True, Maestro, You should
But that was not in Florence.
Such work to others. Sweeter memories Cluster about you, in the pleasant city Upon the Arno.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
In my waking dreams.
I see the marvellous dome of Brunelleschi, Ghiberti's gates of bronze, and Giotto's tower ; And Ghirlandajo's lovely Benci glides With folded hands amid my troubled thoughts, 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 hath
Seemed possible to me. Alas! how little Of all I dreamed of has my hand achieved!
Nay, let the Night and Morning, let Lorenzo And Julian in the Sacristy at Florence, Prophets and Sibyls in the Sistine Chapel, And the Last Judgment answer. Is it fin
The work is nearly done. But this Last Judgment
Has been the cause of more vexation to me Than it will be of honor. Ser Biagio, Master of ceremonies at the Papal court, A man punctilious and over nice,
Calls it improper; says that those nude forms, Showing their nakedness in such shameless fashion,
Are better suited to a common bagnio, Or wayside wine-shop, than a Papal Chapel. To punish him I painted him as Minos And leave him there as master of ceremo- nies
In the Infernal Regions. What would you Have done to such a man?
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 loud, With imprecations in all languages.
It was the Constable of France, the Bourbon, That I had slain.
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
To pass his days in stamping leaden seals On Papal bulls!
He has grown fat and lazy, As if the lead clung to him like a sinker. He paints no more, since he was sent to
By Cardinal Ippolito to paint
The fair Gonzaga. Ah, you should have
As I did, riding through the city gate,
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