Meantime Ferrara lay in rueful case;The lady-city, for whose sole embraceHer pair of suitors struggled, felt their armsA brawny mischief to the fragile charmsThey tugged for—one discovering that to twistHer tresses twice or thrice about his wristSecured a point of vantage—one, how bestHe 'd parry that by planting in her breastHis elbow spike—each party too intentMen suffered much,For noticing, howe'er the battle went,The conqueror would but have a corpse to kiss."May Boniface be duly damned for this!"—Howled some old Ghibellin, as up he turned,From the wet heap of rubbish where they burnedHis house, a little skull with dazzling teeth:"A boon, sweet Christ—let Salinguerra seetheIn hell forever, Christ, and let myselfBe there to laugh at him!"—moaned some young GuelfStumbling upon a shrivelled hand nailed fastTo the charred lintel of the doorway, lastHis father stood within to bid him speed.The thoroughfares were overrun with weed—Docks, quitchgrass, loathy mallows no man plants.The stranger, none of its inhabitantsWhichever of the parties was victor.Crept out of doors to taste fresh air again,And ask the purpose of a splendid trainAdmitted on a morning; every townOf the East League was come by envoy downTo treat for Richard's ransom: here you sawThe Vicentine, here snowy oxen drawThe Paduan carroch, its vermilion crossOn its white field. A-tiptoe o'er the fosseLooked Legate Montelungo wistfullyAfter the flock of steeples he might spyIn Este's time, gone (doubts he) long agoTo mend the ramparts: sure the laggards knowThe Pope 's as good as here! They paced the streetsMore soberly. At last, "Taurello greetsThe League," announced a pursuivant,—"will matchIts courtesy, and labors to dispatchAt earliest Tito, Friedrich's Pretor, sentOn pressing matters from his post at Trent,With Mainard Count of Tyrol,—simply waitsTheir going to receive the delegates.""Tito!" Our delegates exchanged a glance,And, keeping the main way, admired askanceThe lazy engines of outlandish birth,Couched like a king each on its bank of earth—Arbalist, manganel and catapult;While stationed by, as waiting a result,Lean silent gangs of mercenaries ceasedWorking to watch the strangers. "This, at least,Were better spared; he scarce presumes gainsayThe League's decision! Get our friend awayAnd profit for the future: how else teachFools 't is not safe to stray within claw's reachEre Salinguerra's final gasp be blown?Those mere convulsive scratches find the bone.Who bade him bloody the spent osprey's nare?"The carrochs halted in the public square.Pennons of every blazon once a-flaunt,Men prattled, freelier that the crested gauntHow Guelfs criticise Ghibellin workWhite ostrich with a horse-shoe in her beakWas missing, and whoever chose might speak"Ecelin" boldly out: so,—"EcelinNeeded his wife to swallow half the sinAnd sickens by himself: the devil's whelp,He styles his son, dwindles away, no helpFrom conserves, your fine triple-curded frothOf virgin's blood, your Venice viper-broth—Eh? Jubilate!"—"Peace! no little wordYou utter here that 's not distinctly heardUp at Oliero: he was absent sickWhen we besieged Bassano—who, i' the thickO' the work, perceived the progress Azzo made,Like Ecelin, through his witch Adelaide?She managed it so well that, night by night,At their bed-foot stood up a soldier-sprite,First fresh, pale by-and-by without a wound,And, when it came with eyes filmed as in swound,They knew the place was taken."—"OminousThat Ghibellins should get what cautelousOld Redbeard sought from Azzo's sire to wrenchVainly; Saint George contrived his town a trenchO' the marshes, an impermeable bar.""—Young Ecelin is meant the tutelarOf Padua, rather; veins embrace uponHis hand like Brenta and Bacchiglion."What now?—"The founts! God's bread, touch not a plank!A crawling hell of carrion—every tankAs unusually energetic in this case.Choke full!—found out just now to Cino's cost—The same who gave Taurello up for lost,And, making no account of fortune's freaks,Refused to budge from Padua then, but sneaksBack now with Concorezzi—'faith! they dragTheir carroch to San Vitale, plant the flagOn his own palace, so adroitly razedHe knew it not; a sort of Guelf folk gazedAnd laughed apart; Cino disliked their air—Must pluck up spirit, show he does not care—Seats himself on the tank's edge—will beginTo hum,za, za, Cavaler Ecelin—A silence; he gets warmer, clinks to chime,Now both feet plough the ground, deeper each time,At last,za, za, and up with a fierce kickComes his own mother's face caught by the thickGray hair about his spur!"Which means, they liftThe covering, Salinguerra made a shiftTo stretch upon the truth; as well avoidFurther disclosures; leave them thus employed.Our dropping Autumn morning clears apace,And poor Ferrara puts a softened faceOn her misfortunes. Let us scale this tallHuge foursquare line of red brick garden-wallHow, passing through the rare garden,Bastioned within by trees of every sortOn three sides, slender, spreading, long and short;Each grew as it contrived, the poplar ramped,The fig-tree reared itself,—but stark and cramped,Made fools of, like tamed lions: whence, on the edge,Running 'twixt trunk and trunk to smooth one ledgeOf shade, were shrubs inserted, warp and woof,Which smothered up that variance. Scale the roofOf solid tops, and o'er the slope you slideDown to a grassy space level and wide,Here and there dotted with a tree, but treesOf rarer leaf, each foreigner at ease,Set by itself: and in the centre spreads,Borne upon three uneasy leopards' heads,A laver, broad and shallow, one bright spirtOf water bubbles in. The walls begirtWith trees leave off on either hand; pursueYour path along a wondrous avenueThose walls abut on, heaped of gleamy stone,With aloes leering everywhere, gray-grownFrom many a Moorish summer: how they windOut of the fissures! likelier to bindThe building than those rusted cramps which dropAlready in the eating sunshine. Stop,You fleeting shapes above there! Ah, the prideOr else despair of the whole country-side!A range of statues, swarming o'er with wasps,Salinguerra contrived for a purpose,God, goddess, woman, man, the Greek rough-raspsIn crumbling Naples marble—meant to lookLike those Messina marbles Constance tookDelight in, or Taurello's self conveyedTo Mantua for his mistress, Adelaide,A certain font with caryatidesSince cloistered at Goito; only, theseAre up and doing, not abashed, a troopAble to right themselves—who see you, stoopTheir arms o' the instant after you! UnpluckedBy this or that, you pass; for they conductTo terrace raised on terrace, and, between,Creatures of brighter mould and braver mienThan any yet, the choicest of the IsleNo doubt. Here, left a sullen breathing-while,Up-gathered on himself the Fighter stoodFor his last fight, and, wiping treacherous bloodOut of the eyelids just held ope beneathThose shading fingers in their iron sheath,Steadied his strengths amid the buzz and stirOf the dusk hideous amphitheatreAt the announcement of his over-matchTo wind the day's diversion up, dispatchThe pertinacious Gaul: while, limbs one heap,The Slave, no breath in her round mouth, watched leapDart after dart forth, as her hero's carClove dizzily the solid of the war—Let coil about his knees for pride in him.We reach the farthest terrace, and the grimSan Pietro Palace stops us.Such the stateOf Salinguerra's plan to emulateSicilian marvels, that his girlish wifeRetrude still might lead her ancient lifeIn her new home: whereat enlarged so muchNeighbors upon the novel princely touchHe took,—who here imprisons Boniface.Here must the Envoys come to sue for grace;And here, emerging from the labyrinthBelow, Sordello paused beside the plinthOf the door-pillar.Sordello ponders all seen and heard,He had really leftVerona for the cornfields (a poor theftFrom the morass) where Este's camp was made.The Envoys' march, the Legate's cavalcade—All had been seen by him, but scarce as when,—Eager for cause to stand aloof from menAt every point save the fantastic tieAcknowledged in his boyish sophistry,—He made account of such. A crowd,—he meantTo task the whole of it; each part's intentConcerned him therefore: and, the more he pried,The less became Sordello satisfiedWith his own figure at the moment. SoughtHe respite from his task? Descried he aughtNovel in the anticipated sightOf all these livers upon all delight?This phalanx, as of myriad points combined,Whereby he still had imaged the mankindHis youth was passed in dreams of rivalling,His age—in plans to prove at least such thingHad been so dreamed,—which now he must impressWith his own will, effect a happinessBy theirs,—supply a body to his soulThence, and become eventually wholeWith them as he had hoped to be without—Finds in men no machine for his sake,Made these the mankind he once raved about?Because a few of them were notable,Should all be figured worthy note? As wellExpect to find Taurello's triple lineOf trees a single and prodigious pine.Real pines rose here and there; but, close among,Thrust into and mixed up with pines, a throngOf shrubs, he saw,—a nameless common sortO'erpast in dreams, left out of the reportAnd hurried into corners, or at bestAdmitted to be fancied like the rest.Reckon that morning's proper chiefs—how few!And yet the people grew, the people grew,Grew ever, as if the many there indeed,More left behind and most who should succeed,—Simply in virtue of their mouths and eyes,Petty enjoyments and huge miseries,—Mingled with, and made veritably greatThose chiefs: he overlooked not Mainard's stateNor Concorezzi's station, but insteadOf stopping there, each dwindled to be headOf infinite and absent TyroleseOr Paduans; startling all the more, that theseSeemed passive and disposed of, uncared for,Yet doubtless on the whole (like Eglamor)Smiling; for if a wealthy man decaysAnd out of store of robes must wear, all days,One tattered suit, alike in sun and shade,'Tis commonly some tarnished gay brocadeFit for a feast-night's flourish and no more:Nor otherwise poor Misery from her storeOf looks is fain upgather, keep unfurledFor common wear as she goes through the world,The faint remainder of some worn-out smileMeant for a feast-night's service merely. WhileCrowd upon crowd rose on Sordello thus,—(Crowds no way interfering to discuss,Much less dispute, life's joys with one employedIn envying them,—or, if they aught enjoyed,Where lingered something indefinableIn every look and tone, the mirth as wellAs woe, that fixed at once his estimateOf the result, their good or bad estate)—But a thing with life of its own,Old memories returned with new effect:And the new body, ere he could suspect,Cohered, mankind and he were really fused,The new self seemed impatient to be usedBy him, but utterly another wayThan that anticipated: strange to say,They were too much below him, more in thrallThan he, the adjunct than the principal.What booted scattered units?—here a mindAnd there, which might repay his own to find,And stamp, and use?—a few, howe'er august,If all the rest were grovelling in the dust?No: first a mighty equilibrium, sure,Should he establish, privilege procureFor all, the few had long possessed! He feltAn error, an exceeding error melt—While he was occupied with Mantuan chants,Behoved him think of men, and take their wants,Such as he now distinguished every side,As his own want which might be satisfied,—And, after that, think of rare qualitiesOf his own soul demanding exercise.It followed naturally, through no claimOn their part, which made virtue of the aimAt serving them, on his,—that, past retrieve,He felt now in their toils, theirs,—nor could leaveWonder how, in the eagerness to rule,Impress his will on mankind, he (the fool!)Had never even entertained the thoughtThat this his last arrangement might be fraughtWith incidental good to them as well,And rights hitherto ignored by him,And that mankind's delight would help to swellHis own. So, if he sighed, as formerlyBecause the merry time of life must fleet,'T was deeplier now,—for could the crowds repeatTheir poor experiences? His hand that shookWas twice to be deplored. "The Legate, look!With eyes, like fresh-blown thrush-eggs on a thread,Faint-blue and loosely floating in his head,Large tongue, moist open mouth; and this long whileThat owner of the idiotic smileA fault he is now anxious to repair,Serves them!"He fortunately saw in timeHis fault however, and since the office primeIncludes the secondary—best acceptBoth offices; Taurello, its adept,Could teach him the preparatory one,And how to do what he had fancied doneLong previously, ere take the greater task,How render first these people happy? AskThe people's friends: for there must be one good,One way to it—the Cause!—he understoodThe meaning now of Palma; why the jarElse, the ado, the trouble wide and farOf Guelfs and Ghibellins, the Lombard hopeAnd Rome's despair?—'twixt Emperor and PopeThe confused shifting sort of Eden tale—Hardihood still recurring, still to fail—That foreign interloping fiend, this freeAnd native overbrooding deity—Yet a dire fascination o'er the palmsThe Kaiser ruined, troubling even the calmsOf paradise—or, on the other hand,Since he apprehends its full extent,The Pontiff, as the Kaisers understand,One snake-like cursed of God to love the ground,Whose heavy length breaks in the noon profoundSome saving tree—which needs the Kaiser, dressedAs the dislodging angel of that pest,Yet flames that pest bedropped, flat head, full fold,With coruscating dower of dyes. "BeholdThe secret, so to speak, and master-springO' the contest!—which of the two Powers shall bringMen good—perchance the most good—ay, it mayBe that!—the question, which best knows the way."And hereupon Count Mainard strutted pastOut of San Pietro; never seemed the lastOf archers, slingers: and our friend beganTo recollect strange modes of serving man,Arbalist, catapult, brake, manganel,And more. "This way of theirs may,—who can tell?—Need perfecting," said he: "let all be solvedAt once! Taurello 't is, the task devolvedOn late—confront Taurello!"And at lastHe did confront him. Scarce an hour had pastWhen forth Sordello came, older by yearsThan at his entry. Unexampled fearsOppressed him, and he staggered off, blind, muteAnd deaf, like some fresh-mutilated brute,Into Ferrara—not the empty townThat morning witnessed: he went up and downStreets whence the veil had been stripped shred by shred,So that, in place of huddling with their deadIndoors, to answer Salinguerra's ends,Townsfolk make shift to crawl forth, sit like friendsWith any one. A woman gave him choiceOf her two daughters, the infantile voiceOr the dimpled knee, for half a chain, his throatWas clasped with; but an archer knew the coat—Its blue cross and eight lilies,—bade bewareOne dogging him in concert with the pairThough thrumming on the sleeve that hid his knife.Night set in early, autumn dews were rife,They kindled great fires while the Leaguers' massBegan at every carroch—he must passBetween the kneeling people. PresentlyThe carroch of Verona caught his eyeWith purple trappings; silently he bentOver its fire, when voices violentBegan, "Affirm not whom the youth was likeThat struck me from the porch, I did not strikeAgain: I too have chestnut hair; my kinAnd would fain have helped some way,Hate Azzo and stand up for Ecelin.Here, minstrel, drive bad thoughts away! Sing! TakeMy glove for guerdon!" And for that man's sakeHe turned: "A song of Eglamor's!"—scarce named,When, "Our Sordello's rather!"—all exclaimed;"Is not Sordello famousest for rhyme?"He had been happy to deny, this time,—Profess as heretofore the aching headAnd failing heart,—suspect that in his steadSome true Apollo had the charge of them,Was champion to reward or to condemn,So his intolerable risk might shiftOr share itself; but Naddo's precious giftOf gifts, he owned, be certain! At the close—"I made that," said he to a youth who roseAs if to hear: 't was Palma through the bandConducted him in silence by her hand.Back now for Salinguerra. Tito of TrentGave place to Palma and her friend; who wentIn turn at Montelungo's visit—oneAfter the other were they come and gone,—These spokesmen for the Kaiser and the Pope,This incarnation of the People's hope,Sordello,—all the say of each was said;And Salinguerra sat, himself insteadOf these to talk with, lingered musing yet.'T was a drear vast presence-chamber roughly setIn order for the morning's use; full face,The Kaiser's ominous sign-mark had first place,The crowned grim twy-necked eagle, coarsely-blackedWith ochre on the naked wall; nor lackedRomano's green and yellow either side;But the new token Tito brought had triedThe Legate's patience—nay, if Palma knewWhat Salinguerra almost meant to doUntil the sight of her restored his lipA certain half-smile, three months' chieftainshipHad banished! Afterward, the Legate foundNo change in him, nor asked what badge he woundAnd unwound carelessly. Now sat the ChiefBut Salinguerra is also preoccupied;Silent as when our couple left, whose briefEncounter wrought so opportune effectIn thoughts he summoned not, nor would reject,Though time 't was now if ever, to pause—fixOn any sort of ending; wiles and tricksExhausted, judge! his charge, the crazy town,Just managed to be hindered crashing down—His last sound troops ranged—care observed to postHis best of the maimed soldiers innermost—So much was plain enough, but somehow struckHim not before. And now with this strange luckOf Tito's news, rewarding his addressSo well, what thought he of?—how the successWith Friedrich's rescript there would either hushOld Ecelin's scruples, bring the manly flushTo his young son's white cheek, or, last, exemptHimself from telling what there was to tempt?Resembling Sordello in nothing else.No: that this minstrel was Romano's lastServant—himself the first! Could he contrastThe whole!—that minstrel's thirty years just spentIn doing naught, their notablest eventThis morning's journey hither, as I told—Who yet was lean, outworn and really old,A stammering awkward man that scarce dared raiseHis eye before the magisterial gaze—And Salinguerra with his fears and hopesOf sixty years, his Emperors and Popes,Cares and contrivances, yet, you would say,'T was a youth nonchalantly looked awayThrough the embrasure northward o'er the sickExpostulating trees—so agile, quickHow he was made in body and spirit,And graceful turned the head on the broad chestEncased in pliant steel, his constant vest,Whence split the sun off in a spray of fireAcross the room; and, loosened of its tireOf steel, that head let breathe the comely brownLarge massive locks discolored as if a crownEncircled them, so frayed the basnet whereA sharp white line divided clean the hair;Glossy above, glossy below, it sweptCurling and fine about a brow thus keptCalm, laid coat upon coat, marble and sound:This was the mystic mark the Tuscan found,Mused of, turned over books about. Square-faced,No lion more; two vivid eyes, enchasedIn hollows filled with many a shade and streakSettling from the bold nose and bearded cheek.Nor might the half-smile reach them that deformedA lip supremely perfect else—unwarmed,Unwidened, less or more; indifferentWhether on trees or men his thoughts were bent,Thoughts rarely, after all, in trim and trainAs now a period was fulfilled again:Of such, a series made his life, compressedIn each, one story serving for the rest—And what had been his career of old.How his life-streams rolling arrived at lastAt the barrier, whence, were it once overpast,They would emerge, a river to the end,—Gathered themselves up, paused, bade fate befriend,Took the leap, hung a minute at the height,Then fell back to oblivion infinite:Therefore he smiled. Beyond stretched garden-groundsWhere late the adversary, breaking bounds,Had gained him an occasion, That above,That eagle, testified he could improveEffectually. The Kaiser's symbol layBeside his rescript, a new badge by wayOf baldric; while,—another thing that marredAlike emprise, achievement and reward,—Ecelin's missive was conspicuous too.What past life did those flying thoughts pursue?As his, few names in Mantua half so old;But at Ferrara, where his sires enrolledIt latterly, the Adelardi sparedNo pains to rival them: both factions sharedFerrara, so that, counted out, 't would yieldA product very like the city's shield,Half black and white, or Ghibellin and GuelfAs after Salinguerra styled himselfAnd Este, who, till Marchesalla died,(Last of the Adelardi)—never triedHis fortune there: with Marchesalla's childWould pass—could Blacks and Whites be reconciled,And young Taurello wed Linguetta—wealthAnd sway to a sole grasp. Each treats by stealthAlready: when the Guelfs, the RavenneseArrive, assault the Pietro quarter, seizeLinguetta, and are gone! Men's first dismayAbated somewhat, hurries down, to layThe after indignation, Boniface,This Richard's father. "Learn the full disgraceAverted, ere you blame us Guelfs, who rateYour Salinguerra, your sole potentateThat might have been, 'mongst Este's valvassors—Ay, Azzo's—who, not privy to, abhorsOur step; but we were zealous." Azzo 's thenTo do with! Straight a meeting of old men:"Old Salinguerra dead, his heir a boy,What if we change our ruler and decoyThe Lombard Eagle of the azure sphereWith Italy to build in, fix him here,Settle the city's troubles in a trice?For private wrong, let public good suffice!"The original check to his fortunes,In fine, young Salinguerra's stanchest friendsTalked of the townsmen making him amends,Gave him a goshawk, and affirmed there wasRare sport, one morning, over the green grassA mile or so. He sauntered through the plain,Was restless, fell to thinking, turned againIn time for Azzo's entry with the bride;Count Boniface rode smirking at their side;"She brings him half Ferrara," whispers flew,"And all Ancona! If the stripling knew!"Anon the stripling was in SicilyWhere Heinrich ruled in right of Constance; heWas gracious nor his guest incapable;Each understood the other. So it fell,One Spring, when Azzo, thoroughly at ease,Had near forgotten by what precise degreesHe crept at first to such a downy seat,The Count trudged over in a special heatTo bid him of God's love dislodge from eachOf Salinguerra's palaces,—a breachMight yawn else, not so readily to shut,For who was just arrived at Mantua butThe youngster, sword on thigh and tuft on chin,Which he was in the way to retrieve,With tokens for Celano, Ecelin,Pistore, and the like! Next news,—no whitDo any of Ferrara's domes befitHis wife of Heinrich's very blood: a bandOf foreigners assemble, understandGarden-constructing, level and surround,Build up and bury in. A last news crownedThe consternation: since his infant's birth,He only waits they end his wondrous girthOf trees that link San Pietro with Tomà,To visit Mantua. When the PodestàEcelin, at Vicenza, called his friendTaurello thither, what could be their endBut to restore the Ghibellins' late Head,The Kaiser helping? He with most to dreadFrom vengeance and reprisal, Azzo, thereWith Boniface beforehand, as awareOf plots in progress, gave alarm, expelledBoth plotters: but the Guelfs in triumph yelledToo hastily. The burning and the flight,And how Taurello, occupied that nightWith Ecelin, lost wife and son, I told:When a fresh calamity destroyed all:—Not how he bore the blow, retained his hold,Got friends safe through, left enemies the worstO' the fray, and hardly seemed to care at first:But afterward men heard not constantlyOf Salinguerra's House so sure to be!Though Azzo simply gained by the eventA shifting of his plagues—the first, contentTo fall behind the second and estrangeSo far his nature, suffer such a changeThat in Romano sought he wife and childAnd for Romano's sake seemed reconciledTo losing individual life, which shrunkAs the other prospered—mortised in his trunk,Like a dwarf palm which wanton Arabs foilOf bearing its own proper wine and oil,By grafting into it the stranger-vine,Which sucks its heart out, sly and serpentine,Till forth one vine-palm feathers to the root,And red drops moisten the insipid fruit.Once Adelaide set on,—the subtle mateOf the weak soldier, urged to emulateThe Church's valiant women deed for deed,And paragon her namesake, win the meedO' the great Matilda,—soon they overboreThe rest of Lombardy,—not as beforeBy an instinctive truculence, but patchedThe Kaiser's strategy until it matchedThe Pontiff's, sought old ends by novel means."Only, why is it Salinguerra screensHimself behind Romano?