wait her coming. No one born in Rome
Can live elsewhere ; but he must pine for

Rome,
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 me 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 me.

[Opening the Divina Commedia. I turn for consolation to the leaves Of the great master of our Tuscan tongue, Whose words, like colored garnet-shirls in

lava, Betray the heat in which they were engen

dered. 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 The soul can feed on. There's not

enough 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

VITERBO.

VITTORIA COLONNA at the convent window.

VITTORIA.

no

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

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 within.

[A pause.

room

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!

III.

Are with me here, and the tumultuous world
Makes no more noise than the remotest planet.
O gentle spirit, unto the third circle
Of heaven among the blessed souls ascended,
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 minds 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.

MICHAEL ANGELO AND BENVENUTO CEL

LINI.

MICHAEL ANGELO, BENVENUTO CELLINI in gay attire.

BENVENUTO.

A good day and good year to the divine Maestro Michael Angelo, the sculptor !

MICHAEL ANGELO. Welcome, my Benvenuto.

BENVENUTO.

That is what