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These are good tidings; for I sometimes fear
Or from sunshine through a shower On the lagoons, or the broad Adriatic. Nature reveals herself in all our arts. The pavements and the palaces of cities Hint at the nature of the neighboring hills. Red lavas from the Euganean quarries Of Padua pave your streets; your palaces Are the white stones of Istria, and gleam Reflected in your waters and your pictures. And thus the works of every artist show Something of his surroundings and his hab
its. The uttermost that can be reached by color Is here accomplished. Warmth and light
And now, Maestro, pray unveil your picture Of Danaë, of which I hear such praise.
TITIAN, drawing back the curtain. What think you?
I am grateful For so much praise from you, who are a
master; While mostly those who praise and those who
blame Know nothing of the matter, so that mainly Their censure sounds like praise, their praise
That Acrisius did well To lock such beauty in a brazen tower, And hide it from all eyes.
The model truly
Once thought so beautiful, and I was proud
of Because he thought them so, are faded quite, – All beauty gone from them.
Serves me toc often as an unkind friend, And I remember things I would forget, While I forget the things I would remember.
Ah, no, not that. Paler you are, but not less beautiful.
Hand me the mirror. I would fain behold What change comes o'er our features when
we die. Thank you. And now
sit down beside me here. How glad I am that you have come to-day, Above all other days, and at the hour When most I need you
Forgive me; I will speak of him no more,
doctrine. Therefore be cautious. Keep your secret
thought Locked in your breast.
Macello de' Corvi. A room in MICHAEL ANGELO's house.
MICHAEL ANGELO, standing before a model of St. Peter's.
MICHAEL ANGELO. Better than thou I cannot, Brunelleschi, And less than thou I will not! If the thought Could, like a windlass, lift the ponderous
stones And swing them to their places; if a breath Could blow this rounded dome into the air, As if it were a bubble, and these statues Spring at a signal to their sacred stations, As sentinels mount guard upon a wall, Then were my task completed. Now, alas! Naught am I but a Saint Sebaldus, holding
Upon his hand the model of a church,
years, What weary years, must drag themselves
along, Ere this be turned to stone ! What hin
drances Must block the way; what idle interferences Of Cardinals and Canons of St. Peter's, Who nothing know of art beyond the color Of cloaks and stockings, nor of any building Save that of their own fortunes ! And what
then ? I must then the short-coming of my means Piece out by stepping forward, as the Spar
tan Was told to add a step to his short sword.