—him we badeEnjoy our shine i' the front, not seek the shade!"—Asked Heinrich, somewhat of the tardiestTo comprehend. Nor Philip acquiescedAt once in the arrangement; reasoned, pliedHis friend with offers of another bride,A statelier function—fruitlessly: 't was plainHe sank into a secondary personage,Taurello through some weakness must remainObscure. And Otho, free to judge of both,—Ecelin the unready, harsh and loth,And this more plausible and facile wightWith every point a-sparkle—chose the right,Admiring how his predecessors harpedOn the wrong man: "thus," quoth he, "wits are warpedBy outsides!" Carelessly, meanwhile, his lifeSuffered its many turns of peace and strifeIn many lands—you hardly could surpriseThe man; who shamed Sordello (recognize!)In this as much beside, that, unconcernedWhat qualities were natural or earned,With no ideal of graces, as they cameHe took them, singularly well the same—Speaking the Greek's own language, just becauseYour Greek eludes you, leave the least of flawsIn contracts with him; while, since Arab loreHolds the stars' secret—take one trouble moreAnd master it! 'Tis done, and now deterWho may the Tuscan, once Jove trined for her,From Friedrich's path!—Friedrich, whose pilgrimageThe same man puts aside, whom he'll engageTo leave next year John Brienne in the lurch,Come to Bassano, see Saint Francis' churchAnd judge of Guido the Bolognian's pieceWhich, lend Taurello credit, rivals Greece—Angels, with aureoles like golden quoitsPitched home, applauding Ecelin's exploits.For elegance, he strung the angelot,With the appropriate graces of such.Made rhymes thereto; for prowess, clove he notTiso, last siege, from crest to crupper? WhyDetail you thus a varied masteryBut to show how Taurello, on the watchFor men, to read their hearts and thereby catchTheir capabilities and purposes,Displayed himself so far as displayed these:While our Sordello only cared to knowAbout men as a means whereby he'd showHimself, and men had much or little worthAccording as they kept in or drew forthThat self; the other's choicest instrumentsSurmised him shallow.Meantime, malcontentsDropped off, town after town grew wiser. "HowChange the world's face?" asked people; "as 't is nowIt has been, will be ever: very fineSubjecting things profane to things divine,In talk! This contumacy will fatigueThe vigilance of Este and the League!The Ghibellins gain on us!"—as it happed.Old Azzo and old Boniface, entrappedBy Ponte Alto, both in one month's spaceSlept at Verona: either left a braceOf sons—but, three years after, either's pairLost Guglielm and Aldobrand its heir:Azzo remained and Richard—all the stayOf Este and Saint Boniface, at bayBut Ecelin, he set in front, falling,As 't were. Then, either Ecelin grew oldOr his brain altered—not o' the proper mouldFor new appliances—his old palm-stockEndured no influx of strange strengths. He'd rockAs in a drunkenness, or chuckle lowAs proud of the completeness of his woe,Then weep real tears;—now make some mad onslaughtOn Este, heedless of the lesson taughtSo painfully,—now cringe for peace, sue peaceAt price of past gain, bar of fresh increaseTo the fortunes of Romano. Up at lastRose Este, down Romano sank as fast.And men remarked these freaks of peace and warHappened while Salinguerra was afar:Whence every friend besought him, all in vain,To use his old adherent's wits again.Not he!—"who had advisers in his sons,Could plot himself, nor needed any one'sAdvice." 'T was Adelaide's remaining stanchPrevented his destruction root and branchForthwith; but when she died, doom fell, for gayHe made alliances, gave lands awayTo whom it pleased accept them, and withdrewForever from the world. Taurello, whoWas summoned to the convent, then refusedA word at the wicket, patience thus abused,Promptly threw off alike his imbecileAlly's yoke, and his own frank, foolish smile.Soon a few movements of the happier sortChanged matters, put himself in men's reportAs heretofore; he had to fight, beside,And that became him ever. So, in prideSalinguerra must again come forward,And flushing of this kind of second youth,He dealt a good-will blow. Este in truthLay prone—and men remembered, somewhat late,A laughing old outrageous stifled hateHe bore to Este—how it would outbreakAt times spite of disguise, like an earthquakeIn sunny weather—as that noted dayWhen with his hundred friends he tried to slayAzzo before the Kaiser's face: and how,On Azzo's calm refusal to allowA liegeman's challenge, straight he too was calmed:As if his hate could bear to lie embalmed,Bricked up, the moody Pharaoh, and surviveAll intermediate crumblings, to arriveAt earth's catastrophe—'t was Este's crash,Not Azzo's he demanded, so, no rashProcedure! Este's true antagonistRose out of Ecelin: all voices whist,All eyes were sharpened, wits predicted. He'T was, leaned in the embrasure absently,Why and how, is let out in soliloquy.Amused with his own efforts, now, to traceWith his steel-sheathed forefinger Friedrich's faceI' the dust: but as the trees waved sere, his smileDeepened, and words expressed its thought erewhile."Ay, fairly housed at last, my old compeer?That we should stick together, all the yearI kept Vicenza!—How old Boniface,Old Azzo caught us in its market-place,He by that pillar, I at this,—caught eachIn mid swing, more than fury of his speech,Egging the rabble on to disavowAllegiance to their Marquis—Bacchus, howThey boasted! Ecelin must turn their drudge,Nor, if released, will Salinguerra grudgePaying arrears of tribute due long since—Bacchus! My man could promise then, nor wince,The bones-and-muscles! Sound of wind and limb,Spoke he the set excuse I framed for him:And now he sits me, slavering and mute,Intent on chafing each starved purple footBenumbed past aching with the altar slab—Will no vein throb there when some monk shall blabSpitefully to the circle of bald scalps,Ecelin, he did all for, is a monk now,'Friedrich's affirmed to be our side the Alps'—Eh, brother Lactance, brother Anaclet?Sworn to abjure the world, its fume and fret,God's own now? Drop the dormitory bar,Enfold the scanty gray serge scapularTwice o'er the cowl to muffle memories out!So! But the midnight whisper turns a shout,Eyes wink, mouths open, pulses circulateIn the stone walls: the past, the world you hateIs with you, ambush, open field—or seeThe surging flame—we fire Vicenza—glee!Follow, let Pilio and Bernardo chafe!Bring up the Mantuans—through San Biagio—safe!Ah, the mad people waken? Ah, they writheAnd reach us? If they block the gate? No titheCan pass—keep back, you Bassanese! The edge,Use the edge—shear, thrust, hew, melt down the wedge,Let out the black of those black upturned eyes!Hell—are they sprinkling fire too? The blood friesAnd hisses on your brass gloves as they tearThose upturned faces choking with despair.Brave! Slidder through the reeking gate! 'How now?You six had charge of her?' And then the vowComes, and the foam spirts, hair's plucked, till one shriek(I hear it) and you fling—you cannot speak—Your gold-flowered basnet to a man who haledThe Adelaide he dared scarce view unveiledThis morn, naked across the fire: how crownThe archer that exhausted lays you downYour infant, smiling at the flame, and dies?While one, while mine ..."Bacchus! I think there liesMore than one corpse there" (and he paced the room)"—Another cinder somewhere: 't was my doomBeside, my doom! If Adelaide is dead,I live the same, this Azzo lives insteadOf that to me, and we pull, any how,Este into a heap: the matter's nowJust when the prize awaits somebody;At the true juncture slipping us so oft.Ay, Heinrich died and Otho, please you doffedHis crown at such a juncture! Still, if holdsOur Friedrich's purpose, if this chain enfoldsThe neck of ... who but this same EcelinThat must recoil when the best days begin!Recoil? that's naught; if the recoiler leavesHis name for me to fight with, no one grieves:But he must interfere, forsooth, unlockHis cloister to become my stumbling-blockJust as of old! Ay, ay, there 't is again—The land's inevitable Head—explainThe reverences that subject us! CountThese Ecelins now! Not to say as fount,Originating power of thought,—from twelveThat drop i' the trenches they joined hands to delve,Six shall surpass him, but ... why, men must twineSomehow with something! Ecelin's a fineHimself, if it were only worth while,Clear name! 'T were simpler, doubtless, twine with meAt once our cloistered friend's capacityWas of a sort! I had to share myselfIn fifty portions, like an o'ertasked elfThat's forced illume in fifty points the vastRare vapor he's environed by. At lastMy strengths, though sorely frittered, e'en convergeAnd crown ... no, Bacchus, they have yet to urgeThe man be crowned!"That aloe, an he durst,Would climb! Just such a bloated sprawler firstI noted in Messina's castle-courtThe day I came, when Heinrich asked in sportIf I would pledge my faith to win him backHis right in Lombardy: 'for, once bid packMarauders,' he continued, 'in my steadYou rule, Taurello!' and upon this headLaid the silk glove of Constance—I see herToo, mantled head to foot in miniver,Retrude following!"I am absolvedFrom further toil: the empery devolvedOn me, 't was Tito's word: I have to layFor once my plan, pursue my plan my way,Prompt nobody, and render an accountTaurello to Taurello! Nay, I mountTo Friedrich: he conceives the post I kept,—Who did true service, able or inept,Who's worthy guerdon, Ecelin or I.Me guerdoned, counsel follows: would he vieWith the Pope really? Azzo, BonifaceCompose a right-arm Hohenstauffen's raceMust break ere govern Lombardy. I pointHow easy 't were to twist, once out of joint,The socket from the bone: my Azzo's stareMeanwhile! for I, this idle strap to wear,Shall—fret myself abundantly, what endTo serve? There's left me twenty years to spendAs it may be—but also, as it may not be——How better than my old way? Had I oneWho labored to o'erthrow my work—a sonHatching with Azzo superb treachery,To root my pines up and then poison me,Suppose—'t were worth while frustrate that! Beside,Another life's ordained me: the world's tideRolls, and what hope of parting from the pressOf waves, a single wave through wearinessGently lifted aside, laid upon shore?My life must be lived out in foam and roar,No question. Fifty years the province heldTaurello; troubles raised, and troubles quelled,He in the midst—who leaves this quaint stone place,These trees a year or two, then not a traceOf him! How obtain hold, fetter men's tonguesLike this poor minstrel with the foolish songs—To which, despite our bustle, he is linked?—Flowers one may tease, that never grow extinct.Ay, that patch, surely, green as ever, whereI set Her Moorish lentisk, by the stair,To overawe the aloes; and we trodThose flowers, how call you such?—into the sod;A stately foreigner—a world of painTo make it thrive, arrest rough winds—all vain!It would decline; these would not he destroyed:And now, where is it? where can you avoidThe flowers? I frighten children twenty yearsLonger!—which way, too, Ecelin appearsTo thwart me, for his son's besotted youthGives promise of the proper tiger-tooth:They feel it at Vicenza! Fate, fate, fate,My fine Taurello! Go you, promulgateFriedrich's decree, and here 's shall aggrandizeYoung Ecelin—your Prefect's badge! a prizeThe supposition he most inclines to;Too precious, certainly."How now? CompeteWith my old comrade? shuffle from their seatHis children? Paltry dealing! Don't I knowEcelin? now, I think, and years ago!What's changed—the weakness? did not I compoundFor that, and undertake to keep him soundDespite it? Here's Taurello hankeringAfter a boy's preferment—this playthingTo carry, Bacchus!" And he laughed.RemarkWhy schemes wherein cold-blooded men embarkProsper, when your enthusiastic sortFail: while these last are ever stopping short—(So much they should—so little they can do!)The careless tribe see nothing to pursueIf they desist; meantime their scheme succeeds.Thoughts were caprices in the course of deedsMethodic with Taurello; so, he turned,Enough amused by fancies fairly earnedOf Este's horror-struck submitted neck,And Richard, the cowed braggart, at his beck,Being contented with mere vengeance.To his own petty but immediate doubtIf he could pacify the League withoutConceding Richard; just to this was broughtThat interval of vain discursive thought!As, shall I say, some Ethiop, past pursuitOf all enslavers, dips a shackled footBurnt to the blood, into the drowsy blackEnormous watercourse which guides him backTo his own tribe again, where he is king;And laughs because he guesses, numberingThe yellower poison-wattles on the pouchOf the first lizard wrested from its couchUnder the slime (whose skin, the while he stripsTo cure his nostril with, and festered lips,And eyeballs bloodshot through the desert-blast)That he has reached its boundary, at lastMay breathe;—thinks o'er enchantments of the SouthSovereign to plague his enemies, their mouth,Eyes, nails, and hair; but, these enchantments triedIn fancy, puts them soberly asideFor truth, projects a cool return with friends,The likelihood of winning mere amendsEre long; thinks that, takes comfort silently,Then, from the river's brink, his wrongs and he,Hugging revenge close to their hearts, are soonOff-striding for the Mountains of the Moon.Midnight: the watcher nodded on his spear,Since clouds dispersing left a passage clearFor any meagre and discolored moonTo venture forth; and such was peering soonAbove the harassed city—her close lanesCloser, not half so tapering her fanes,As though she shrunk into herself to keepWhat little life was saved, more safely. HeapBy heap the watch-fires mouldered, and besideThe blackest spoke Sordello and repliedPalma with none to listen. "'T is your cause:Sordello, taught what Ghibellins are,What makes a Ghibellin? There should be laws—(Remember how my youth escaped! I trustTo you for manhood, Palma; tell me justAs any child)—there must be laws at workExplaining this. Assure me, good may lurkUnder the bad,—my multitude has partIn your designs, their welfare is at heartWith Salinguerra, to their interestRefer the deeds he dwelt on,—so divestOur conference of much that scared me. WhyAffect that heartless tone to Tito? IEsteemed myself, yes, in my inmost mindThis morn, a recreant to my race—mankindO'erlooked till now: why boast my spirit's force,—Such force denied its object? why divorceThese, then admire my spirit's flight the sameAs though it bore up, helped some half-orbed flameElse quenched in the dead void, to living space?That orb cast off to chaos and disgrace,Why vaunt so much my unencumbered dance,Making a feat's facilities enhanceIts marvel? But I front Taurello, oneOf happier fate, and all I should have done,He does; the people's good being paramountWith him, their progress may perhaps accountFor his abiding still; whereas you heardThe talk with Tito—the excuse preferredFor burning those five hostages,—and broachedBy way of blind, as you and I approached,I do believe."She spoke: then he, "My thoughtPlainlier expressed! All to your profit—naughtMeantime of these, of conquests to achieveFor them, of wretchedness he might relieveAnd what Guelfs, approves of neither.While profiting your party. Azzo, too,Supports a cause: what cause? Do Guelfs pursueTheir ends by means like yours, or better?"WhenThe Guelfs were proved alike, men weighed with men,And deed with deed, blaze, blood, with blood and blaze,Morn broke: "Once more, Sordello, meet its gazeProudly—the people's charge against thee failsIn every point, while either party quails!These are the busy ones: be silent thou!Two parties take the world up, and allowNo third, yet have one principle, subsistBy the same injustice; whoso shall enlistWith either, ranks with man's inveterate foes.So there is one less quarrel to compose:The Guelf, the Ghibellin may be to curse—I have done nothing, but both sides do worseThan nothing. Nay, to me, forgotten, reftOf insight, lapped by trees and flowers, was leftThe notion of a service—ha? What luredMe here, what mighty aim was I assuredMust move Taurello? What if there remainedHave men a cause distinct from both?A cause, intact, distinct from these, ordainedFor me, its true discoverer?"Some one pressedBefore them here, a watcher, to suggestThe subject for a ballad: "They must knowThe tale of the dead worthy, long agoConsul of Rome—that 's long ago for us,Minstrels and bowmen, idly squabbling thusIn the world's corner—but too late no doubt,For the brave time he sought to bring about.Who was the famed Roman Crescentius?—Not know Crescentius Nomentanus?" ThenHe cast about for terms to tell him, whenSordello disavowed it, how they usedWhenever their Superior introducedA novice to the Brotherhood—("for IWas just a brown-sleeve brother, merrilyAppointed too," quoth he, "till InnocentBade me relinquish, to my small content,My wife or my brown sleeves")—some brother spokeEre nocturns of Crescentius, to revokeThe edict issued, after his demise,Which blotted fame alike and effigies,All out except a floating power, a nameIncluding, tending to produce the sameGreat act. Rome, dead, forgotten, lived at leastWithin that brain, though to a vulgar priestAnd a vile stranger,—two not worth a slaveOf Rome's, Pope John, King Otho,—fortune gaveThe rule there: so, Crescentius, haply dressedIn white, called Roman Consul for a jest,Taking the people at their word, forth steppedAs upon Brutus' heel, nor ever keptRome waiting,—stood erect, and from his brainGave Rome out on its ancient place again,Ay, bade proceed with Brutus' Rome, Kings styledThemselves mere citizens of, and, beguiledInto great thoughts thereby, would choose the gemOut of a lapfull, spoil their diadem—The Senate's cypher was so hard to scratch!He flashes like a phanal, all men catchThe flame, Rome 's just accomplished! when returnedOtho, with John, the Consul's step had spurned,And Hugo Lord of Este, to redressThe wrongs of each. Crescentius in the stressOf adverse fortune bent. "They crucifiedTheir Consul in the Forum; and abideE'er since such slaves at Rome, that I—(for IWas once a brown-sleeve brother, merrilyAppointed)—I had option to keep wifeOr keep brown sleeves, and managed in the strifeLose both. A song of Rome!"And Rome, indeed,Robed at Goito in fantastic weed,The Mother-City of his Mantuan days,Looked an established point of light whence raysTraversed the world; for, all the clustered homesBeside of men, seemed bent on being RomesIn their degree; the question was, how eachShould most resemble Rome, clean out of reach.How if, in the reintegration of Rome,Nor, of the Two, did either principleStruggle to change—but to possess—Rome, still,Guelf Rome or Ghibellin Rome.Let Rome advance!Rome, as she struck Sordello's ignorance—How could he doubt one moment? Rome 's the Cause!Rome of the Pandects, all the world's new laws—Of the Capitol, of Castle Angelo;New structures, that inordinately glow,Subdued, brought back to harmony, made ripeBy many a relic of the archetypeExtant for wonder; every upstart churchThat hoped to leave old temples in the lurch,Corrected by the Theatre forlornThat,—as a mundane shell, its world late born,—Lay and o'ershadowed it. These hints combined,Be typified the triumph of mankind?Rome typifies the scheme to put mankindOnce more in full possession of their rights."Let us have Rome again! On me it lightsTo build up Rome—on me, the first and last:For such a future was endured the past!"And thus, in the gray twilight, forth he sprungTo give his thought consistency amongThe very People—let their facts availFinish the dream grown from the archer's tale.
