Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!Sit and watch by her side an hour.That is her book-shelf, this her bed;She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,Beginning to die too, in the glass;5Little has yet been changed, I think;The shutters are shut, no light may passSave two long rays through the hinge's chink.Sixteen years old when she died!Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name;10It was not her time to love; beside,Her life had many a hope and aim,Duties enough and little cares,And now was quiet, now astir,Till God's hand beckoned unawares—15And the sweet white brow is all of her.Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope?What, your soul was pure and true,The good stars met in your horoscope,Made you of spirit, fire, and dew—20And just because I was thrice as oldAnd our paths in the world diverged so wide,Each was naught to each, must I be told?We were fellow mortals, naught beside?No, indeed! for God above25Is great to grant, as mighty to make,And creates the love to reward the love;I claim you still, for my own love's sake!Delayed it may be for more lives yet,Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few;30Much is to learn, much to forgetEre the time be come for taking you.
Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!Sit and watch by her side an hour.That is her book-shelf, this her bed;She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,Beginning to die too, in the glass;5Little has yet been changed, I think;The shutters are shut, no light may passSave two long rays through the hinge's chink.
Sixteen years old when she died!Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name;10It was not her time to love; beside,Her life had many a hope and aim,Duties enough and little cares,And now was quiet, now astir,Till God's hand beckoned unawares—15And the sweet white brow is all of her.
Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope?What, your soul was pure and true,The good stars met in your horoscope,Made you of spirit, fire, and dew—20And just because I was thrice as oldAnd our paths in the world diverged so wide,Each was naught to each, must I be told?We were fellow mortals, naught beside?
No, indeed! for God above25Is great to grant, as mighty to make,And creates the love to reward the love;I claim you still, for my own love's sake!Delayed it may be for more lives yet,Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few;30Much is to learn, much to forgetEre the time be come for taking you.
But the time will come—at last it will,When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say)In the lower earth, in the years long still,35That body and soul so pure and gay?Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,And your mouth of your own geranium's red—And what you would do with me, in fine,In the new life come in the old one's stead.40I have lived (I shall say) so much since then,Given up myself so many times,Gained me the gains of various men,Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,45Either I missed or itself missed me;And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!What is the issue? let us see!I loved you, Evelyn, all the while!My heart seemed full as it could hold;50There was place and to spare for the frank young smile,And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.So, hush—I will give you this leaf to keep;See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand!There, that is our secret; go to sleep!55You will wake, and remember, and understand.
But the time will come—at last it will,When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say)In the lower earth, in the years long still,35That body and soul so pure and gay?Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,And your mouth of your own geranium's red—And what you would do with me, in fine,In the new life come in the old one's stead.40
I have lived (I shall say) so much since then,Given up myself so many times,Gained me the gains of various men,Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,45Either I missed or itself missed me;And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!What is the issue? let us see!
I loved you, Evelyn, all the while!My heart seemed full as it could hold;50There was place and to spare for the frank young smile,And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.So, hush—I will give you this leaf to keep;See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand!There, that is our secret; go to sleep!55You will wake, and remember, and understand.
Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles,Miles and milesOn the solitary pastures where our sheepHalf-asleepTinkle homeward through the twilight, stray or stop5As they crop—Was the site once of a city great and gay(So they say)Of our country's very capital, its princeAges since10Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding farPeace or war.Now—the country does not even boast a tree,As you see,To distinguish slopes of verdure; certain rills15From the hillsIntersect and give a name to (else they runInto one)Where the domed and daring palace shot its spiresUp like fires20O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wallBounding all,Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed,Twelve abreast.And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass25Never was!Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreadsAnd embedsEvery vestige of the city, guessed alone,Stock or stone—30Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woeLong ago;Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shameStruck them tame;And that glory and that shame alike, the gold35Bought and sold.Now—the single little turret that remainsOn the plains,By the caper overrooted, by the gourdOverscored,40While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winksThrough the chinks—Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient timeSprang sublime,And a burning ring, all around, the chariots traced45As they raced,And the monarch and his minions and his damesViewed the games.And I know, while thus the quiet-colored eveSmiles to leave50To their folding all our many-tinkling fleeceIn such peace,And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grayMelt away—That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair55Waits me thereIn the turret whence the charioteers caught soulFor the goal,When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumbTill I come.60But he looked upon the city, every side,Far and wide,All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'Colonnades,All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts—and then,65All the men!When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,Either handOn my shoulder, give her eyes the first embraceOf my face,70Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speechEach on each.In one year they sent a million fighters forthSouth and North,And they built their gods a brazen pillar high75As the sky,Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force—Gold, of course.O heart! O blood that freezes, blood that burns!Earth's returns80For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!Shut them in,With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!Love is best.
Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles,Miles and milesOn the solitary pastures where our sheepHalf-asleepTinkle homeward through the twilight, stray or stop5As they crop—Was the site once of a city great and gay(So they say)Of our country's very capital, its princeAges since10Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding farPeace or war.
Now—the country does not even boast a tree,As you see,To distinguish slopes of verdure; certain rills15From the hillsIntersect and give a name to (else they runInto one)Where the domed and daring palace shot its spiresUp like fires20O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wallBounding all,Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed,Twelve abreast.
And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass25Never was!Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreadsAnd embedsEvery vestige of the city, guessed alone,Stock or stone—30Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woeLong ago;Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shameStruck them tame;And that glory and that shame alike, the gold35Bought and sold.
Now—the single little turret that remainsOn the plains,By the caper overrooted, by the gourdOverscored,40While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winksThrough the chinks—Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient timeSprang sublime,And a burning ring, all around, the chariots traced45As they raced,And the monarch and his minions and his damesViewed the games.
And I know, while thus the quiet-colored eveSmiles to leave50To their folding all our many-tinkling fleeceIn such peace,And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grayMelt away—That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair55Waits me thereIn the turret whence the charioteers caught soulFor the goal,When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumbTill I come.60
But he looked upon the city, every side,Far and wide,All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'Colonnades,All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts—and then,65All the men!When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,Either handOn my shoulder, give her eyes the first embraceOf my face,70Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speechEach on each.
In one year they sent a million fighters forthSouth and North,And they built their gods a brazen pillar high75As the sky,Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force—Gold, of course.O heart! O blood that freezes, blood that burns!Earth's returns80For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!Shut them in,With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!Love is best.
Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare,The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square;Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there!Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least!There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast;5While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast.Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bullJust on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature's skull,Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull!—I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned wool.10But the city, oh, the city—the square with the houses! Why?They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to take the eye!Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry;You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by;Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high;15And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly.What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights,'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights:You've the brown plowed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze,And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive-trees.20Is it better in May, I ask you? You've summer all at once;In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns.'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well,The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bellLike a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell.25Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and splash!In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam-bows flashOn the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pashRound the lady atop in her conch—fifty gazers do not abash,Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash.30All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger,Except yon cypress that points like death's lean lifted forefinger.Some think fireflies pretty when they mix i' the corn and mingle,Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle.Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill,35And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill.Enough of the seasons—I spare you the months of the fever and chill.Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin;No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in;You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin.40By and by there's the traveling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth;Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath.At the post office such a scene-picture—the new play, piping hot!And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot.Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes,45And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's!Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so,Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome, and Cicero;"And, moreover" (the sonnet goes rhyming), "the skirts of Saint Paul has reached,Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached."50Noon strikes—here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and smartWith a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart!Bang-whang-whanggoes the drum,tootle-te-tootlethe fife;No keeping one's haunches still; it's the greatest pleasure in life.But bless you, it's dear—it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate.55They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gateIt's a horror to think of. And so the villa for me, not the city!Beggars can scarcely be choosers; but still—ah, the pity, the pity!Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals,And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow candles;60One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles,And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals;Bang-whang-whanggoes the drum,tootle-te-tootlethe fife.Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!
Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare,The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square;Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there!
Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least!There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast;5While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast.
Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bullJust on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature's skull,Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull!—I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned wool.10
But the city, oh, the city—the square with the houses! Why?They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to take the eye!Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry;You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by;Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high;15And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly.
What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights,'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights:You've the brown plowed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze,And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive-trees.20
Is it better in May, I ask you? You've summer all at once;In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns.'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well,The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bellLike a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell.25
Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and splash!In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam-bows flashOn the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pashRound the lady atop in her conch—fifty gazers do not abash,Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash.30
All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger,Except yon cypress that points like death's lean lifted forefinger.Some think fireflies pretty when they mix i' the corn and mingle,Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle.Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill,35And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill.Enough of the seasons—I spare you the months of the fever and chill.
Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin;No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in;You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin.40By and by there's the traveling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth;Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath.At the post office such a scene-picture—the new play, piping hot!And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot.Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes,45And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's!Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so,Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome, and Cicero;"And, moreover" (the sonnet goes rhyming), "the skirts of Saint Paul has reached,Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached."50Noon strikes—here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and smartWith a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart!Bang-whang-whanggoes the drum,tootle-te-tootlethe fife;No keeping one's haunches still; it's the greatest pleasure in life.