Meantime Ferrara lay in rueful case;The lady-city, for whose sole embraceHer pair of suitors struggled, felt their armsA brawny mischief to the fragile charmsThey tugged for—one discovering that to twistHer tresses twice or thrice about his wristSecured a point of vantage—one, how bestHe 'd parry that by planting in her breastHis elbow spike—each party too intentMen suffered much,For noticing, howe'er the battle went,The conqueror would but have a corpse to kiss."May Boniface be duly damned for this!"—Howled some old Ghibellin, as up he turned,From the wet heap of rubbish where they burnedHis house, a little skull with dazzling teeth:"A boon, sweet Christ—let Salinguerra seetheIn hell forever, Christ, and let myselfBe there to laugh at him!"—moaned some young GuelfStumbling upon a shrivelled hand nailed fastTo the charred lintel of the doorway, lastHis father stood within to bid him speed.The thoroughfares were overrun with weed—Docks, quitchgrass, loathy mallows no man plants.The stranger, none of its inhabitantsWhichever of the parties was victor.Crept out of doors to taste fresh air again,And ask the purpose of a splendid trainAdmitted on a morning; every townOf the East League was come by envoy downTo treat for Richard's ransom: here you sawThe Vicentine, here snowy oxen drawThe Paduan carroch, its vermilion crossOn its white field. A-tiptoe o'er the fosseLooked Legate Montelungo wistfullyAfter the flock of steeples he might spyIn Este's time, gone (doubts he) long agoTo mend the ramparts: sure the laggards knowThe Pope 's as good as here! They paced the streetsMore soberly. At last, "Taurello greetsThe League," announced a pursuivant,—"will matchIts courtesy, and labors to dispatchAt earliest Tito, Friedrich's Pretor, sentOn pressing matters from his post at Trent,With Mainard Count of Tyrol,—simply waitsTheir going to receive the delegates.""Tito!" Our delegates exchanged a glance,And, keeping the main way, admired askanceThe lazy engines of outlandish birth,Couched like a king each on its bank of earth—Arbalist, manganel and catapult;While stationed by, as waiting a result,Lean silent gangs of mercenaries ceasedWorking to watch the strangers. "This, at least,Were better spared; he scarce presumes gainsayThe League's decision! Get our friend awayAnd profit for the future: how else teachFools 't is not safe to stray within claw's reachEre Salinguerra's final gasp be blown?Those mere convulsive scratches find the bone.Who bade him bloody the spent osprey's nare?"The carrochs halted in the public square.Pennons of every blazon once a-flaunt,Men prattled, freelier that the crested gauntHow Guelfs criticise Ghibellin workWhite ostrich with a horse-shoe in her beakWas missing, and whoever chose might speak"Ecelin" boldly out: so,—"EcelinNeeded his wife to swallow half the sinAnd sickens by himself: the devil's whelp,He styles his son, dwindles away, no helpFrom conserves, your fine triple-curded frothOf virgin's blood, your Venice viper-broth—Eh? Jubilate!"—"Peace! no little wordYou utter here that 's not distinctly heardUp at Oliero: he was absent sickWhen we besieged Bassano—who, i' the thickO' the work, perceived the progress Azzo made,Like Ecelin, through his witch Adelaide?She managed it so well that, night by night,At their bed-foot stood up a soldier-sprite,First fresh, pale by-and-by without a wound,And, when it came with eyes filmed as in swound,They knew the place was taken."—"OminousThat Ghibellins should get what cautelousOld Redbeard sought from Azzo's sire to wrenchVainly; Saint George contrived his town a trenchO' the marshes, an impermeable bar.""—Young Ecelin is meant the tutelarOf Padua, rather; veins embrace uponHis hand like Brenta and Bacchiglion."What now?—"The founts! God's bread, touch not a plank!A crawling hell of carrion—every tankAs unusually energetic in this case.Choke full!—found out just now to Cino's cost—The same who gave Taurello up for lost,And, making no account of fortune's freaks,Refused to budge from Padua then, but sneaksBack now with Concorezzi—'faith! they dragTheir carroch to San Vitale, plant the flagOn his own palace, so adroitly razedHe knew it not; a sort of Guelf folk gazedAnd laughed apart; Cino disliked their air—Must pluck up spirit, show he does not care—Seats himself on the tank's edge—will beginTo hum,za, za, Cavaler Ecelin—A silence; he gets warmer, clinks to chime,Now both feet plough the ground, deeper each time,At last,za, za, and up with a fierce kickComes his own mother's face caught by the thickGray hair about his spur!"Which means, they liftThe covering, Salinguerra made a shiftTo stretch upon the truth; as well avoidFurther disclosures; leave them thus employed.Our dropping Autumn morning clears apace,And poor Ferrara puts a softened faceOn her misfortunes. Let us scale this tallHuge foursquare line of red brick garden-wallHow, passing through the rare garden,Bastioned within by trees of every sortOn three sides, slender, spreading, long and short;Each grew as it contrived, the poplar ramped,The fig-tree reared itself,—but stark and cramped,Made fools of, like tamed lions: whence, on the edge,Running 'twixt trunk and trunk to smooth one ledgeOf shade, were shrubs inserted, warp and woof,Which smothered up that variance. Scale the roofOf solid tops, and o'er the slope you slideDown to a grassy space level and wide,Here and there dotted with a tree, but treesOf rarer leaf, each foreigner at ease,Set by itself: and in the centre spreads,Borne upon three uneasy leopards' heads,A laver, broad and shallow, one bright spirtOf water bubbles in. The walls begirtWith trees leave off on either hand; pursueYour path along a wondrous avenueThose walls abut on, heaped of gleamy stone,With aloes leering everywhere, gray-grownFrom many a Moorish summer: how they windOut of the fissures! likelier to bindThe building than those rusted cramps which dropAlready in the eating sunshine. Stop,You fleeting shapes above there! Ah, the prideOr else despair of the whole country-side!A range of statues, swarming o'er with wasps,Salinguerra contrived for a purpose,God, goddess, woman, man, the Greek rough-raspsIn crumbling Naples marble—meant to lookLike those Messina marbles Constance tookDelight in, or Taurello's self conveyedTo Mantua for his mistress, Adelaide,A certain font with caryatidesSince cloistered at Goito; only, theseAre up and doing, not abashed, a troopAble to right themselves—who see you, stoopTheir arms o' the instant after you! UnpluckedBy this or that, you pass; for they conductTo terrace raised on terrace, and, between,Creatures of brighter mould and braver mienThan any yet, the choicest of the IsleNo doubt. Here, left a sullen breathing-while,Up-gathered on himself the Fighter stoodFor his last fight, and, wiping treacherous bloodOut of the eyelids just held ope beneathThose shading fingers in their iron sheath,Steadied his strengths amid the buzz and stirOf the dusk hideous amphitheatreAt the announcement of his over-matchTo wind the day's diversion up, dispatchThe pertinacious Gaul: while, limbs one heap,The Slave, no breath in her round mouth, watched leapDart after dart forth, as her hero's carClove dizzily the solid of the war—Let coil about his knees for pride in him.We reach the farthest terrace, and the grimSan Pietro Palace stops us.Such the stateOf Salinguerra's plan to emulateSicilian marvels, that his girlish wifeRetrude still might lead her ancient lifeIn her new home: whereat enlarged so muchNeighbors upon the novel princely touchHe took,—who here imprisons Boniface.Here must the Envoys come to sue for grace;And here, emerging from the labyrinthBelow, Sordello paused beside the plinthOf the door-pillar.Sordello ponders all seen and heard,He had really leftVerona for the cornfields (a poor theftFrom the morass) where Este's camp was made.The Envoys' march, the Legate's cavalcade—All had been seen by him, but scarce as when,—Eager for cause to stand aloof from menAt every point save the fantastic tieAcknowledged in his boyish sophistry,—He made account of such. A crowd,—he meantTo task the whole of it; each part's intentConcerned him therefore: and, the more he pried,The less became Sordello satisfiedWith his own figure at the moment. SoughtHe respite from his task? Descried he aughtNovel in the anticipated sightOf all these livers upon all delight?This phalanx, as of myriad points combined,Whereby he still had imaged the mankindHis youth was passed in dreams of rivalling,His age—in plans to prove at least such thingHad been so dreamed,—which now he must impressWith his own will, effect a happinessBy theirs,—supply a body to his soulThence, and become eventually wholeWith them as he had hoped to be without—Finds in men no machine for his sake,Made these the mankind he once raved about?Because a few of them were notable,Should all be figured worthy note? As wellExpect to find Taurello's triple lineOf trees a single and prodigious pine.Real pines rose here and there; but, close among,Thrust into and mixed up with pines, a throngOf shrubs, he saw,—a nameless common sortO'erpast in dreams, left out of the reportAnd hurried into corners, or at bestAdmitted to be fancied like the rest.Reckon that morning's proper chiefs—how few!And yet the people grew, the people grew,Grew ever, as if the many there indeed,More left behind and most who should succeed,—Simply in virtue of their mouths and eyes,Petty enjoyments and huge miseries,—Mingled with, and made veritably greatThose chiefs: he overlooked not Mainard's stateNor Concorezzi's station, but insteadOf stopping there, each dwindled to be headOf infinite and absent TyroleseOr Paduans; startling all the more, that theseSeemed passive and disposed of, uncared for,Yet doubtless on the whole (like Eglamor)Smiling; for if a wealthy man decaysAnd out of store of robes must wear, all days,One tattered suit, alike in sun and shade,'Tis commonly some tarnished gay brocadeFit for a feast-night's flourish and no more:Nor otherwise poor Misery from her storeOf looks is fain upgather, keep unfurledFor common wear as she goes through the world,The faint remainder of some worn-out smileMeant for a feast-night's service merely. WhileCrowd upon crowd rose on Sordello thus,—(Crowds no way interfering to discuss,Much less dispute, life's joys with one employedIn envying them,—or, if they aught enjoyed,Where lingered something indefinableIn every look and tone, the mirth as wellAs woe, that fixed at once his estimateOf the result, their good or bad estate)—But a thing with life of its own,Old memories returned with new effect:And the new body, ere he could suspect,Cohered, mankind and he were really fused,The new self seemed impatient to be usedBy him, but utterly another wayThan that anticipated: strange to say,They were too much below him, more in thrallThan he, the adjunct than the principal.What booted scattered units?—here a mindAnd there, which might repay his own to find,And stamp, and use?—a few, howe'er august,If all the rest were grovelling in the dust?No: first a mighty equilibrium, sure,Should he establish, privilege procureFor all, the few had long possessed! He feltAn error, an exceeding error melt—While he was occupied with Mantuan chants,Behoved him think of men, and take their wants,Such as he now distinguished every side,As his own want which might be satisfied,—And, after that, think of rare qualitiesOf his own soul demanding exercise.It followed naturally, through no claimOn their part, which made virtue of the aimAt serving them, on his,—that, past retrieve,He felt now in their toils, theirs,—nor could leaveWonder how, in the eagerness to rule,Impress his will on mankind, he (the fool!)Had never even entertained the thoughtThat this his last arrangement might be fraughtWith incidental good to them as well,And rights hitherto ignored by him,And that mankind's delight would help to swellHis own. So, if he sighed, as formerlyBecause the merry time of life must fleet,'T was deeplier now,—for could the crowds repeatTheir poor experiences? His hand that shookWas twice to be deplored. "The Legate, look!With eyes, like fresh-blown thrush-eggs on a thread,Faint-blue and loosely floating in his head,Large tongue, moist open mouth; and this long whileThat owner of the idiotic smileA fault he is now anxious to repair,Serves them!"He fortunately saw in timeHis fault however, and since the office primeIncludes the secondary—best acceptBoth offices; Taurello, its adept,Could teach him the preparatory one,And how to do what he had fancied doneLong previously, ere take the greater task,How render first these people happy? AskThe people's friends: for there must be one good,One way to it—the Cause!—he understoodThe meaning now of Palma; why the jarElse, the ado, the trouble wide and farOf Guelfs and Ghibellins, the Lombard hopeAnd Rome's despair?—'twixt Emperor and PopeThe confused shifting sort of Eden tale—Hardihood still recurring, still to fail—That foreign interloping fiend, this freeAnd native overbrooding deity—Yet a dire fascination o'er the palmsThe Kaiser ruined, troubling even the calmsOf paradise—or, on the other hand,Since he apprehends its full extent,The Pontiff, as the Kaisers understand,One snake-like cursed of God to love the ground,Whose heavy length breaks in the noon profoundSome saving tree—which needs the Kaiser, dressedAs the dislodging angel of that pest,Yet flames that pest bedropped, flat head, full fold,With coruscating dower of dyes. "BeholdThe secret, so to speak, and master-springO' the contest!—which of the two Powers shall bringMen good—perchance the most good—ay, it mayBe that!—the question, which best knows the way."And hereupon Count Mainard strutted pastOut of San Pietro; never seemed the lastOf archers, slingers: and our friend beganTo recollect strange modes of serving man,Arbalist, catapult, brake, manganel,And more. "This way of theirs may,—who can tell?—Need perfecting," said he: "let all be solvedAt once! Taurello 't is, the task devolvedOn late—confront Taurello!"And at lastHe did confront him. Scarce an hour had pastWhen forth Sordello came, older by yearsThan at his entry. Unexampled fearsOppressed him, and he staggered off, blind, muteAnd deaf, like some fresh-mutilated brute,Into Ferrara—not the empty townThat morning witnessed: he went up and downStreets whence the veil had been stripped shred by shred,So that, in place of huddling with their deadIndoors, to answer Salinguerra's ends,Townsfolk make shift to crawl forth, sit like friendsWith any one. A woman gave him choiceOf her two daughters, the infantile voiceOr the dimpled knee, for half a chain, his throatWas clasped with; but an archer knew the coat—Its blue cross and eight lilies,—bade bewareOne dogging him in concert with the pairThough thrumming on the sleeve that hid his knife.Night set in early, autumn dews were rife,They kindled great fires while the Leaguers' massBegan at every carroch—he must passBetween the kneeling people. PresentlyThe carroch of Verona caught his eyeWith purple trappings; silently he bentOver its fire, when voices violentBegan, "Affirm not whom the youth was likeThat struck me from the porch, I did not strikeAgain: I too have chestnut hair; my kinAnd would fain have helped some way,Hate Azzo and stand up for Ecelin.Here, minstrel, drive bad thoughts away! Sing! TakeMy glove for guerdon!" And for that man's sakeHe turned: "A song of Eglamor's!"—scarce named,When, "Our Sordello's rather!"—all exclaimed;"Is not Sordello famousest for rhyme?"He had been happy to deny, this time,—Profess as heretofore the aching headAnd failing heart,—suspect that in his steadSome true Apollo had the charge of them,Was champion to reward or to condemn,So his intolerable risk might shiftOr share itself; but Naddo's precious giftOf gifts, he owned, be certain! At the close—"I made that," said he to a youth who roseAs if to hear: 't was Palma through the bandConducted him in silence by her hand.Back now for Salinguerra. Tito of TrentGave place to Palma and her friend; who wentIn turn at Montelungo's visit—oneAfter the other were they come and gone,—These spokesmen for the Kaiser and the Pope,This incarnation of the People's hope,Sordello,—all the say of each was said;And Salinguerra sat, himself insteadOf these to talk with, lingered musing yet.'T was a drear vast presence-chamber roughly setIn order for the morning's use; full face,The Kaiser's ominous sign-mark had first place,The crowned grim twy-necked eagle, coarsely-blackedWith ochre on the naked wall; nor lackedRomano's green and yellow either side;But the new token Tito brought had triedThe Legate's patience—nay, if Palma knewWhat Salinguerra almost meant to doUntil the sight of her restored his lipA certain half-smile, three months' chieftainshipHad banished! Afterward, the Legate foundNo change in him, nor asked what badge he woundAnd unwound carelessly. Now sat the ChiefBut Salinguerra is also preoccupied;Silent as when our couple left, whose briefEncounter wrought so opportune effectIn thoughts he summoned not, nor would reject,Though time 't was now if ever, to pause—fixOn any sort of ending; wiles and tricksExhausted, judge! his charge, the crazy town,Just managed to be hindered crashing down—His last sound troops ranged—care observed to postHis best of the maimed soldiers innermost—So much was plain enough, but somehow struckHim not before. And now with this strange luckOf Tito's news, rewarding his addressSo well, what thought he of?—how the successWith Friedrich's rescript there would either hushOld Ecelin's scruples, bring the manly flushTo his young son's white cheek, or, last, exemptHimself from telling what there was to tempt?Resembling Sordello in nothing else.No: that this minstrel was Romano's lastServant—himself the first! Could he contrastThe whole!