But bless you, it's dear—it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate.55They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gateIt's a horror to think of. And so the villa for me, not the city!Beggars can scarcely be choosers; but still—ah, the pity, the pity!Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals,And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow candles;60One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles,And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals;Bang-whang-whanggoes the drum,tootle-te-tootlethe fife.Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!
O Galuppi, Baldassare, this is very sad to find!I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind;But although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mind!Here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it brings.What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were the kings,5Where Saint Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings?Aye, because the sea's the street there; and 'tis arched by ... what you callShylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival;I was never out of England—it's as if I saw it all.Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May?10Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day,When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say?Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red—On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed,O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his head?15Well, and it was graceful of them—they'd break talk off and afford—She, to bite her mask's black velvet—he, to finger on his sword,While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord?What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh,Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions—"Must we die?"20Those commiserating sevenths—"Life might last! we can but try!""Were you happy?"—"Yes."—"And are you still as happy?"—"Yes. And you?"—"Then, more kisses!"—"DidIstop them, when a million seemed so few?"Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to!So an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say!25"Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay!I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play!"
O Galuppi, Baldassare, this is very sad to find!I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind;But although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mind!
Here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it brings.What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were the kings,5Where Saint Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings?
Aye, because the sea's the street there; and 'tis arched by ... what you callShylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival;I was never out of England—it's as if I saw it all.
Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May?10Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day,When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say?
Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red—On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed,O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his head?15
Well, and it was graceful of them—they'd break talk off and afford—She, to bite her mask's black velvet—he, to finger on his sword,While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord?
What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh,Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions—"Must we die?"20Those commiserating sevenths—"Life might last! we can but try!"
"Were you happy?"—"Yes."—"And are you still as happy?"—"Yes. And you?"—"Then, more kisses!"—"DidIstop them, when a million seemed so few?"Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to!
So an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say!25"Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay!I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play!"
Then they left you for their pleasure; till in due time, one by one,Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone,Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the sun.30But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve,While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close reserve,In you come with your cold music till I creep through every nerve.Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned:"Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned.35The soul, doubtless, is immortal—where a soul can be discerned."Yours for instance; you know physics, something of geology,Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree;Butterflies may dread extinction—you'll not die, it cannot be!"As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop,40Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop;What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?"Dust and ashes!" So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold.Dear dead women, with such hair, too—what's become of all the goldUsed to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.45
Then they left you for their pleasure; till in due time, one by one,Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone,Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the sun.30
But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve,While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close reserve,In you come with your cold music till I creep through every nerve.
Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned:"Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned.35The soul, doubtless, is immortal—where a soul can be discerned.
"Yours for instance; you know physics, something of geology,Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree;Butterflies may dread extinction—you'll not die, it cannot be!
"As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop,40Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop;What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
"Dust and ashes!" So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold.Dear dead women, with such hair, too—what's become of all the goldUsed to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.45
The morn when first it thunders in March,The eel in the pond gives a leap, they say;As I leaned and looked over the aloed archOf the villa-gate this warm March day,No flash snapped, no dumb thunder rolled5In the valley beneath where, white and wideAnd washed by the morning water-gold,Florence lay out on the mountain-side.River and bridge and street and squareLay mine, as much at my beck and call,10Through the live translucent bath of air,As the sights in a magic crystal ball.And of all I saw and of all I praised,The most to praise and the best to seeWas the startling bell-tower Giotto raised;15But why did it more than startle me?
The morn when first it thunders in March,The eel in the pond gives a leap, they say;As I leaned and looked over the aloed archOf the villa-gate this warm March day,No flash snapped, no dumb thunder rolled5In the valley beneath where, white and wideAnd washed by the morning water-gold,Florence lay out on the mountain-side.
River and bridge and street and squareLay mine, as much at my beck and call,10Through the live translucent bath of air,As the sights in a magic crystal ball.And of all I saw and of all I praised,The most to praise and the best to seeWas the startling bell-tower Giotto raised;15But why did it more than startle me?