—that minstrel's thirty years just spentIn doing naught, their notablest eventThis morning's journey hither, as I told—Who yet was lean, outworn and really old,A stammering awkward man that scarce dared raiseHis eye before the magisterial gaze—And Salinguerra with his fears and hopesOf sixty years, his Emperors and Popes,Cares and contrivances, yet, you would say,'T was a youth nonchalantly looked awayThrough the embrasure northward o'er the sickExpostulating trees—so agile, quickHow he was made in body and spirit,And graceful turned the head on the broad chestEncased in pliant steel, his constant vest,Whence split the sun off in a spray of fireAcross the room; and, loosened of its tireOf steel, that head let breathe the comely brownLarge massive locks discolored as if a crownEncircled them, so frayed the basnet whereA sharp white line divided clean the hair;Glossy above, glossy below, it sweptCurling and fine about a brow thus keptCalm, laid coat upon coat, marble and sound:This was the mystic mark the Tuscan found,Mused of, turned over books about. Square-faced,No lion more; two vivid eyes, enchasedIn hollows filled with many a shade and streakSettling from the bold nose and bearded cheek.Nor might the half-smile reach them that deformedA lip supremely perfect else—unwarmed,Unwidened, less or more; indifferentWhether on trees or men his thoughts were bent,Thoughts rarely, after all, in trim and trainAs now a period was fulfilled again:Of such, a series made his life, compressedIn each, one story serving for the rest—And what had been his career of old.How his life-streams rolling arrived at lastAt the barrier, whence, were it once overpast,They would emerge, a river to the end,—Gathered themselves up, paused, bade fate befriend,Took the leap, hung a minute at the height,Then fell back to oblivion infinite:Therefore he smiled. Beyond stretched garden-groundsWhere late the adversary, breaking bounds,Had gained him an occasion, That above,That eagle, testified he could improveEffectually. The Kaiser's symbol layBeside his rescript, a new badge by wayOf baldric; while,—another thing that marredAlike emprise, achievement and reward,—Ecelin's missive was conspicuous too.What past life did those flying thoughts pursue?As his, few names in Mantua half so old;But at Ferrara, where his sires enrolledIt latterly, the Adelardi sparedNo pains to rival them: both factions sharedFerrara, so that, counted out, 't would yieldA product very like the city's shield,Half black and white, or Ghibellin and GuelfAs after Salinguerra styled himselfAnd Este, who, till Marchesalla died,(Last of the Adelardi)—never triedHis fortune there: with Marchesalla's childWould pass—could Blacks and Whites be reconciled,And young Taurello wed Linguetta—wealthAnd sway to a sole grasp. Each treats by stealthAlready: when the Guelfs, the RavenneseArrive, assault the Pietro quarter, seizeLinguetta, and are gone! Men's first dismayAbated somewhat, hurries down, to layThe after indignation, Boniface,This Richard's father. "Learn the full disgraceAverted, ere you blame us Guelfs, who rateYour Salinguerra, your sole potentateThat might have been, 'mongst Este's valvassors—Ay, Azzo's—who, not privy to, abhorsOur step; but we were zealous." Azzo 's thenTo do with! Straight a meeting of old men:"Old Salinguerra dead, his heir a boy,What if we change our ruler and decoyThe Lombard Eagle of the azure sphereWith Italy to build in, fix him here,Settle the city's troubles in a trice?For private wrong, let public good suffice!"The original check to his fortunes,In fine, young Salinguerra's stanchest friendsTalked of the townsmen making him amends,Gave him a goshawk, and affirmed there wasRare sport, one morning, over the green grassA mile or so. He sauntered through the plain,Was restless, fell to thinking, turned againIn time for Azzo's entry with the bride;Count Boniface rode smirking at their side;"She brings him half Ferrara," whispers flew,"And all Ancona! If the stripling knew!"Anon the stripling was in SicilyWhere Heinrich ruled in right of Constance; heWas gracious nor his guest incapable;Each understood the other. So it fell,One Spring, when Azzo, thoroughly at ease,Had near forgotten by what precise degreesHe crept at first to such a downy seat,The Count trudged over in a special heatTo bid him of God's love dislodge from eachOf Salinguerra's palaces,—a breachMight yawn else, not so readily to shut,For who was just arrived at Mantua butThe youngster, sword on thigh and tuft on chin,Which he was in the way to retrieve,With tokens for Celano, Ecelin,Pistore, and the like! Next news,—no whitDo any of Ferrara's domes befitHis wife of Heinrich's very blood: a bandOf foreigners assemble, understandGarden-constructing, level and surround,Build up and bury in. A last news crownedThe consternation: since his infant's birth,He only waits they end his wondrous girthOf trees that link San Pietro with Tomà,To visit Mantua. When the PodestàEcelin, at Vicenza, called his friendTaurello thither, what could be their endBut to restore the Ghibellins' late Head,The Kaiser helping? He with most to dreadFrom vengeance and reprisal, Azzo, thereWith Boniface beforehand, as awareOf plots in progress, gave alarm, expelledBoth plotters: but the Guelfs in triumph yelledToo hastily. The burning and the flight,And how Taurello, occupied that nightWith Ecelin, lost wife and son, I told:When a fresh calamity destroyed all:—Not how he bore the blow, retained his hold,Got friends safe through, left enemies the worstO' the fray, and hardly seemed to care at first:But afterward men heard not constantlyOf Salinguerra's House so sure to be!Though Azzo simply gained by the eventA shifting of his plagues—the first, contentTo fall behind the second and estrangeSo far his nature, suffer such a changeThat in Romano sought he wife and childAnd for Romano's sake seemed reconciledTo losing individual life, which shrunkAs the other prospered—mortised in his trunk,Like a dwarf palm which wanton Arabs foilOf bearing its own proper wine and oil,By grafting into it the stranger-vine,Which sucks its heart out, sly and serpentine,Till forth one vine-palm feathers to the root,And red drops moisten the insipid fruit.Once Adelaide set on,—the subtle mateOf the weak soldier, urged to emulateThe Church's valiant women deed for deed,And paragon her namesake, win the meedO' the great Matilda,—soon they overboreThe rest of Lombardy,—not as beforeBy an instinctive truculence, but patchedThe Kaiser's strategy until it matchedThe Pontiff's, sought old ends by novel means."Only, why is it Salinguerra screensHimself behind Romano?—him we badeEnjoy our shine i' the front, not seek the shade!"—Asked Heinrich, somewhat of the tardiestTo comprehend. Nor Philip acquiescedAt once in the arrangement; reasoned, pliedHis friend with offers of another bride,A statelier function—fruitlessly: 't was plainHe sank into a secondary personage,Taurello through some weakness must remainObscure. And Otho, free to judge of both,—Ecelin the unready, harsh and loth,And this more plausible and facile wightWith every point a-sparkle—chose the right,Admiring how his predecessors harpedOn the wrong man: "thus," quoth he, "wits are warpedBy outsides!" Carelessly, meanwhile, his lifeSuffered its many turns of peace and strifeIn many lands—you hardly could surpriseThe man; who shamed Sordello (recognize!)In this as much beside, that, unconcernedWhat qualities were natural or earned,With no ideal of graces, as they cameHe took them, singularly well the same—Speaking the Greek's own language, just becauseYour Greek eludes you, leave the least of flawsIn contracts with him; while, since Arab loreHolds the stars' secret—take one trouble moreAnd master it! 'Tis done, and now deterWho may the Tuscan, once Jove trined for her,From Friedrich's path!—Friedrich, whose pilgrimageThe same man puts aside, whom he'll engageTo leave next year John Brienne in the lurch,Come to Bassano, see Saint Francis' churchAnd judge of Guido the Bolognian's pieceWhich, lend Taurello credit, rivals Greece—Angels, with aureoles like golden quoitsPitched home, applauding Ecelin's exploits.For elegance, he strung the angelot,With the appropriate graces of such.Made rhymes thereto; for prowess, clove he notTiso, last siege, from crest to crupper? WhyDetail you thus a varied masteryBut to show how Taurello, on the watchFor men, to read their hearts and thereby catchTheir capabilities and purposes,Displayed himself so far as displayed these:While our Sordello only cared to knowAbout men as a means whereby he'd showHimself, and men had much or little worthAccording as they kept in or drew forthThat self; the other's choicest instrumentsSurmised him shallow.Meantime, malcontentsDropped off, town after town grew wiser. "HowChange the world's face?" asked people; "as 't is nowIt has been, will be ever: very fineSubjecting things profane to things divine,In talk! This contumacy will fatigueThe vigilance of Este and the League!The Ghibellins gain on us!"—as it happed.Old Azzo and old Boniface, entrappedBy Ponte Alto, both in one month's spaceSlept at Verona: either left a braceOf sons—but, three years after, either's pairLost Guglielm and Aldobrand its heir:Azzo remained and Richard—all the stayOf Este and Saint Boniface, at bayBut Ecelin, he set in front, falling,As 't were. Then, either Ecelin grew oldOr his brain altered—not o' the proper mouldFor new appliances—his old palm-stockEndured no influx of strange strengths. He'd rockAs in a drunkenness, or chuckle lowAs proud of the completeness of his woe,Then weep real tears;—now make some mad onslaughtOn Este, heedless of the lesson taughtSo painfully,—now cringe for peace, sue peaceAt price of past gain, bar of fresh increaseTo the fortunes of Romano. Up at lastRose Este, down Romano sank as fast.And men remarked these freaks of peace and warHappened while Salinguerra was afar:Whence every friend besought him, all in vain,To use his old adherent's wits again.Not he!—"who had advisers in his sons,Could plot himself, nor needed any one'sAdvice." 'T was Adelaide's remaining stanchPrevented his destruction root and branchForthwith; but when she died, doom fell, for gayHe made alliances, gave lands awayTo whom it pleased accept them, and withdrewForever from the world. Taurello, whoWas summoned to the convent, then refusedA word at the wicket, patience thus abused,Promptly threw off alike his imbecileAlly's yoke, and his own frank, foolish smile.Soon a few movements of the happier sortChanged matters, put himself in men's reportAs heretofore; he had to fight, beside,And that became him ever. So, in prideSalinguerra must again come forward,And flushing of this kind of second youth,He dealt a good-will blow. Este in truthLay prone—and men remembered, somewhat late,A laughing old outrageous stifled hateHe bore to Este—how it would outbreakAt times spite of disguise, like an earthquakeIn sunny weather—as that noted dayWhen with his hundred friends he tried to slayAzzo before the Kaiser's face: and how,On Azzo's calm refusal to allowA liegeman's challenge, straight he too was calmed:As if his hate could bear to lie embalmed,Bricked up, the moody Pharaoh, and surviveAll intermediate crumblings, to arriveAt earth's catastrophe—'t was Este's crash,Not Azzo's he demanded, so, no rashProcedure! Este's true antagonistRose out of Ecelin: all voices whist,All eyes were sharpened, wits predicted. He'T was, leaned in the embrasure absently,Why and how, is let out in soliloquy.Amused with his own efforts, now, to traceWith his steel-sheathed forefinger Friedrich's faceI' the dust: but as the trees waved sere, his smileDeepened, and words expressed its thought erewhile."Ay, fairly housed at last, my old compeer?That we should stick together, all the yearI kept Vicenza!—How old Boniface,Old Azzo caught us in its market-place,He by that pillar, I at this,—caught eachIn mid swing, more than fury of his speech,Egging the rabble on to disavowAllegiance to their Marquis—Bacchus, howThey boasted! Ecelin must turn their drudge,Nor, if released, will Salinguerra grudgePaying arrears of tribute due long since—Bacchus! My man could promise then, nor wince,The bones-and-muscles! Sound of wind and limb,Spoke he the set excuse I framed for him:And now he sits me, slavering and mute,Intent on chafing each starved purple footBenumbed past aching with the altar slab—Will no vein throb there when some monk shall blabSpitefully to the circle of bald scalps,Ecelin, he did all for, is a monk now,'Friedrich's affirmed to be our side the Alps'—Eh, brother Lactance, brother Anaclet?Sworn to abjure the world, its fume and fret,God's own now? Drop the dormitory bar,Enfold the scanty gray serge scapularTwice o'er the cowl to muffle memories out!So! But the midnight whisper turns a shout,Eyes wink, mouths open, pulses circulateIn the stone walls: the past, the world you hateIs with you, ambush, open field—or seeThe surging flame—we fire Vicenza—glee!Follow, let Pilio and Bernardo chafe!Bring up the Mantuans—through San Biagio—safe!Ah, the mad people waken? Ah, they writheAnd reach us? If they block the gate? No titheCan pass—keep back, you Bassanese! The edge,Use the edge—shear, thrust, hew, melt down the wedge,Let out the black of those black upturned eyes!Hell—are they sprinkling fire too? The blood friesAnd hisses on your brass gloves as they tearThose upturned faces choking with despair.Brave! Slidder through the reeking gate! 'How now?You six had charge of her?' And then the vowComes, and the foam spirts, hair's plucked, till one shriek(I hear it) and you fling—you cannot speak—Your gold-flowered basnet to a man who haledThe Adelaide he dared scarce view unveiledThis morn, naked across the fire: how crownThe archer that exhausted lays you downYour infant, smiling at the flame, and dies?While one, while mine ..."Bacchus! I think there liesMore than one corpse there" (and he paced the room)"—Another cinder somewhere: 't was my doomBeside, my doom! If Adelaide is dead,I live the same, this Azzo lives insteadOf that to me, and we pull, any how,Este into a heap: the matter's nowJust when the prize awaits somebody;At the true juncture slipping us so oft.Ay, Heinrich died and Otho, please you doffedHis crown at such a juncture! Still, if holdsOur Friedrich's purpose, if this chain enfoldsThe neck of ... who but this same EcelinThat must recoil when the best days begin!Recoil? that's naught; if the recoiler leavesHis name for me to fight with, no one grieves:But he must interfere, forsooth, unlockHis cloister to become my stumbling-blockJust as of old! Ay, ay, there 't is again—The land's inevitable Head—explainThe reverences that subject us! CountThese Ecelins now! Not to say as fount,Originating power of thought,—from twelveThat drop i' the trenches they joined hands to delve,Six shall surpass him, but ... why, men must twineSomehow with something! Ecelin's a fineHimself, if it were only worth while,Clear name! 'T were simpler, doubtless, twine with meAt once our cloistered friend's capacityWas of a sort! I had to share myselfIn fifty portions, like an o'ertasked elfThat's forced illume in fifty points the vastRare vapor he's environed by. At lastMy strengths, though sorely frittered, e'en convergeAnd crown ... no, Bacchus, they have yet to urgeThe man be crowned!"That aloe, an he durst,Would climb! Just such a bloated sprawler firstI noted in Messina's castle-courtThe day I came, when Heinrich asked in sportIf I would pledge my faith to win him backHis right in Lombardy: 'for, once bid packMarauders,' he continued, 'in my steadYou rule, Taurello!' and upon this headLaid the silk glove of Constance—I see herToo, mantled head to foot in miniver,Retrude following!"I am absolvedFrom further toil: the empery devolvedOn me, 't was Tito's word: I have to layFor once my plan, pursue my plan my way,Prompt nobody, and render an accountTaurello to Taurello! Nay, I mountTo Friedrich: he conceives the post I kept,—Who did true service, able or inept,Who's worthy guerdon, Ecelin or I.Me guerdoned, counsel follows: would he vieWith the Pope really? Azzo, BonifaceCompose a right-arm Hohenstauffen's raceMust break ere govern Lombardy. I pointHow easy 't were to twist, once out of joint,The socket from the bone: my Azzo's stareMeanwhile! for I, this idle strap to wear,Shall—fret myself abundantly, what endTo serve? There's left me twenty years to spendAs it may be—but also, as it may not be——How better than my old way? Had I oneWho labored to o'erthrow my work—a sonHatching with Azzo superb treachery,To root my pines up and then poison me,Suppose—'t were worth while frustrate that! Beside,Another life's ordained me: the world's tideRolls, and what hope of parting from the pressOf waves, a single wave through wearinessGently lifted aside, laid upon shore?My life must be lived out in foam and roar,No question. Fifty years the province heldTaurello; troubles raised, and troubles quelled,He in the midst—who leaves this quaint stone place,These trees a year or two, then not a traceOf him! How obtain hold, fetter men's tonguesLike this poor minstrel with the foolish songs—To which, despite our bustle, he is linked?—Flowers one may tease, that never grow extinct.Ay, that patch, surely, green as ever, whereI set Her Moorish lentisk, by the stair,To overawe the aloes; and we trodThose flowers, how call you such?—into the sod;A stately foreigner—a world of painTo make it thrive, arrest rough winds—all vain!It would decline; these would not he destroyed:And now, where is it? where can you avoidThe flowers? I frighten children twenty yearsLonger!