Giotto, how, with that soul of yours,Could you play me false who loved you so?Some slights if a certain heart enduresYet it feels, I would have your fellows know!20I' faith, I perceive not why I should careTo break a silence that suits them best,But the thing grows somewhat hard to bearWhen I find a Giotto join the rest.On the arch where olives overhead25Print the blue sky with twig and leaf(That sharp-curled leaf which they never shed)'Twixt the aloes, I used to lean in chief,And mark through the winter afternoons,By a gift God grants me now and then,30In the mild decline of those suns like moons,Who walked in Florence, besides her men.They might chirp and chaffer, come and goFor pleasure or profit, her men alive—My business was hardly with them, I trow,35But with empty cells of the human hive—With the chapter-room, the cloister-porch,The church's apsis, aisle, or nave,Its crypt, one fingers along with a torch,Its face set full for the sun to shave.40Wherever a fresco peels and drops,Wherever an outline weakens and wanesTill the latest life in the painting stops,Stands One whom each fainter pulse-tick pains;One, wishful each scrap should clutch the brick,45Each tinge not wholly escape the plaster,—A lion who dies of an ass's kick,The wronged great soul of an ancient Master.For oh, this world and the wrong it does!They are safe in heaven with their backs to it,50The Michaels and Rafaels, you hum and buzzRound the works of, you of the little wit!Do their eyes contract to the earth's old scope,Now that they see God face to face,And have all attained to be poets, I hope?55'Tis their holiday now, in any case.Much they reck of your praise and you!But the wronged great souls—can they be quitOf a world where their work is all to do,Where you style them, you of the little wit,60Old Master This and Early the Other,Not dreaming that Old and New are fellows:A younger succeeds to an elder brother,Da Vincis derive in good time from Dellos.And here where your praise might yield returns,65And a handsome word or two give help,Here, after your kind, the mastiff girnsAnd the puppy pack of poodles yelp.What, not a word for Stefano there,Of brow once prominent and starry,70Called Nature's Ape and the world's despairFor his peerless painting? (See Vasari.)
Giotto, how, with that soul of yours,Could you play me false who loved you so?Some slights if a certain heart enduresYet it feels, I would have your fellows know!20I' faith, I perceive not why I should careTo break a silence that suits them best,But the thing grows somewhat hard to bearWhen I find a Giotto join the rest.
On the arch where olives overhead25Print the blue sky with twig and leaf(That sharp-curled leaf which they never shed)'Twixt the aloes, I used to lean in chief,And mark through the winter afternoons,By a gift God grants me now and then,30In the mild decline of those suns like moons,Who walked in Florence, besides her men.
They might chirp and chaffer, come and goFor pleasure or profit, her men alive—My business was hardly with them, I trow,35But with empty cells of the human hive—With the chapter-room, the cloister-porch,The church's apsis, aisle, or nave,Its crypt, one fingers along with a torch,Its face set full for the sun to shave.40
Wherever a fresco peels and drops,Wherever an outline weakens and wanesTill the latest life in the painting stops,Stands One whom each fainter pulse-tick pains;One, wishful each scrap should clutch the brick,45Each tinge not wholly escape the plaster,—A lion who dies of an ass's kick,The wronged great soul of an ancient Master.
For oh, this world and the wrong it does!They are safe in heaven with their backs to it,50The Michaels and Rafaels, you hum and buzzRound the works of, you of the little wit!Do their eyes contract to the earth's old scope,Now that they see God face to face,And have all attained to be poets, I hope?55'Tis their holiday now, in any case.
Much they reck of your praise and you!But the wronged great souls—can they be quitOf a world where their work is all to do,Where you style them, you of the little wit,60Old Master This and Early the Other,Not dreaming that Old and New are fellows:A younger succeeds to an elder brother,Da Vincis derive in good time from Dellos.
And here where your praise might yield returns,65And a handsome word or two give help,Here, after your kind, the mastiff girnsAnd the puppy pack of poodles yelp.What, not a word for Stefano there,Of brow once prominent and starry,70Called Nature's Ape and the world's despairFor his peerless painting? (See Vasari.)
There stands the Master. Study, my friends,What a man's work comes to! So he plans it,Performs it, perfects it, makes amends75For the toiling and moiling, and then,sic transit!Happier the thrifty blind-folk labor,With upturned eye while the hand is busy,Not sidling a glance at the coin of their neighbor!'Tis looking downward that makes one dizzy.80"If you knew their work you would deal your dole."May I take upon me to instruct you?When Greek Art ran and reached the goal,Thus much had the world to boastin fructu—The Truth of Man, as by God first spoken,85Which the actual generations garble,Was re-uttered, and Soul (which Limbs betoken)And Limbs (Soul informs) made new in marble.So you saw yourself as you wished you were,As you might have been, as you cannot be;90Earth here, rebuked by Olympus there:And grew content in your poor degreeWith your little power, by those statues' godhead,And your little scope, by their eyes' full sway,And your little grace, by their grace embodied,95And your little date, by their forms that stay.You would fain be kinglier, say, than I am?Even so, you will not sit like Theseus.You would prove a model? The Son of PriamHas yet the advantage in arms' and knees' use.100You're wroth—can you slay your snake like Apollo?You're grieved—still Niobe's the grander!You live—there's the Racers' frieze to follow:You die—there's the dying Alexander.So, testing your weakness by their strength,105Your meager charms by their rounded beauty,Measured by Art in your breadth and length,You learned—to submit is a mortal's duty.—When I say "you" 'tis the common soul,The collective, I mean—the race of Man110That receives life in parts to live in a whole,And grow here according to God's clear plan.Growth came when, looking your last on them all,You turned your eyes inwardly one fine dayAnd cried with a start—What if we so small115Be greater and grander the while than they?Are they perfect of lineament, perfect of stature?In both, of such lower types are wePrecisely because of our wider nature;For time, theirs—ours, for eternity.120Today's brief passion limits their range;It seethes with the morrow for us and more.They are perfect—how else? they shall never change;We are faulty—why not? we have time in store.The Artificer's hand is not arrested125With us; we are rough-hewn, nowise polished;They stand for our copy, and, once investedWith all they can teach, we shall see them abolished.
There stands the Master. Study, my friends,What a man's work comes to! So he plans it,Performs it, perfects it, makes amends75For the toiling and moiling, and then,sic transit!Happier the thrifty blind-folk labor,With upturned eye while the hand is busy,Not sidling a glance at the coin of their neighbor!'Tis looking downward that makes one dizzy.80
"If you knew their work you would deal your dole."May I take upon me to instruct you?When Greek Art ran and reached the goal,Thus much had the world to boastin fructu—The Truth of Man, as by God first spoken,85Which the actual generations garble,Was re-uttered, and Soul (which Limbs betoken)And Limbs (Soul informs) made new in marble.
So you saw yourself as you wished you were,As you might have been, as you cannot be;90Earth here, rebuked by Olympus there:And grew content in your poor degreeWith your little power, by those statues' godhead,And your little scope, by their eyes' full sway,And your little grace, by their grace embodied,95And your little date, by their forms that stay.
You would fain be kinglier, say, than I am?Even so, you will not sit like Theseus.You would prove a model? The Son of PriamHas yet the advantage in arms' and knees' use.100You're wroth—can you slay your snake like Apollo?You're grieved—still Niobe's the grander!You live—there's the Racers' frieze to follow:You die—there's the dying Alexander.
So, testing your weakness by their strength,105Your meager charms by their rounded beauty,Measured by Art in your breadth and length,You learned—to submit is a mortal's duty.—When I say "you" 'tis the common soul,The collective, I mean—the race of Man110That receives life in parts to live in a whole,And grow here according to God's clear plan.
Growth came when, looking your last on them all,You turned your eyes inwardly one fine dayAnd cried with a start—What if we so small115Be greater and grander the while than they?Are they perfect of lineament, perfect of stature?In both, of such lower types are wePrecisely because of our wider nature;For time, theirs—ours, for eternity.120
Today's brief passion limits their range;It seethes with the morrow for us and more.They are perfect—how else? they shall never change;We are faulty—why not? we have time in store.The Artificer's hand is not arrested125With us; we are rough-hewn, nowise polished;They stand for our copy, and, once investedWith all they can teach, we shall see them abolished.
'Tis a life-long toil till our lump be leaven—The better! What's come to perfection perishes.130Things learned on earth we shall practice in heaven:Works done least rapidly, Art most cherishes.Thyself shalt afford the example, Giotto!Thy one work, not to decrease or diminish,Done at a stroke, was just (was it not?) "O!"135Thy great Campanile is still to finish.Is it true that we are now, and shall be hereafter,But what and where depend on life's minute?Hails heavenly cheer or infernal laughterOur first step out of the gulf or in it?140Shall Man, such step within his endeavor,Man's face, have no more play and actionThan joy which is crystallized forever,Or grief, an eternal petrifaction?On which I conclude, that the early painters,145To cries of "Greek Art and what more wish you?"—Replied, "To become now self-acquainters,And paint man, man, whatever the issue!Make new hopes shine through the flesh they fray,New fears aggrandize the rags and tatters:150To bring the invisible full into play!Let the visible go to the dogs—what matters?"Give these, I exhort you, their guerdon and gloryFor daring so much, before they well did it.The first of the new, in our race's story,155Beats the last of the old; 'tis no idle quiddit.The worthies began a revolution,Which if on earth you intend to acknowledge,Why, honor them now! (ends my allocution)Nor confer your degree when the folk leave college.160There's a fancy some lean to and others hate—That, when this life is ended, beginsNew work for the soul in another state,Where it strives and gets weary, loses and wins:Where the strong and the weak, this world's congeries,165Repeat in large what they practiced in small,Through life after life in unlimited series;Only the scale's to be changed, that's all.Yet I hardly know. When a soul has seenBy the means of Evil that Good is best,170And, through earth and its noise, what is heaven's serene—When our faith in the same has stood the test—Why, the child grown man, you burn the rod,The uses of labor are surely done;There remaineth a rest for the people of God;175And I have had troubles enough, for one.But at any rate I have loved the seasonOf Art's spring-birth so dim and