—which way, too, Ecelin appearsTo thwart me, for his son's besotted youthGives promise of the proper tiger-tooth:They feel it at Vicenza! Fate, fate, fate,My fine Taurello! Go you, promulgateFriedrich's decree, and here 's shall aggrandizeYoung Ecelin—your Prefect's badge! a prizeThe supposition he most inclines to;Too precious, certainly."How now? CompeteWith my old comrade? shuffle from their seatHis children? Paltry dealing! Don't I knowEcelin? now, I think, and years ago!What's changed—the weakness? did not I compoundFor that, and undertake to keep him soundDespite it? Here's Taurello hankeringAfter a boy's preferment—this playthingTo carry, Bacchus!" And he laughed.RemarkWhy schemes wherein cold-blooded men embarkProsper, when your enthusiastic sortFail: while these last are ever stopping short—(So much they should—so little they can do!)The careless tribe see nothing to pursueIf they desist; meantime their scheme succeeds.Thoughts were caprices in the course of deedsMethodic with Taurello; so, he turned,Enough amused by fancies fairly earnedOf Este's horror-struck submitted neck,And Richard, the cowed braggart, at his beck,Being contented with mere vengeance.To his own petty but immediate doubtIf he could pacify the League withoutConceding Richard; just to this was broughtThat interval of vain discursive thought!As, shall I say, some Ethiop, past pursuitOf all enslavers, dips a shackled footBurnt to the blood, into the drowsy blackEnormous watercourse which guides him backTo his own tribe again, where he is king;And laughs because he guesses, numberingThe yellower poison-wattles on the pouchOf the first lizard wrested from its couchUnder the slime (whose skin, the while he stripsTo cure his nostril with, and festered lips,And eyeballs bloodshot through the desert-blast)That he has reached its boundary, at lastMay breathe;—thinks o'er enchantments of the SouthSovereign to plague his enemies, their mouth,Eyes, nails, and hair; but, these enchantments triedIn fancy, puts them soberly asideFor truth, projects a cool return with friends,The likelihood of winning mere amendsEre long; thinks that, takes comfort silently,Then, from the river's brink, his wrongs and he,Hugging revenge close to their hearts, are soonOff-striding for the Mountains of the Moon.Midnight: the watcher nodded on his spear,Since clouds dispersing left a passage clearFor any meagre and discolored moonTo venture forth; and such was peering soonAbove the harassed city—her close lanesCloser, not half so tapering her fanes,As though she shrunk into herself to keepWhat little life was saved, more safely. HeapBy heap the watch-fires mouldered, and besideThe blackest spoke Sordello and repliedPalma with none to listen. "'T is your cause:Sordello, taught what Ghibellins are,What makes a Ghibellin? There should be laws—(Remember how my youth escaped! I trustTo you for manhood, Palma; tell me justAs any child)—there must be laws at workExplaining this. Assure me, good may lurkUnder the bad,—my multitude has partIn your designs, their welfare is at heartWith Salinguerra, to their interestRefer the deeds he dwelt on,—so divestOur conference of much that scared me. WhyAffect that heartless tone to Tito? IEsteemed myself, yes, in my inmost mindThis morn, a recreant to my race—mankindO'erlooked till now: why boast my spirit's force,—Such force denied its object? why divorceThese, then admire my spirit's flight the sameAs though it bore up, helped some half-orbed flameElse quenched in the dead void, to living space?That orb cast off to chaos and disgrace,Why vaunt so much my unencumbered dance,Making a feat's facilities enhanceIts marvel? But I front Taurello, oneOf happier fate, and all I should have done,He does; the people's good being paramountWith him, their progress may perhaps accountFor his abiding still; whereas you heardThe talk with Tito—the excuse preferredFor burning those five hostages,—and broachedBy way of blind, as you and I approached,I do believe."She spoke: then he, "My thoughtPlainlier expressed! All to your profit—naughtMeantime of these, of conquests to achieveFor them, of wretchedness he might relieveAnd what Guelfs, approves of neither.While profiting your party. Azzo, too,Supports a cause: what cause? Do Guelfs pursueTheir ends by means like yours, or better?"WhenThe Guelfs were proved alike, men weighed with men,And deed with deed, blaze, blood, with blood and blaze,Morn broke: "Once more, Sordello, meet its gazeProudly—the people's charge against thee failsIn every point, while either party quails!These are the busy ones: be silent thou!Two parties take the world up, and allowNo third, yet have one principle, subsistBy the same injustice; whoso shall enlistWith either, ranks with man's inveterate foes.So there is one less quarrel to compose:The Guelf, the Ghibellin may be to curse—I have done nothing, but both sides do worseThan nothing. Nay, to me, forgotten, reftOf insight, lapped by trees and flowers, was leftThe notion of a service—ha? What luredMe here, what mighty aim was I assuredMust move Taurello? What if there remainedHave men a cause distinct from both?A cause, intact, distinct from these, ordainedFor me, its true discoverer?"Some one pressedBefore them here, a watcher, to suggestThe subject for a ballad: "They must knowThe tale of the dead worthy, long agoConsul of Rome—that 's long ago for us,Minstrels and bowmen, idly squabbling thusIn the world's corner—but too late no doubt,For the brave time he sought to bring about.Who was the famed Roman Crescentius?—Not know Crescentius Nomentanus?" ThenHe cast about for terms to tell him, whenSordello disavowed it, how they usedWhenever their Superior introducedA novice to the Brotherhood—("for IWas just a brown-sleeve brother, merrilyAppointed too," quoth he, "till InnocentBade me relinquish, to my small content,My wife or my brown sleeves")—some brother spokeEre nocturns of Crescentius, to revokeThe edict issued, after his demise,Which blotted fame alike and effigies,All out except a floating power, a nameIncluding, tending to produce the sameGreat act. Rome, dead, forgotten, lived at leastWithin that brain, though to a vulgar priestAnd a vile stranger,—two not worth a slaveOf Rome's, Pope John, King Otho,—fortune gaveThe rule there: so, Crescentius, haply dressedIn white, called Roman Consul for a jest,Taking the people at their word, forth steppedAs upon Brutus' heel, nor ever keptRome waiting,—stood erect, and from his brainGave Rome out on its ancient place again,Ay, bade proceed with Brutus' Rome, Kings styledThemselves mere citizens of, and, beguiledInto great thoughts thereby, would choose the gemOut of a lapfull, spoil their diadem—The Senate's cypher was so hard to scratch!He flashes like a phanal, all men catchThe flame, Rome 's just accomplished! when returnedOtho, with John, the Consul's step had spurned,And Hugo Lord of Este, to redressThe wrongs of each. Crescentius in the stressOf adverse fortune bent. "They crucifiedTheir Consul in the Forum; and abideE'er since such slaves at Rome, that I—(for IWas once a brown-sleeve brother, merrilyAppointed)—I had option to keep wifeOr keep brown sleeves, and managed in the strifeLose both. A song of Rome!"And Rome, indeed,Robed at Goito in fantastic weed,The Mother-City of his Mantuan days,Looked an established point of light whence raysTraversed the world; for, all the clustered homesBeside of men, seemed bent on being RomesIn their degree; the question was, how eachShould most resemble Rome, clean out of reach.How if, in the reintegration of Rome,Nor, of the Two, did either principleStruggle to change—but to possess—Rome, still,Guelf Rome or Ghibellin Rome.Let Rome advance!Rome, as she struck Sordello's ignorance—How could he doubt one moment? Rome 's the Cause!Rome of the Pandects, all the world's new laws—Of the Capitol, of Castle Angelo;New structures, that inordinately glow,Subdued, brought back to harmony, made ripeBy many a relic of the archetypeExtant for wonder; every upstart churchThat hoped to leave old temples in the lurch,Corrected by the Theatre forlornThat,—as a mundane shell, its world late born,—Lay and o'ershadowed it. These hints combined,Be typified the triumph of mankind?Rome typifies the scheme to put mankindOnce more in full possession of their rights."Let us have Rome again! On me it lightsTo build up Rome—on me, the first and last:For such a future was endured the past!"And thus, in the gray twilight, forth he sprungTo give his thought consistency amongThe very People—let their facts availFinish the dream grown from the archer's tale.
Meantime Ferrara lay in rueful case;The lady-city, for whose sole embraceHer pair of suitors struggled, felt their armsA brawny mischief to the fragile charmsThey tugged for—one discovering that to twistHer tresses twice or thrice about his wristSecured a point of vantage—one, how bestHe 'd parry that by planting in her breastHis elbow spike—each party too intentMen suffered much,For noticing, howe'er the battle went,The conqueror would but have a corpse to kiss."May Boniface be duly damned for this!"—Howled some old Ghibellin, as up he turned,From the wet heap of rubbish where they burnedHis house, a little skull with dazzling teeth:"A boon, sweet Christ—let Salinguerra seetheIn hell forever, Christ, and let myselfBe there to laugh at him!"—moaned some young GuelfStumbling upon a shrivelled hand nailed fastTo the charred lintel of the doorway, lastHis father stood within to bid him speed.The thoroughfares were overrun with weed—Docks, quitchgrass, loathy mallows no man plants.The stranger, none of its inhabitantsWhichever of the parties was victor.Crept out of doors to taste fresh air again,And ask the purpose of a splendid trainAdmitted on a morning; every townOf the East League was come by envoy downTo treat for Richard's ransom: here you sawThe Vicentine, here snowy oxen drawThe Paduan carroch, its vermilion crossOn its white field. A-tiptoe o'er the fosseLooked Legate Montelungo wistfullyAfter the flock of steeples he might spyIn Este's time, gone (doubts he) long agoTo mend the ramparts: sure the laggards knowThe Pope 's as good as here! They paced the streetsMore soberly. At last, "Taurello greetsThe League," announced a pursuivant,—"will matchIts courtesy, and labors to dispatchAt earliest Tito, Friedrich's Pretor, sentOn pressing matters from his post at Trent,With Mainard Count of Tyrol,—simply waitsTheir going to receive the delegates.""Tito!" Our delegates exchanged a glance,And, keeping the main way, admired askanceThe lazy engines of outlandish birth,Couched like a king each on its bank of earth—Arbalist, manganel and catapult;While stationed by, as waiting a result,Lean silent gangs of mercenaries ceasedWorking to watch the strangers. "This, at least,Were better spared; he scarce presumes gainsayThe League's decision! Get our friend awayAnd profit for the future: how else teachFools 't is not safe to stray within claw's reachEre Salinguerra's final gasp be blown?Those mere convulsive scratches find the bone.Who bade him bloody the spent osprey's nare?"The carrochs halted in the public square.Pennons of every blazon once a-flaunt,Men prattled, freelier that the crested gauntHow Guelfs criticise Ghibellin workWhite ostrich with a horse-shoe in her beakWas missing, and whoever chose might speak"Ecelin" boldly out: so,—"EcelinNeeded his wife to swallow half the sinAnd sickens by himself: the devil's whelp,He styles his son, dwindles away, no helpFrom conserves, your fine triple-curded frothOf virgin's blood, your Venice viper-broth—Eh? Jubilate!"—"Peace! no little wordYou utter here that 's not distinctly heardUp at Oliero: he was absent sickWhen we besieged Bassano—who, i' the thickO' the work, perceived the progress Azzo made,Like Ecelin, through his witch Adelaide?She managed it so well that, night by night,At their bed-foot stood up a soldier-sprite,First fresh, pale by-and-by without a wound,And, when it came with eyes filmed as in swound,They knew the place was taken."—"OminousThat Ghibellins should get what cautelousOld Redbeard sought from Azzo's sire to wrenchVainly; Saint George contrived his town a trenchO' the marshes, an impermeable bar.""—Young Ecelin is meant the tutelarOf Padua, rather; veins embrace uponHis hand like Brenta and Bacchiglion."What now?—"The founts! God's bread, touch not a plank!A crawling hell of carrion—every tankAs unusually energetic in this case.Choke full!—found out just now to Cino's cost—The same who gave Taurello up for lost,And, making no account of fortune's freaks,Refused to budge from Padua then, but sneaksBack now with Concorezzi—'faith! they dragTheir carroch to San Vitale, plant the flagOn his own palace, so adroitly razedHe knew it not; a sort of Guelf folk gazedAnd laughed apart; Cino disliked their air—Must pluck up spirit, show he does not care—Seats himself on the tank's edge—will beginTo hum,za, za, Cavaler Ecelin—A silence; he gets warmer, clinks to chime,Now both feet plough the ground, deeper each time,At last,za, za, and up with a fierce kickComes his own mother's face caught by the thickGray hair about his spur!"Which means, they liftThe covering, Salinguerra made a shiftTo stretch upon the truth; as well avoidFurther disclosures; leave them thus employed.Our dropping Autumn morning clears apace,And poor Ferrara puts a softened faceOn her misfortunes. Let us scale this tallHuge foursquare line of red brick garden-wallHow, passing through the rare garden,Bastioned within by trees of every sortOn three sides, slender, spreading, long and short;Each grew as it contrived, the poplar ramped,The fig-tree reared itself,—but stark and cramped,Made fools of, like tamed lions: whence, on the edge,Running 'twixt trunk and trunk to smooth one ledgeOf shade, were shrubs inserted, warp and woof,Which smothered up that variance. Scale the roofOf solid tops, and o'er the slope you slideDown to a grassy space level and wide,Here and there dotted with a tree, but treesOf rarer leaf, each foreigner at ease,Set by itself: and in the centre spreads,Borne upon three uneasy leopards' heads,A laver, broad and shallow, one bright spirtOf water bubbles in. The walls begirtWith trees leave off on either hand; pursueYour path along a wondrous avenueThose walls abut on, heaped of gleamy stone,With aloes leering everywhere, gray-grownFrom many a Moorish summer: how they windOut of the fissures! likelier to bindThe building than those rusted cramps which dropAlready in the eating sunshine. Stop,You fleeting shapes above there! Ah, the prideOr else despair of the whole country-side!A range of statues, swarming o'er with wasps,Salinguerra contrived for a purpose,God, goddess, woman, man, the Greek rough-raspsIn crumbling Naples marble—meant to lookLike those Messina marbles Constance tookDelight in, or Taurello's self conveyedTo Mantua for his mistress, Adelaide,A certain font with caryatidesSince cloistered at Goito; only, theseAre up and doing, not abashed, a troopAble to right themselves—who see you, stoopTheir arms o' the instant after you! UnpluckedBy this or that, you pass; for they conductTo terrace raised on terrace, and, between,Creatures of brighter mould and braver mienThan any yet, the choicest of the IsleNo doubt. Here, left a sullen breathing-while,Up-gathered on himself the Fighter stoodFor his last fight, and, wiping treacherous bloodOut of the eyelids just held ope beneathThose shading fingers in their iron sheath,Steadied his strengths amid the buzz and stirOf the dusk hideous amphitheatreAt the announcement of his over-matchTo wind the day's diversion up, dispatchThe pertinacious Gaul: while, limbs one heap,The Slave, no breath in her round mouth, watched leapDart after dart forth, as her hero's carClove dizzily the solid of the war—Let coil about his knees for pride in him.We reach the farthest terrace, and the grimSan Pietro Palace stops us.Such the stateOf Salinguerra's plan to emulateSicilian marvels, that his girlish wifeRetrude still might lead her ancient lifeIn her new home: whereat enlarged so muchNeighbors upon the novel princely touchHe took,—who here imprisons Boniface.Here must the Envoys come to sue for grace;And here, emerging from the labyrinthBelow, Sordello paused beside the plinthOf the door-pillar.Sordello ponders all seen and heard,He had really leftVerona for the cornfields (a poor theftFrom the morass) where Este's camp was made.The Envoys' march, the Legate's cavalcade—All had been seen by him, but scarce as when,—Eager for cause to stand aloof from menAt every point save the fantastic tieAcknowledged in his boyish sophistry,—He made account of such. A crowd,—he meantTo task the whole of it; each part's intentConcerned him therefore: and, the more he pried,The less became Sordello satisfiedWith his own figure at the moment. SoughtHe respite from his task? Descried he aughtNovel in the anticipated sightOf all these livers upon all delight?This phalanx, as of myriad points combined,Whereby he still had imaged the mankindHis youth was passed in dreams of rivalling,His age—in plans to prove at least such thingHad been so dreamed,—which now he must impressWith his own will, effect a happinessBy theirs,—supply a body to his soulThence, and become eventually wholeWith them as he had hoped to be without—Finds in men no machine for his sake,Made these the mankind he once raved about?Because a few of them were notable,Should all be figured worthy note? As wellExpect to find Taurello's triple lineOf trees a single and prodigious pine.Real pines rose here and there; but, close among,Thrust into and mixed up with pines, a throngOf shrubs, he saw,—a nameless common sortO'erpast in dreams, left out of the reportAnd hurried into corners, or at bestAdmitted to be fancied like the rest.Reckon that morning's proper chiefs—how few!And yet the people grew, the people grew,Grew ever, as if the many there indeed,More left behind and most who should succeed,—Simply in virtue of their mouths and eyes,Petty enjoyments and huge miseries,—Mingled with, and made veritably greatThose chiefs: he overlooked not Mainard's stateNor Concorezzi's station, but insteadOf stopping there, each dwindled to be headOf infinite and absent TyroleseOr Paduans; startling all the more, that theseSeemed passive and disposed of, uncared for,Yet doubtless on the whole (like Eglamor)Smiling; for if a wealthy man decaysAnd out of store of robes must wear, all days,One tattered suit, alike in sun and shade,'Tis commonly some tarnished gay brocadeFit for a feast-night's flourish and no more:Nor otherwise poor Misery from her storeOf looks is fain upgather, keep unfurledFor common wear as she goes through the world,The faint remainder of some worn-out smileMeant for a feast-night's service merely. WhileCrowd upon crowd rose on Sordello thus,—(Crowds no way interfering to discuss,Much less dispute, life's joys with one employedIn envying them,—or, if they aught enjoyed,Where lingered something indefinableIn every look and tone, the mirth as wellAs woe, that fixed at once his estimateOf the result, their good or bad estate)—But a thing with life of its own,Old memories returned with new effect:And the new body, ere he could suspect,Cohered, mankind and he were really fused,The new self seemed impatient to be usedBy him, but utterly another wayThan that anticipated: strange to say,They were too much below him, more in thrallThan he, the adjunct than the principal.What booted scattered units?