dewy;My sculptor is Nicolo the Pisan,My painter—who but Cimabue?180Nor ever was a man of them all indeed,From these to Ghiberti and Ghirlandajo,Could say that he missed my critic-meed.So, now to my special grievance—heigh-ho!Their ghosts still stand, as I said before,185Watching each fresco flaked and rasped,Blocked up, knocked out, or whitewashed o'er:—No getting again what the church has grasped!The works on the wall must take their chance;"Works never conceded to England's thick clime!"190(I hope they prefer their inheritanceOf a bucketful of Italian quicklime.)When they go at length, with such a shakingOf heads o'er the old delusion, sadlyEach master his way through the black streets taking,195Where many a lost work breathes though badly—Why don't they bethink them of who has merited?Why not reveal while their pictures dreeSuch doom, how a captive might be out-ferreted?Why is it they never remember me?200Not that I expect the great Bigordi,Nor Sandro to hear me, chivalric, bellicose;Nor the wronged Lippino; and not a word ISay of a scrap of Frà Angelico's;But are you too fine, Taddeo Gaddi,205To grant me a taste of your intonaco,Some Jerome that seeks the heaven with a sad eye?Not a churlish saint, Lorenzo Monaco?Could not the ghost with the close red cap,My Pollajolo, the twice a craftsman,210Save me a sample, give me the hapOf a muscular Christ that shows the draftsman?No Virgin by him the somewhat petty,Of finical touch and tempera crumbly—Could not Alesso Baldovinetti215Contribute so much, I ask him humbly?Margheritone of Arezzo,With the grave-clothes garb and swaddling barret(Why purse up mouth and beak in a pet so,You bald old saturnine poll-clawed parrot?)220Not a poor glimmering Crucifixion,Where in the foreground kneels the donor?If such remain, as is my conviction,The hoarding it does you but little honor.They pass; for them the panels may thrill,225The tempera grow alive and tinglish;Their pictures are left to the mercies stillOf dealers and stealers, Jews and the English,Who, seeing mere money's worth in their prize,Will sell it to somebody calm as Zeno230At naked High Art, and in ecstasiesBefore some clay-cold vile Carlino!No matter for these! But Giotto, you,Have you allowed, as the town-tongues babble it—Oh, never! it shall not be counted true—235That a certain precious little tabletWhich Buonarroti eyed like a lover—Was buried so long in oblivion's wombAnd, left for another than I to discover,Turns up at last! and to whom?—to whom?240
'Tis a life-long toil till our lump be leaven—The better! What's come to perfection perishes.130Things learned on earth we shall practice in heaven:Works done least rapidly, Art most cherishes.Thyself shalt afford the example, Giotto!Thy one work, not to decrease or diminish,Done at a stroke, was just (was it not?) "O!"135Thy great Campanile is still to finish.
Is it true that we are now, and shall be hereafter,But what and where depend on life's minute?Hails heavenly cheer or infernal laughterOur first step out of the gulf or in it?140Shall Man, such step within his endeavor,Man's face, have no more play and actionThan joy which is crystallized forever,Or grief, an eternal petrifaction?
On which I conclude, that the early painters,145To cries of "Greek Art and what more wish you?"—Replied, "To become now self-acquainters,And paint man, man, whatever the issue!Make new hopes shine through the flesh they fray,New fears aggrandize the rags and tatters:150To bring the invisible full into play!Let the visible go to the dogs—what matters?"
Give these, I exhort you, their guerdon and gloryFor daring so much, before they well did it.The first of the new, in our race's story,155Beats the last of the old; 'tis no idle quiddit.The worthies began a revolution,Which if on earth you intend to acknowledge,Why, honor them now! (ends my allocution)Nor confer your degree when the folk leave college.160
There's a fancy some lean to and others hate—That, when this life is ended, beginsNew work for the soul in another state,Where it strives and gets weary, loses and wins:Where the strong and the weak, this world's congeries,165Repeat in large what they practiced in small,Through life after life in unlimited series;Only the scale's to be changed, that's all.
Yet I hardly know. When a soul has seenBy the means of Evil that Good is best,170And, through earth and its noise, what is heaven's serene—When our faith in the same has stood the test—Why, the child grown man, you burn the rod,The uses of labor are surely done;There remaineth a rest for the people of God;175And I have had troubles enough, for one.
But at any rate I have loved the seasonOf Art's spring-birth so dim and dewy;My sculptor is Nicolo the Pisan,My painter—who but Cimabue?180Nor ever was a man of them all indeed,From these to Ghiberti and Ghirlandajo,Could say that he missed my critic-meed.So, now to my special grievance—heigh-ho!
Their ghosts still stand, as I said before,185Watching each fresco flaked and rasped,Blocked up, knocked out, or whitewashed o'er:—No getting again what the church has grasped!The works on the wall must take their chance;"Works never conceded to England's thick clime!"190(I hope they prefer their inheritanceOf a bucketful of Italian quicklime.)
When they go at length, with such a shakingOf heads o'er the old delusion, sadlyEach master his way through the black streets taking,195Where many a lost work breathes though badly—Why don't they bethink them of who has merited?Why not reveal while their pictures dreeSuch doom, how a captive might be out-ferreted?Why is it they never remember me?200
Not that I expect the great Bigordi,Nor Sandro to hear me, chivalric, bellicose;Nor the wronged Lippino; and not a word ISay of a scrap of Frà Angelico's;But are you too fine, Taddeo Gaddi,205To grant me a taste of your intonaco,Some Jerome that seeks the heaven with a sad eye?Not a churlish saint, Lorenzo Monaco?
Could not the ghost with the close red cap,My Pollajolo, the twice a craftsman,210Save me a sample, give me the hapOf a muscular Christ that shows the draftsman?No Virgin by him the somewhat petty,Of finical touch and tempera crumbly—Could not Alesso Baldovinetti215Contribute so much, I ask him humbly?
Margheritone of Arezzo,With the grave-clothes garb and swaddling barret(Why purse up mouth and beak in a pet so,You bald old saturnine poll-clawed parrot?)220Not a poor glimmering Crucifixion,Where in the foreground kneels the donor?If such remain, as is my conviction,The hoarding it does you but little honor.
They pass; for them the panels may thrill,225The tempera grow alive and tinglish;Their pictures are left to the mercies stillOf dealers and stealers, Jews and the English,Who, seeing mere money's worth in their prize,Will sell it to somebody calm as Zeno230At naked High Art, and in ecstasiesBefore some clay-cold vile Carlino!
No matter for these! But Giotto, you,Have you allowed, as the town-tongues babble it—Oh, never! it shall not be counted true—235That a certain precious little tabletWhich Buonarroti eyed like a lover—Was buried so long in oblivion's wombAnd, left for another than I to discover,Turns up at last! and to whom?—to whom?240
I, that have haunted the dim San Spirito,(Or was it rather the Ognissanti?)Patient on altar-step planting a weary toe!Nay, I shall have it yet!Detur amanti!My Koh-i-noor—or (if that's a platitude)245Jewel of Giamschid, the Persian Sofi's eye;So, in anticipative gratitude,What if I take up my hope and prophesy?When the hour grows ripe, and a certain dotardIs pitched, no parcel that needs invoicing,250To the worse side of the Mont Saint Gothard,We shall begin by way of rejoicing;None of that shooting the sky (blank cartridge),Nor a civic guard, all plumes and lacquer,Hunting Radetzky's soul like a partridge255Over Morello with squib and cracker.This time we'll shoot better game and bag 'em hot—No mere display at the stone of Dante,But a kind of sober Witanagemot(Ex: "Casa Guidi,"quod videas ante)260Shall ponder, once Freedom restored to Florence,How Art may return that departed with her.Go, hated house, go each trace of the Loraine's,And bring us the days of Orgagna hither!How we shall prologuize, how we shall perorate,265Utter fit things upon art and history,Feel truth at blood-heat and falsehood at zero rate,Make of the want of the age no mystery;Contrast the fructuous and sterile eras,Show—monarchy ever its uncouth cub licks270Out of the bear's shape into Chimæra's,While Pure Art's birth is still the republic's.Then one shall propose in a speech (curt Tuscan,Expurgate and sober, with scarcely an "issimo,")To end now our half-told tale of Cambuscan,275And turn the bell-tower'salttoaltissimo:And find as the beak of a young beccacciaThe Campanile, the Duomo's fit ally,Shall soar up in gold full fifty braccia,Completing Florence, as Florence, Italy.280Shall I be alive that morning the scaffoldIs broken away, and the long-pent fire,Like the golden hope of the world, unbaffledSprings from its sleep, and up goes the spireWhile "God and the People" plain for its motto,285Thence the new tricolor flaps at the sky?At least to foresee that glory of GiottoAnd Florence together, the first am I!