—here a mindAnd there, which might repay his own to find,And stamp, and use?—a few, howe'er august,If all the rest were grovelling in the dust?No: first a mighty equilibrium, sure,Should he establish, privilege procureFor all, the few had long possessed! He feltAn error, an exceeding error melt—While he was occupied with Mantuan chants,Behoved him think of men, and take their wants,Such as he now distinguished every side,As his own want which might be satisfied,—And, after that, think of rare qualitiesOf his own soul demanding exercise.It followed naturally, through no claimOn their part, which made virtue of the aimAt serving them, on his,—that, past retrieve,He felt now in their toils, theirs,—nor could leaveWonder how, in the eagerness to rule,Impress his will on mankind, he (the fool!)Had never even entertained the thoughtThat this his last arrangement might be fraughtWith incidental good to them as well,And rights hitherto ignored by him,And that mankind's delight would help to swellHis own. So, if he sighed, as formerlyBecause the merry time of life must fleet,'T was deeplier now,—for could the crowds repeatTheir poor experiences? His hand that shookWas twice to be deplored. "The Legate, look!With eyes, like fresh-blown thrush-eggs on a thread,Faint-blue and loosely floating in his head,Large tongue, moist open mouth; and this long whileThat owner of the idiotic smileA fault he is now anxious to repair,Serves them!"He fortunately saw in timeHis fault however, and since the office primeIncludes the secondary—best acceptBoth offices; Taurello, its adept,Could teach him the preparatory one,And how to do what he had fancied doneLong previously, ere take the greater task,How render first these people happy? AskThe people's friends: for there must be one good,One way to it—the Cause!—he understoodThe meaning now of Palma; why the jarElse, the ado, the trouble wide and farOf Guelfs and Ghibellins, the Lombard hopeAnd Rome's despair?—'twixt Emperor and PopeThe confused shifting sort of Eden tale—Hardihood still recurring, still to fail—That foreign interloping fiend, this freeAnd native overbrooding deity—Yet a dire fascination o'er the palmsThe Kaiser ruined, troubling even the calmsOf paradise—or, on the other hand,Since he apprehends its full extent,The Pontiff, as the Kaisers understand,One snake-like cursed of God to love the ground,Whose heavy length breaks in the noon profoundSome saving tree—which needs the Kaiser, dressedAs the dislodging angel of that pest,Yet flames that pest bedropped, flat head, full fold,With coruscating dower of dyes. "BeholdThe secret, so to speak, and master-springO' the contest!—which of the two Powers shall bringMen good—perchance the most good—ay, it mayBe that!—the question, which best knows the way."And hereupon Count Mainard strutted pastOut of San Pietro; never seemed the lastOf archers, slingers: and our friend beganTo recollect strange modes of serving man,Arbalist, catapult, brake, manganel,And more. "This way of theirs may,—who can tell?—Need perfecting," said he: "let all be solvedAt once! Taurello 't is, the task devolvedOn late—confront Taurello!"And at lastHe did confront him. Scarce an hour had pastWhen forth Sordello came, older by yearsThan at his entry. Unexampled fearsOppressed him, and he staggered off, blind, muteAnd deaf, like some fresh-mutilated brute,Into Ferrara—not the empty townThat morning witnessed: he went up and downStreets whence the veil had been stripped shred by shred,So that, in place of huddling with their deadIndoors, to answer Salinguerra's ends,Townsfolk make shift to crawl forth, sit like friendsWith any one. A woman gave him choiceOf her two daughters, the infantile voiceOr the dimpled knee, for half a chain, his throatWas clasped with; but an archer knew the coat—Its blue cross and eight lilies,—bade bewareOne dogging him in concert with the pairThough thrumming on the sleeve that hid his knife.Night set in early, autumn dews were rife,They kindled great fires while the Leaguers' massBegan at every carroch—he must passBetween the kneeling people. PresentlyThe carroch of Verona caught his eyeWith purple trappings; silently he bentOver its fire, when voices violentBegan, "Affirm not whom the youth was likeThat struck me from the porch, I did not strikeAgain: I too have chestnut hair; my kinAnd would fain have helped some way,Hate Azzo and stand up for Ecelin.Here, minstrel, drive bad thoughts away! Sing! TakeMy glove for guerdon!" And for that man's sakeHe turned: "A song of Eglamor's!"—scarce named,When, "Our Sordello's rather!"—all exclaimed;"Is not Sordello famousest for rhyme?"He had been happy to deny, this time,—Profess as heretofore the aching headAnd failing heart,—suspect that in his steadSome true Apollo had the charge of them,Was champion to reward or to condemn,So his intolerable risk might shiftOr share itself; but Naddo's precious giftOf gifts, he owned, be certain! At the close—"I made that," said he to a youth who roseAs if to hear: 't was Palma through the bandConducted him in silence by her hand.Back now for Salinguerra. Tito of TrentGave place to Palma and her friend; who wentIn turn at Montelungo's visit—oneAfter the other were they come and gone,—These spokesmen for the Kaiser and the Pope,This incarnation of the People's hope,Sordello,—all the say of each was said;And Salinguerra sat, himself insteadOf these to talk with, lingered musing yet.'T was a drear vast presence-chamber roughly setIn order for the morning's use; full face,The Kaiser's ominous sign-mark had first place,The crowned grim twy-necked eagle, coarsely-blackedWith ochre on the naked wall; nor lackedRomano's green and yellow either side;But the new token Tito brought had triedThe Legate's patience—nay, if Palma knewWhat Salinguerra almost meant to doUntil the sight of her restored his lipA certain half-smile, three months' chieftainshipHad banished! Afterward, the Legate foundNo change in him, nor asked what badge he woundAnd unwound carelessly. Now sat the ChiefBut Salinguerra is also preoccupied;Silent as when our couple left, whose briefEncounter wrought so opportune effectIn thoughts he summoned not, nor would reject,Though time 't was now if ever, to pause—fixOn any sort of ending; wiles and tricksExhausted, judge! his charge, the crazy town,Just managed to be hindered crashing down—His last sound troops ranged—care observed to postHis best of the maimed soldiers innermost—So much was plain enough, but somehow struckHim not before. And now with this strange luckOf Tito's news, rewarding his addressSo well, what thought he of?—how the successWith Friedrich's rescript there would either hushOld Ecelin's scruples, bring the manly flushTo his young son's white cheek, or, last, exemptHimself from telling what there was to tempt?Resembling Sordello in nothing else.No: that this minstrel was Romano's lastServant—himself the first! Could he contrastThe whole!—that minstrel's thirty years just spentIn doing naught, their notablest eventThis morning's journey hither, as I told—Who yet was lean, outworn and really old,A stammering awkward man that scarce dared raiseHis eye before the magisterial gaze—And Salinguerra with his fears and hopesOf sixty years, his Emperors and Popes,Cares and contrivances, yet, you would say,'T was a youth nonchalantly looked awayThrough the embrasure northward o'er the sickExpostulating trees—so agile, quickHow he was made in body and spirit,And graceful turned the head on the broad chestEncased in pliant steel, his constant vest,Whence split the sun off in a spray of fireAcross the room; and, loosened of its tireOf steel, that head let breathe the comely brownLarge massive locks discolored as if a crownEncircled them, so frayed the basnet whereA sharp white line divided clean the hair;Glossy above, glossy below, it sweptCurling and fine about a brow thus keptCalm, laid coat upon coat, marble and sound:This was the mystic mark the Tuscan found,Mused of, turned over books about. Square-faced,No lion more; two vivid eyes, enchasedIn hollows filled with many a shade and streakSettling from the bold nose and bearded cheek.Nor might the half-smile reach them that deformedA lip supremely perfect else—unwarmed,Unwidened, less or more; indifferentWhether on trees or men his thoughts were bent,Thoughts rarely, after all, in trim and trainAs now a period was fulfilled again:Of such, a series made his life, compressedIn each, one story serving for the rest—And what had been his career of old.How his life-streams rolling arrived at lastAt the barrier, whence, were it once overpast,They would emerge, a river to the end,—Gathered themselves up, paused, bade fate befriend,Took the leap, hung a minute at the height,Then fell back to oblivion infinite:Therefore he smiled. Beyond stretched garden-groundsWhere late the adversary, breaking bounds,Had gained him an occasion, That above,That eagle, testified he could improveEffectually. The Kaiser's symbol layBeside his rescript, a new badge by wayOf baldric; while,—another thing that marredAlike emprise, achievement and reward,—Ecelin's missive was conspicuous too.What past life did those flying thoughts pursue?As his, few names in Mantua half so old;But at Ferrara, where his sires enrolledIt latterly, the Adelardi sparedNo pains to rival them: both factions sharedFerrara, so that, counted out, 't would yieldA product very like the city's shield,Half black and white, or Ghibellin and GuelfAs after Salinguerra styled himselfAnd Este, who, till Marchesalla died,(Last of the Adelardi)—never triedHis fortune there: with Marchesalla's childWould pass—could Blacks and Whites be reconciled,And young Taurello wed Linguetta—wealthAnd sway to a sole grasp. Each treats by stealthAlready: when the Guelfs, the RavenneseArrive, assault the Pietro quarter, seizeLinguetta, and are gone! Men's first dismayAbated somewhat, hurries down, to layThe after indignation, Boniface,This Richard's father. "Learn the full disgraceAverted, ere you blame us Guelfs, who rateYour Salinguerra, your sole potentateThat might have been, 'mongst Este's valvassors—Ay, Azzo's—who, not privy to, abhorsOur step; but we were zealous." Azzo 's thenTo do with! Straight a meeting of old men:"Old Salinguerra dead, his heir a boy,What if we change our ruler and decoyThe Lombard Eagle of the azure sphereWith Italy to build in, fix him here,Settle the city's troubles in a trice?For private wrong, let public good suffice!"The original check to his fortunes,In fine, young Salinguerra's stanchest friendsTalked of the townsmen making him amends,Gave him a goshawk, and affirmed there wasRare sport, one morning, over the green grassA mile or so. He sauntered through the plain,Was restless, fell to thinking, turned againIn time for Azzo's entry with the bride;Count Boniface rode smirking at their side;"She brings him half Ferrara," whispers flew,"And all Ancona! If the stripling knew!"Anon the stripling was in SicilyWhere Heinrich ruled in right of Constance; heWas gracious nor his guest incapable;Each understood the other. So it fell,One Spring, when Azzo, thoroughly at ease,Had near forgotten by what precise degreesHe crept at first to such a downy seat,The Count trudged over in a special heatTo bid him of God's love dislodge from eachOf Salinguerra's palaces,—a breachMight yawn else, not so readily to shut,For who was just arrived at Mantua butThe youngster, sword on thigh and tuft on chin,Which he was in the way to retrieve,With tokens for Celano, Ecelin,Pistore, and the like! Next news,—no whitDo any of Ferrara's domes befitHis wife of Heinrich's very blood: a bandOf foreigners assemble, understandGarden-constructing, level and surround,Build up and bury in. A last news crownedThe consternation: since his infant's birth,He only waits they end his wondrous girthOf trees that link San Pietro with Tomà,To visit Mantua. When the PodestàEcelin, at Vicenza, called his friendTaurello thither, what could be their endBut to restore the Ghibellins' late Head,The Kaiser helping? He with most to dreadFrom vengeance and reprisal, Azzo, thereWith Boniface beforehand, as awareOf plots in progress, gave alarm, expelledBoth plotters: but the Guelfs in triumph yelledToo hastily. The burning and the flight,And how Taurello, occupied that nightWith Ecelin, lost wife and son, I told:When a fresh calamity destroyed all:—Not how he bore the blow, retained his hold,Got friends safe through, left enemies the worstO' the fray, and hardly seemed to care at first:But afterward men heard not constantlyOf Salinguerra's House so sure to be!Though Azzo simply gained by the eventA shifting of his plagues—the first, contentTo fall behind the second and estrangeSo far his nature, suffer such a changeThat in Romano sought he wife and childAnd for Romano's sake seemed reconciledTo losing individual life, which shrunkAs the other prospered—mortised in his trunk,Like a dwarf palm which wanton Arabs foilOf bearing its own proper wine and oil,By grafting into it the stranger-vine,Which sucks its heart out, sly and serpentine,Till forth one vine-palm feathers to the root,And red drops moisten the insipid fruit.Once Adelaide set on,—the subtle mateOf the weak soldier, urged to emulateThe Church's valiant women deed for deed,And paragon her namesake, win the meedO' the great Matilda,—soon they overboreThe rest of Lombardy,—not as beforeBy an instinctive truculence, but patchedThe Kaiser's strategy until it matchedThe Pontiff's, sought old ends by novel means."Only, why is it Salinguerra screensHimself behind Romano?—him we badeEnjoy our shine i' the front, not seek the shade!"—Asked Heinrich, somewhat of the tardiestTo comprehend. Nor Philip acquiescedAt once in the arrangement; reasoned, pliedHis friend with offers of another bride,A statelier function—fruitlessly: 't was plainHe sank into a secondary personage,Taurello through some weakness must remainObscure. And Otho, free to judge of both,—Ecelin the unready, harsh and loth,And this more plausible and facile wightWith every point a-sparkle—chose the right,Admiring how his predecessors harpedOn the wrong man: "thus," quoth he, "wits are warpedBy outsides!" Carelessly, meanwhile, his lifeSuffered its many turns of peace and strifeIn many lands—you hardly could surpriseThe man; who shamed Sordello (recognize!)In this as much beside, that, unconcernedWhat qualities were natural or earned,With no ideal of graces, as they cameHe took them, singularly well the same—Speaking the Greek's own language, just becauseYour Greek eludes you, leave the least of flawsIn contracts with him; while, since Arab loreHolds the stars' secret—take one trouble moreAnd master it! 'Tis done, and now deterWho may the Tuscan, once Jove trined for her,From Friedrich's path!—Friedrich, whose pilgrimageThe same man puts aside, whom he'll engageTo leave next year John Brienne in the lurch,Come to Bassano, see Saint Francis' churchAnd judge of Guido the Bolognian's pieceWhich, lend Taurello credit, rivals Greece—Angels, with aureoles like golden quoitsPitched home, applauding Ecelin's exploits.For elegance, he strung the angelot,With the appropriate graces of such.Made rhymes thereto; for prowess, clove he notTiso, last siege, from crest to crupper? WhyDetail you thus a varied masteryBut to show how Taurello, on the watchFor men, to read their hearts and thereby catchTheir capabilities and purposes,Displayed himself so far as displayed these:While our Sordello only cared to knowAbout men as a means whereby he'd showHimself, and men had much or little worthAccording as they kept in or drew forthThat self; the other's choicest instrumentsSurmised him shallow.Meantime, malcontentsDropped off, town after town grew wiser. "HowChange the world's face?" asked people; "as 't is nowIt has been, will be ever: very fineSubjecting things profane to things divine,In talk! This contumacy will fatigueThe vigilance of Este and the League!The Ghibellins gain on us!"—as it happed.Old Azzo and old Boniface, entrappedBy Ponte Alto, both in one month's spaceSlept at Verona: either left a braceOf sons—but, three years after, either's pairLost Guglielm and Aldobrand its heir:Azzo remained and Richard—all the stayOf Este and Saint Boniface, at bayBut Ecelin, he set in front, falling,As 't were. Then, either Ecelin grew oldOr his brain altered—not o' the proper mouldFor new appliances—his old palm-stockEndured no influx of strange strengths. He'd rockAs in a drunkenness, or chuckle lowAs proud of the completeness of his woe,Then weep real tears;—now make some mad onslaughtOn Este, heedless of the lesson taughtSo painfully,—now cringe for peace, sue peaceAt price of past gain, bar of fresh increaseTo the fortunes of Romano. Up at lastRose Este, down Romano sank as fast.And men remarked these freaks of peace and warHappened while Salinguerra was afar:Whence every friend besought him, all in vain,To use his old adherent's wits again.Not he!—"who had advisers in his sons,Could plot himself, nor needed any one'sAdvice." 