I, that have haunted the dim San Spirito,(Or was it rather the Ognissanti?)Patient on altar-step planting a weary toe!Nay, I shall have it yet!Detur amanti!My Koh-i-noor—or (if that's a platitude)245Jewel of Giamschid, the Persian Sofi's eye;So, in anticipative gratitude,What if I take up my hope and prophesy?
When the hour grows ripe, and a certain dotardIs pitched, no parcel that needs invoicing,250To the worse side of the Mont Saint Gothard,We shall begin by way of rejoicing;None of that shooting the sky (blank cartridge),Nor a civic guard, all plumes and lacquer,Hunting Radetzky's soul like a partridge255Over Morello with squib and cracker.
This time we'll shoot better game and bag 'em hot—No mere display at the stone of Dante,But a kind of sober Witanagemot(Ex: "Casa Guidi,"quod videas ante)260Shall ponder, once Freedom restored to Florence,How Art may return that departed with her.Go, hated house, go each trace of the Loraine's,And bring us the days of Orgagna hither!
How we shall prologuize, how we shall perorate,265Utter fit things upon art and history,Feel truth at blood-heat and falsehood at zero rate,Make of the want of the age no mystery;Contrast the fructuous and sterile eras,Show—monarchy ever its uncouth cub licks270Out of the bear's shape into Chimæra's,While Pure Art's birth is still the republic's.
Then one shall propose in a speech (curt Tuscan,Expurgate and sober, with scarcely an "issimo,")To end now our half-told tale of Cambuscan,275And turn the bell-tower'salttoaltissimo:And find as the beak of a young beccacciaThe Campanile, the Duomo's fit ally,Shall soar up in gold full fifty braccia,Completing Florence, as Florence, Italy.280
Shall I be alive that morning the scaffoldIs broken away, and the long-pent fire,Like the golden hope of the world, unbaffledSprings from its sleep, and up goes the spireWhile "God and the People" plain for its motto,285Thence the new tricolor flaps at the sky?At least to foresee that glory of GiottoAnd Florence together, the first am I!
Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees,(If our loves remain)In an English lane,By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies.Hark, those two in the hazel coppice—5A boy and a girl, if the good fates please,Making love, say—The happier they!Draw yourself up from the light of the moon,And let them pass, as they will too soon,10With the bean-flowers' boon,And the blackbird's tune,And May, and June!What I love best in all the worldIs a castle, precipice-encurled,15In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine.Or look for me, old fellow of mine,(If I get my head from out the mouthO' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands,And come again to the land of lands)—20In a sea-side house to the farther South,Where the baked cicala dies of drouth,And one sharp tree—'tis a cypress—stands,By the many hundred years red-rusted,Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted,25My sentinel to guard the sandsTo the water's edge. For, what expandsBefore the house, but the great opaqueBlue breadth of sea without a break?While, in the house, forever crumbles30Some fragment of the frescoed walls,From blisters where a scorpion sprawls.A girl bare-footed brings, and tumblesDown on the pavement, green-flesh melons,And says there's news today—the king35Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing,Goes with his Bourbon arm a sling:—She hopes they have not caught the felons.Italy, my Italy!Queen Mary's saying serves for me—10(When fortune's maliceLost her—Calais)—Open my heart and you will seeGraved inside of it, "Italy."Such lovers old are I and she:15So it always was, so shall ever be!
Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees,(If our loves remain)In an English lane,By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies.Hark, those two in the hazel coppice—5A boy and a girl, if the good fates please,Making love, say—The happier they!Draw yourself up from the light of the moon,And let them pass, as they will too soon,10With the bean-flowers' boon,And the blackbird's tune,And May, and June!
What I love best in all the worldIs a castle, precipice-encurled,15In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine.Or look for me, old fellow of mine,(If I get my head from out the mouthO' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands,And come again to the land of lands)—20In a sea-side house to the farther South,Where the baked cicala dies of drouth,And one sharp tree—'tis a cypress—stands,By the many hundred years red-rusted,Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted,25My sentinel to guard the sandsTo the water's edge. For, what expandsBefore the house, but the great opaqueBlue breadth of sea without a break?While, in the house, forever crumbles30Some fragment of the frescoed walls,From blisters where a scorpion sprawls.A girl bare-footed brings, and tumblesDown on the pavement, green-flesh melons,And says there's news today—the king35Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing,Goes with his Bourbon arm a sling:—She hopes they have not caught the felons.Italy, my Italy!Queen Mary's saying serves for me—10(When fortune's maliceLost her—Calais)—Open my heart and you will seeGraved inside of it, "Italy."Such lovers old are I and she:15So it always was, so shall ever be!