'T was Adelaide's remaining stanchPrevented his destruction root and branchForthwith; but when she died, doom fell, for gayHe made alliances, gave lands awayTo whom it pleased accept them, and withdrewForever from the world. Taurello, whoWas summoned to the convent, then refusedA word at the wicket, patience thus abused,Promptly threw off alike his imbecileAlly's yoke, and his own frank, foolish smile.Soon a few movements of the happier sortChanged matters, put himself in men's reportAs heretofore; he had to fight, beside,And that became him ever. So, in prideSalinguerra must again come forward,And flushing of this kind of second youth,He dealt a good-will blow. Este in truthLay prone—and men remembered, somewhat late,A laughing old outrageous stifled hateHe bore to Este—how it would outbreakAt times spite of disguise, like an earthquakeIn sunny weather—as that noted dayWhen with his hundred friends he tried to slayAzzo before the Kaiser's face: and how,On Azzo's calm refusal to allowA liegeman's challenge, straight he too was calmed:As if his hate could bear to lie embalmed,Bricked up, the moody Pharaoh, and surviveAll intermediate crumblings, to arriveAt earth's catastrophe—'t was Este's crash,Not Azzo's he demanded, so, no rashProcedure! Este's true antagonistRose out of Ecelin: all voices whist,All eyes were sharpened, wits predicted. He'T was, leaned in the embrasure absently,Why and how, is let out in soliloquy.Amused with his own efforts, now, to traceWith his steel-sheathed forefinger Friedrich's faceI' the dust: but as the trees waved sere, his smileDeepened, and words expressed its thought erewhile."Ay, fairly housed at last, my old compeer?That we should stick together, all the yearI kept Vicenza!—How old Boniface,Old Azzo caught us in its market-place,He by that pillar, I at this,—caught eachIn mid swing, more than fury of his speech,Egging the rabble on to disavowAllegiance to their Marquis—Bacchus, howThey boasted! Ecelin must turn their drudge,Nor, if released, will Salinguerra grudgePaying arrears of tribute due long since—Bacchus! My man could promise then, nor wince,The bones-and-muscles! Sound of wind and limb,Spoke he the set excuse I framed for him:And now he sits me, slavering and mute,Intent on chafing each starved purple footBenumbed past aching with the altar slab—Will no vein throb there when some monk shall blabSpitefully to the circle of bald scalps,Ecelin, he did all for, is a monk now,'Friedrich's affirmed to be our side the Alps'—Eh, brother Lactance, brother Anaclet?Sworn to abjure the world, its fume and fret,God's own now? Drop the dormitory bar,Enfold the scanty gray serge scapularTwice o'er the cowl to muffle memories out!So! But the midnight whisper turns a shout,Eyes wink, mouths open, pulses circulateIn the stone walls: the past, the world you hateIs with you, ambush, open field—or seeThe surging flame—we fire Vicenza—glee!Follow, let Pilio and Bernardo chafe!Bring up the Mantuans—through San Biagio—safe!Ah, the mad people waken? Ah, they writheAnd reach us? If they block the gate? No titheCan pass—keep back, you Bassanese! The edge,Use the edge—shear, thrust, hew, melt down the wedge,Let out the black of those black upturned eyes!Hell—are they sprinkling fire too? The blood friesAnd hisses on your brass gloves as they tearThose upturned faces choking with despair.Brave! Slidder through the reeking gate! 'How now?You six had charge of her?' And then the vowComes, and the foam spirts, hair's plucked, till one shriek(I hear it) and you fling—you cannot speak—Your gold-flowered basnet to a man who haledThe Adelaide he dared scarce view unveiledThis morn, naked across the fire: how crownThe archer that exhausted lays you downYour infant, smiling at the flame, and dies?While one, while mine ..."Bacchus! I think there liesMore than one corpse there" (and he paced the room)"—Another cinder somewhere: 't was my doomBeside, my doom! If Adelaide is dead,I live the same, this Azzo lives insteadOf that to me, and we pull, any how,Este into a heap: the matter's nowJust when the prize awaits somebody;At the true juncture slipping us so oft.Ay, Heinrich died and Otho, please you doffedHis crown at such a juncture! Still, if holdsOur Friedrich's purpose, if this chain enfoldsThe neck of ... who but this same EcelinThat must recoil when the best days begin!Recoil? that's naught; if the recoiler leavesHis name for me to fight with, no one grieves:But he must interfere, forsooth, unlockHis cloister to become my stumbling-blockJust as of old! Ay, ay, there 't is again—The land's inevitable Head—explainThe reverences that subject us! CountThese Ecelins now! Not to say as fount,Originating power of thought,—from twelveThat drop i' the trenches they joined hands to delve,Six shall surpass him, but ... why, men must twineSomehow with something! Ecelin's a fineHimself, if it were only worth while,Clear name! 'T were simpler, doubtless, twine with meAt once our cloistered friend's capacityWas of a sort! I had to share myselfIn fifty portions, like an o'ertasked elfThat's forced illume in fifty points the vastRare vapor he's environed by. At lastMy strengths, though sorely frittered, e'en convergeAnd crown ... no, Bacchus, they have yet to urgeThe man be crowned!"That aloe, an he durst,Would climb! Just such a bloated sprawler firstI noted in Messina's castle-courtThe day I came, when Heinrich asked in sportIf I would pledge my faith to win him backHis right in Lombardy: 'for, once bid packMarauders,' he continued, 'in my steadYou rule, Taurello!' and upon this headLaid the silk glove of Constance—I see herToo, mantled head to foot in miniver,Retrude following!"I am absolvedFrom further toil: the empery devolvedOn me, 't was Tito's word: I have to layFor once my plan, pursue my plan my way,Prompt nobody, and render an accountTaurello to Taurello! Nay, I mountTo Friedrich: he conceives the post I kept,—Who did true service, able or inept,Who's worthy guerdon, Ecelin or I.Me guerdoned, counsel follows: would he vieWith the Pope really? Azzo, BonifaceCompose a right-arm Hohenstauffen's raceMust break ere govern Lombardy. I pointHow easy 't were to twist, once out of joint,The socket from the bone: my Azzo's stareMeanwhile! for I, this idle strap to wear,Shall—fret myself abundantly, what endTo serve? There's left me twenty years to spendAs it may be—but also, as it may not be——How better than my old way? Had I oneWho labored to o'erthrow my work—a sonHatching with Azzo superb treachery,To root my pines up and then poison me,Suppose—'t were worth while frustrate that! Beside,Another life's ordained me: the world's tideRolls, and what hope of parting from the pressOf waves, a single wave through wearinessGently lifted aside, laid upon shore?My life must be lived out in foam and roar,No question. Fifty years the province heldTaurello; troubles raised, and troubles quelled,He in the midst—who leaves this quaint stone place,These trees a year or two, then not a traceOf him! How obtain hold, fetter men's tonguesLike this poor minstrel with the foolish songs—To which, despite our bustle, he is linked?—Flowers one may tease, that never grow extinct.Ay, that patch, surely, green as ever, whereI set Her Moorish lentisk, by the stair,To overawe the aloes; and we trodThose flowers, how call you such?—into the sod;A stately foreigner—a world of painTo make it thrive, arrest rough winds—all vain!It would decline; these would not he destroyed:And now, where is it? where can you avoidThe flowers? I frighten children twenty yearsLonger!—which way, too, Ecelin appearsTo thwart me, for his son's besotted youthGives promise of the proper tiger-tooth:They feel it at Vicenza! Fate, fate, fate,My fine Taurello! Go you, promulgateFriedrich's decree, and here 's shall aggrandizeYoung Ecelin—your Prefect's badge! a prizeThe supposition he most inclines to;Too precious, certainly."How now? CompeteWith my old comrade? shuffle from their seatHis children? Paltry dealing! Don't I knowEcelin? now, I think, and years ago!What's changed—the weakness? did not I compoundFor that, and undertake to keep him soundDespite it? Here's Taurello hankeringAfter a boy's preferment—this playthingTo carry, Bacchus!" And he laughed.RemarkWhy schemes wherein cold-blooded men embarkProsper, when your enthusiastic sortFail: while these last are ever stopping short—(So much they should—so little they can do!)The careless tribe see nothing to pursueIf they desist; meantime their scheme succeeds.Thoughts were caprices in the course of deedsMethodic with Taurello; so, he turned,Enough amused by fancies fairly earnedOf Este's horror-struck submitted neck,And Richard, the cowed braggart, at his beck,Being contented with mere vengeance.To his own petty but immediate doubtIf he could pacify the League withoutConceding Richard; just to this was broughtThat interval of vain discursive thought!As, shall I say, some Ethiop, past pursuitOf all enslavers, dips a shackled footBurnt to the blood, into the drowsy blackEnormous watercourse which guides him backTo his own tribe again, where he is king;And laughs because he guesses, numberingThe yellower poison-wattles on the pouchOf the first lizard wrested from its couchUnder the slime (whose skin, the while he stripsTo cure his nostril with, and festered lips,And eyeballs bloodshot through the desert-blast)That he has reached its boundary, at lastMay breathe;—thinks o'er enchantments of the SouthSovereign to plague his enemies, their mouth,Eyes, nails, and hair; but, these enchantments triedIn fancy, puts them soberly asideFor truth, projects a cool return with friends,The likelihood of winning mere amendsEre long; thinks that, takes comfort silently,Then, from the river's brink, his wrongs and he,Hugging revenge close to their hearts, are soonOff-striding for the Mountains of the Moon.Midnight: the watcher nodded on his spear,Since clouds dispersing left a passage clearFor any meagre and discolored moonTo venture forth; and such was peering soonAbove the harassed city—her close lanesCloser, not half so tapering her fanes,As though she shrunk into herself to keepWhat little life was saved, more safely. HeapBy heap the watch-fires mouldered, and besideThe blackest spoke Sordello and repliedPalma with none to listen. "'T is your cause:Sordello, taught what Ghibellins are,What makes a Ghibellin? There should be laws—(Remember how my youth escaped! I trustTo you for manhood, Palma; tell me justAs any child)—there must be laws at workExplaining this. Assure me, good may lurkUnder the bad,—my multitude has partIn your designs, their welfare is at heartWith Salinguerra, to their interestRefer the deeds he dwelt on,—so divestOur conference of much that scared me. WhyAffect that heartless tone to Tito? IEsteemed myself, yes, in my inmost mindThis morn, a recreant to my race—mankindO'erlooked till now: why boast my spirit's force,—Such force denied its object? why divorceThese, then admire my spirit's flight the sameAs though it bore up, helped some half-orbed flameElse quenched in the dead void, to living space?That orb cast off to chaos and disgrace,Why vaunt so much my unencumbered dance,Making a feat's facilities enhanceIts marvel? But I front Taurello, oneOf happier fate, and all I should have done,He does; the people's good being paramountWith him, their progress may perhaps accountFor his abiding still; whereas you heardThe talk with Tito—the excuse preferredFor burning those five hostages,—and broachedBy way of blind, as you and I approached,I do believe."She spoke: then he, "My thoughtPlainlier expressed! All to your profit—naughtMeantime of these, of conquests to achieveFor them, of wretchedness he might relieveAnd what Guelfs, approves of neither.While profiting your party. Azzo, too,Supports a cause: what cause? Do Guelfs pursueTheir ends by means like yours, or better?"WhenThe Guelfs were proved alike, men weighed with men,And deed with deed, blaze, blood, with blood and blaze,Morn broke: "Once more, Sordello, meet its gazeProudly—the people's charge against thee failsIn every point, while either party quails!These are the busy ones: be silent thou!Two parties take the world up, and allowNo third, yet have one principle, subsistBy the same injustice; whoso shall enlistWith either, ranks with man's inveterate foes.So there is one less quarrel to compose:The Guelf, the Ghibellin may be to curse—I have done nothing, but both sides do worseThan nothing. Nay, to me, forgotten, reftOf insight, lapped by trees and flowers, was leftThe notion of a service—ha? What luredMe here, what mighty aim was I assuredMust move Taurello? What if there remainedHave men a cause distinct from both?A cause, intact, distinct from these, ordainedFor me, its true discoverer?"Some one pressedBefore them here, a watcher, to suggestThe subject for a ballad: "They must knowThe tale of the dead worthy, long agoConsul of Rome—that 's long ago for us,Minstrels and bowmen, idly squabbling thusIn the world's corner—but too late no doubt,For the brave time he sought to bring about.Who was the famed Roman Crescentius?—Not know Crescentius Nomentanus?" ThenHe cast about for terms to tell him, whenSordello disavowed it, how they usedWhenever their Superior introducedA novice to the Brotherhood—("for IWas just a brown-sleeve brother, merrilyAppointed too," quoth he, "till InnocentBade me relinquish, to my small content,My wife or my brown sleeves")—some brother spokeEre nocturns of Crescentius, to revokeThe edict issued, after his demise,Which blotted fame alike and effigies,All out except a floating power, a nameIncluding, tending to produce the sameGreat act. Rome, dead, forgotten, lived at leastWithin that brain, though to a vulgar priestAnd a vile stranger,—two not worth a slaveOf Rome's, Pope John, King Otho,—fortune gaveThe rule there: so, Crescentius, haply dressedIn white, called Roman Consul for a jest,Taking the people at their word, forth steppedAs upon Brutus' heel, nor ever keptRome waiting,—stood erect, and from his brainGave Rome out on its ancient place again,Ay, bade proceed with Brutus' Rome, Kings styledThemselves mere citizens of, and, beguiledInto great thoughts thereby, would choose the gemOut of a lapfull, spoil their diadem—The Senate's cypher was so hard to scratch!He flashes like a phanal, all men catchThe flame, Rome 's just accomplished! when returnedOtho, with John, the Consul's step had spurned,And Hugo Lord of Este, to redressThe wrongs of each. Crescentius in the stressOf adverse fortune bent. "They crucifiedTheir Consul in the Forum; and abideE'er since such slaves at Rome, that I—(for IWas once a brown-sleeve brother, merrilyAppointed)—I had option to keep wifeOr keep brown sleeves, and managed in the strifeLose both. A song of Rome!"And Rome, indeed,Robed at Goito in fantastic weed,The Mother-City of his Mantuan days,Looked an established point of light whence raysTraversed the world; for, all the clustered homesBeside of men, seemed bent on being RomesIn their degree; the question was, how eachShould most resemble Rome, clean out of reach.How if, in the reintegration of Rome,Nor, of the Two, did either principleStruggle to change—but to possess—Rome, still,Guelf Rome or Ghibellin Rome.Let Rome advance!Rome, as she struck Sordello's ignorance—How could he doubt one moment? Rome 's the Cause!Rome of the Pandects, all the world's new laws—Of the Capitol, of Castle Angelo;New structures, that inordinately glow,Subdued, brought back to harmony, made ripeBy many a relic of the archetypeExtant for wonder; every upstart churchThat hoped to leave old temples in the lurch,Corrected by the Theatre forlornThat,—as a mundane shell, its world late born,—Lay and o'ershadowed it. These hints combined,Be typified the triumph of mankind?Rome typifies the scheme to put mankindOnce more in full possession of their rights."Let us have Rome again! On me it lightsTo build up Rome—on me, the first and last:For such a future was endured the past!"And thus, in the gray twilight, forth he sprungTo give his thought consistency amongThe very People—let their facts availFinish the dream grown from the archer's tale.
Meantime Ferrara lay in rueful case;
The lady-city, for whose sole embrace
Her pair of suitors struggled, felt their arms
A brawny mischief to the fragile charms
They tugged for—one discovering that to twist
Her tresses twice or thrice about his wrist
Secured a point of vantage—one, how best
He 'd parry that by planting in her breast
His elbow spike—each party too intent
Men suffered much,
For noticing, howe'er the battle went,
The conqueror would but have a corpse to kiss.
"May Boniface be duly damned for this!"
—Howled some old Ghibellin, as up he turned,
From the wet heap of rubbish where they burned
His house, a little skull with dazzling teeth:
"A boon, sweet Christ—let Salinguerra seethe
In hell forever, Christ, and let myself
Be there to laugh at him!"—moaned some young Guelf
Stumbling upon a shrivelled hand nailed fast
To the charred lintel of the doorway, last
His father stood within to bid him speed.
The thoroughfares were overrun with weed
—Docks, quitchgrass, loathy mallows no man plants.
The stranger, none of its inhabitants
Whichever of the parties was victor.
Crept out of doors to taste fresh air again,
And ask the purpose of a splendid train
Admitted on a morning; every town
Of the East League was come by envoy down
To treat for Richard's ransom: here you saw
The Vicentine, here snowy oxen draw
The Paduan carroch, its vermilion cross
On its white field. A-tiptoe o'er the fosse
Looked Legate Montelungo wistfully
After the flock of steeples he might spy
In Este's time, gone (doubts he) long ago
To mend the ramparts: sure the laggards know
The Pope 's as good as here! They paced the streets
More soberly. At last, "Taurello greets
The League," announced a pursuivant,—"will match
Its courtesy, and labors to dispatch
At earliest Tito, Friedrich's Pretor, sent
On pressing matters from his post at Trent,
With Mainard Count of Tyrol,—simply waits
Their going to receive the delegates."
"Tito!" Our delegates exchanged a glance,
And, keeping the main way, admired askance
The lazy engines of outlandish birth,
Couched like a king each on its bank of earth—
Arbalist, manganel and catapult;
While stationed by, as waiting a result,
Lean silent gangs of mercenaries ceased
Working to watch the strangers. "This, at least,
Were better spared; he scarce presumes gainsay
The League's decision! Get our friend away
And profit for the future: how else teach
Fools 't is not safe to stray within claw's reach
Ere Salinguerra's final gasp be blown?
Those mere convulsive scratches find the bone.
Who bade him bloody the spent osprey's nare?"
The carrochs halted in the public square.
Pennons of every blazon once a-flaunt,
Men prattled, freelier that the crested gaunt
How Guelfs criticise Ghibellin work
White ostrich with a horse-shoe in her beak
Was missing, and whoever chose might speak
"Ecelin" boldly out: so,—"Ecelin
Needed his wife to swallow half the sin
And sickens by himself: the devil's whelp,
He styles his son, dwindles away, no help
From conserves, your fine triple-curded froth
Of virgin's blood, your Venice viper-broth—
Eh? Jubilate!"—"Peace! no little word
You utter here that 's not distinctly heard
Up at Oliero: he was absent sick
When we besieged Bassano—who, i' the thick
O' the work, perceived the progress Azzo made,
Like Ecelin, through his witch Adelaide?
She managed it so well that, night by night,
At their bed-foot stood up a soldier-sprite,
First fresh, pale by-and-by without a wound,
And, when it came with eyes filmed as in swound,
They knew the place was taken."—"Ominous
That Ghibellins should get what cautelous
Old Redbeard sought from Azzo's sire to wrench
Vainly; Saint George contrived his town a trench
O' the marshes, an impermeable bar."
"—Young Ecelin is meant the tutelar
Of Padua, rather; veins embrace upon
His hand like Brenta and Bacchiglion."
What now?—"The founts! God's bread, touch not a plank!
A crawling hell of carrion—every tank
As unusually energetic in this case.
Choke full!—found out just now to Cino's cost—
The same who gave Taurello up for lost,
And, making no account of fortune's freaks,
Refused to budge from Padua then, but sneaks
Back now with Concorezzi—'faith! they drag
Their carroch to San Vitale, plant the flag
On his own palace, so adroitly razed
He knew it not; a sort of Guelf folk gazed
And laughed apart; Cino disliked their air—
Must pluck up spirit, show he does not care—
Seats himself on the tank's edge—will begin
To hum,za, za, Cavaler Ecelin—
A silence; he gets warmer, clinks to chime,
Now both feet plough the ground, deeper each time,
At last,za, za, and up with a fierce kick
Comes his own mother's face caught by the thick
Gray hair about his spur!"
Which means, they lift
The covering, Salinguerra made a shift
To stretch upon the truth; as well avoid
Further disclosures; leave them thus employed.
Our dropping Autumn morning clears apace,
And poor Ferrara puts a softened face
On her misfortunes. Let us scale this tall
Huge foursquare line of red brick garden-wall
How, passing through the rare garden,
Bastioned within by trees of every sort
On three sides, slender, spreading, long and short;
Each grew as it contrived, the poplar ramped,
The fig-tree reared itself,—but stark and cramped,
Made fools of, like tamed lions: whence, on the edge,
Running 'twixt trunk and trunk to smooth one ledge
Of shade, were shrubs inserted, warp and woof,
Which smothered up that variance. Scale the roof
Of solid tops, and o'er the slope you slide
Down to a grassy space level and wide,
Here and there dotted with a tree, but trees
Of rarer leaf, each foreigner at ease,
Set by itself: and in the centre spreads,
Borne upon three uneasy leopards' heads,
A laver, broad and shallow, one bright spirt
Of water bubbles in. The walls begirt
With trees leave off on either hand; pursue
Your path along a wondrous avenue
Those walls abut on, heaped of gleamy stone,
With aloes leering everywhere, gray-grown
From many a Moorish summer: how they wind
Out of the fissures! likelier to bind
The building than those rusted cramps which drop
Already in the eating sunshine. Stop,
You fleeting shapes above there! Ah, the pride
Or else despair of the whole country-side!
A range of statues, swarming o'er with wasps,
Salinguerra contrived for a purpose,
God, goddess, woman, man, the Greek rough-rasps
In crumbling Naples marble—meant to look
Like those Messina marbles Constance took
Delight in, or Taurello's self conveyed
To Mantua for his mistress, Adelaide,
A certain font with caryatides
Since cloistered at Goito; only, these
Are up and doing, not abashed, a troop
Able to right themselves—who see you, stoop
Their arms o' the instant after you! Unplucked
By this or that, you pass; for they conduct
To terrace raised on terrace, and, between,
Creatures of brighter mould and braver mien
Than any yet, the choicest of the Isle
No doubt. Here, left a sullen breathing-while,
Up-gathered on himself the Fighter stood
For his last fight, and, wiping treacherous blood
Out of the eyelids just held ope beneath
Those shading fingers in their iron sheath,
Steadied his strengths amid the buzz and stir
Of the dusk hideous amphitheatre
At the announcement of his over-match
To wind the day's diversion up, dispatch
The pertinacious Gaul: while, limbs one heap,
The Slave, no breath in her round mouth, watched leap
Dart after dart forth, as her hero's car
Clove dizzily the solid of the war
—Let coil about his knees for pride in him.
We reach the farthest terrace, and the grim
San Pietro Palace stops us.
Such the state
Of Salinguerra's plan to emulate
Sicilian marvels, that his girlish wife
Retrude still might lead her ancient life
In her new home: whereat enlarged so much
Neighbors upon the novel princely touch
He took,—who here imprisons Boniface.
Here must the Envoys come to sue for grace;
And here, emerging from the labyrinth
Below, Sordello paused beside the plinth
Of the door-pillar.
Sordello ponders all seen and heard,
He had really left
Verona for the cornfields (a poor theft
From the morass) where Este's camp was made.
The Envoys' march, the Legate's cavalcade—
All had been seen by him, but scarce as when,—
Eager for cause to stand aloof from men
At every point save the fantastic tie
Acknowledged in his boyish sophistry,—
He made account of such. A crowd,—he meant
To task the whole of it; each part's intent
Concerned him therefore: and, the more he pried,
The less became Sordello satisfied
With his own figure at the moment. Sought
He respite from his task? Descried he aught
Novel in the anticipated sight
Of all these livers upon all delight?
This phalanx, as of myriad points combined,
Whereby he still had imaged the mankind
His youth was passed in dreams of rivalling,
His age—in plans to prove at least such thing
Had been so dreamed,—which now he must impress
With his own will, effect a happiness
By theirs,—supply a body to his soul
Thence, and become eventually whole
With them as he had hoped to be without—
Finds in men no machine for his sake,
Made these the mankind he once raved about?
Because a few of them were notable,
Should all be figured worthy note? As well
Expect to find Taurello's triple line
Of trees a single and prodigious pine.
Real pines rose here and there; but, close among,
Thrust into and mixed up with pines, a throng
Of shrubs, he saw,—a nameless common sort
O'erpast in dreams, left out of the report
And hurried into corners, or at best
Admitted to be fancied like the rest.
Reckon that morning's proper chiefs—how few!
And yet the people grew, the people grew,
Grew ever, as if the many there indeed,
More left behind and most who should succeed,—
Simply in virtue of their mouths and eyes,
Petty enjoyments and huge miseries,—
Mingled with, and made veritably great
Those chiefs: he overlooked not Mainard's state
Nor Concorezzi's station, but instead
Of stopping there, each dwindled to be head
Of infinite and absent Tyrolese
Or Paduans; startling all the more, that these
Seemed passive and disposed of, uncared for,
Yet doubtless on the whole (like Eglamor)
Smiling; for if a wealthy man decays
And out of store of robes must wear, all days,
One tattered suit, alike in sun and shade,
'Tis commonly some tarnished gay brocade
Fit for a feast-night's flourish and no more:
Nor otherwise poor Misery from her store
Of looks is fain upgather, keep unfurled
For common wear as she goes through the world,
The faint remainder of some worn-out smile
Meant for a feast-night's service merely. While
Crowd upon crowd rose on Sordello thus,—
(Crowds no way interfering to discuss,
Much less dispute, life's joys with one employed
In envying them,—or, if they aught enjoyed,
Where lingered something indefinable
In every look and tone, the mirth as well
As woe, that fixed at once his estimate
Of the result, their good or bad estate)—
But a thing with life of its own,
Old memories returned with new effect:
And the new body, ere he could suspect,
Cohered, mankind and he were really fused,
The new self seemed impatient to be used
By him, but utterly another way
Than that anticipated: strange to say,
They were too much below him, more in thrall
Than he, the adjunct than the principal.
What booted scattered units?—here a mind
And there, which might repay his own to find,
And stamp, and use?—a few, howe'er august,
If all the rest were grovelling in the dust?
No: first a mighty equilibrium, sure,
Should he establish, privilege procure
For all, the few had long possessed! He felt
An error, an exceeding error melt—
While he was occupied with Mantuan chants,
Behoved him think of men, and take their wants,
Such as he now distinguished every side,
As his own want which might be satisfied,—
And, after that, think of rare qualities
Of his own soul demanding exercise.
It followed naturally, through no claim
On their part, which made virtue of the aim
At serving them, on his,—that, past retrieve,
He felt now in their toils, theirs,—nor could leave
Wonder how, in the eagerness to rule,
Impress his will on mankind, he (the fool!)
Had never even entertained the thought
That this his last arrangement might be fraught
With incidental good to them as well,
And rights hitherto ignored by him,
And that mankind's delight would help to swell
His own. So, if he sighed, as formerly
Because the merry time of life must fleet,
'T was deeplier now,—for could the crowds repeat
Their poor experiences? His hand that shook
Was twice to be deplored. "The Legate, look!
With eyes, like fresh-blown thrush-eggs on a thread,
Faint-blue and loosely floating in his head,
Large tongue, moist open mouth; and this long while
That owner of the idiotic smile
A fault he is now anxious to repair,
Serves them!"
He fortunately saw in time
His fault however, and since the office prime
Includes the secondary—best accept
Both offices; Taurello, its adept,
Could teach him the preparatory one,
And how to do what he had fancied done
Long previously, ere take the greater task,
How render first these people happy? Ask
The people's friends: for there must be one good,
One way to it—the Cause!—he understood
The meaning now of Palma; why the jar
Else, the ado, the trouble wide and far
Of Guelfs and Ghibellins, the Lombard hope
And Rome's despair?—'twixt Emperor and Pope
The confused shifting sort of Eden tale—
Hardihood still recurring, still to fail—
That foreign interloping fiend, this free
And native overbrooding deity—
Yet a dire fascination o'er the palms
The Kaiser ruined, troubling even the calms
Of paradise—or, on the other hand,
Since he apprehends its full extent,
The Pontiff, as the Kaisers understand,
One snake-like cursed of God to love the ground,
Whose heavy length breaks in the noon profound
Some saving tree—which needs the Kaiser, dressed
As the dislodging angel of that pest,
Yet flames that pest bedropped, flat head, full fold,
With coruscating dower of dyes. "Behold
The secret, so to speak, and master-spring
O' the contest!—which of the two Powers shall bring
Men good—perchance the most good—ay, it may
Be that!—the question, which best knows the way."
And hereupon Count Mainard strutted past
Out of San Pietro; never seemed the last
Of archers, slingers: and our friend began
To recollect strange modes of serving man,
Arbalist, catapult, brake, manganel,
And more. "This way of theirs may,—who can tell?—
Need perfecting," said he: "let all be solved
At once! Taurello 't is, the task devolved
On late—confront Taurello!"
And at last
He did confront him. Scarce an hour had past
When forth Sordello came, older by years
Than at his entry. Unexampled fears
Oppressed him, and he staggered off, blind, mute
And deaf, like some fresh-mutilated brute,
Into Ferrara—not the empty town
That morning witnessed: he went up and down
Streets whence the veil had been stripped shred by shred,
So that, in place of huddling with their dead
Indoors, to answer Salinguerra's ends,
Townsfolk make shift to crawl forth, sit like friends
With any one. A woman gave him choice
Of her two daughters, the infantile voice
Or the dimpled knee, for half a chain, his throat
Was clasped with; but an archer knew the coat—
Its blue cross and eight lilies,—bade beware
One dogging him in concert with the pair
Though thrumming on the sleeve that hid his knife.
Night set in early, autumn dews were rife,
They kindled great fires while the Leaguers' mass
Began at every carroch—he must pass
Between the kneeling people. Presently
The carroch of Verona caught his eye
With purple trappings; silently he bent
Over its fire, when voices violent
Began, "Affirm not whom the youth was like
That struck me from the porch, I did not strike
Again: I too have chestnut hair; my kin
And would fain have helped some way,
Hate Azzo and stand up for Ecelin.
Here, minstrel, drive bad thoughts away! Sing! Take
My glove for guerdon!" And for that man's sake
He turned: "A song of Eglamor's!"—scarce named,
When, "Our Sordello's rather!"—all exclaimed;
"Is not Sordello famousest for rhyme?"
He had been happy to deny, this time,—
Profess as heretofore the aching head
And failing heart,—suspect that in his stead
Some true Apollo had the charge of them,
Was champion to reward or to condemn,
So his intolerable risk might shift
Or share itself; but Naddo's precious gift
Of gifts, he owned, be certain! At the close—
"I made that," said he to a youth who rose
As if to hear: 't was Palma through the band
Conducted him in silence by her hand.
Back now for Salinguerra. Tito of Trent
Gave place to Palma and her friend; who went
In turn at Montelungo's visit—one
After the other were they come and gone,—
These spokesmen for the Kaiser and the Pope,
This incarnation of the People's hope,
Sordello,—all the say of each was said;
And Salinguerra sat, himself instead
Of these to talk with, lingered musing yet.
'T was a drear vast presence-chamber roughly set
In order for the morning's use; full face,
The Kaiser's ominous sign-mark had first place,
The crowned grim twy-necked eagle, coarsely-blacked
With ochre on the naked wall; nor lacked
Romano's green and yellow either side;
But the new token Tito brought had tried
The Legate's patience—nay, if Palma knew
What Salinguerra almost meant to do
Until the sight of her restored his lip
A certain half-smile, three months' chieftainship
Had banished! Afterward, the Legate found
No change in him, nor asked what badge he wound
And unwound carelessly. Now sat the Chief
But Salinguerra is also preoccupied;
Silent as when our couple left, whose brief
Encounter wrought so opportune effect
In thoughts he summoned not, nor would reject,
Though time 't was now if ever, to pause—fix
On any sort of ending; wiles and tricks
Exhausted, judge! his charge, the crazy town,
Just managed to be hindered crashing down—
His last sound troops ranged—care observed to post
His best of the maimed soldiers innermost—
So much was plain enough, but somehow struck
Him not before. And now with this strange luck
Of Tito's news, rewarding his address
So well, what thought he of?—how the success
With Friedrich's rescript there would either hush
Old Ecelin's scruples, bring the manly flush
To his young son's white cheek, or, last, exempt
Himself from telling what there was to tempt?
Resembling Sordello in nothing else.
No: that this minstrel was Romano's last
Servant—himself the first! Could he contrast
The whole!—that minstrel's thirty years just spent
In doing naught, their notablest event
This morning's journey hither, as I told—
Who yet was lean, outworn and really old,
A stammering awkward man that scarce dared raise
His eye before the magisterial gaze—
And Salinguerra with his fears and hopes
Of sixty years, his Emperors and Popes,
Cares and contrivances, yet, you would say,
'T was a youth nonchalantly looked away
Through the embrasure northward o'er the sick
Expostulating trees—so agile, quick
How he was made in body and spirit,
And graceful turned the head on the broad chest
Encased in pliant steel, his constant vest,
Whence split the sun off in a spray of fire
Across the room; and, loosened of its tire
Of steel, that head let breathe the comely brown
Large massive locks discolored as if a crown
Encircled them, so frayed the basnet where
A sharp white line divided clean the hair;
Glossy above, glossy below, it swept
Curling and fine about a brow thus kept
Calm, laid coat upon coat, marble and sound:
This was the mystic mark the Tuscan found,
Mused of, turned over books about. Square-faced,
No lion more; two vivid eyes, enchased
In hollows filled with many a shade and streak
Settling from the bold nose and bearded cheek.
Nor might the half-smile reach them that deformed
A lip supremely perfect else—unwarmed,
Unwidened, less or more; indifferent
Whether on trees or men his thoughts were bent,
Thoughts rarely, after all, in trim and train
As now a period was fulfilled again:
Of such, a series made his life, compressed
In each, one story serving for the rest—
And what had been his career of old.
How his life-streams rolling arrived at last
At the barrier, whence, were it once overpast,
They would emerge, a river to the end,—
Gathered themselves up, paused, bade fate befriend,
Took the leap, hung a minute at the height,
Then fell back to oblivion infinite:
Therefore he smiled. Beyond stretched garden-grounds
Where late the adversary, breaking bounds,
Had gained him an occasion, That above,
That eagle, testified he could improve
Effectually. The Kaiser's symbol lay
Beside his rescript, a new badge by way
Of baldric; while,—another thing that marred
Alike emprise, achievement and reward,—
Ecelin's missive was conspicuous too.
What past life did those flying thoughts pursue?
As his, few names in Mantua half so old;
But at Ferrara, where his sires enrolled
It latterly, the Adelardi spared
No pains to rival them: both factions shared
Ferrara, so that, counted out, 't would yield
A product very like the city's shield,
Half black and white, or Ghibellin and Guelf
As after Salinguerra styled himself
And Este, who, till Marchesalla died,
(Last of the Adelardi)—never tried
His fortune there: with Marchesalla's child
Would pass—could Blacks and Whites be reconciled,
And young Taurello wed Linguetta—wealth
And sway to a sole grasp. Each treats by stealth
Already: when the Guelfs, the Ravennese
Arrive, assault the Pietro quarter, seize
Linguetta, and are gone! Men's first dismay
Abated somewhat, hurries down, to lay
The after indignation, Boniface,
This Richard's father. "Learn the full disgrace
Averted, ere you blame us Guelfs, who rate
Your Salinguerra, your sole potentate
That might have been, 'mongst Este's valvassors—
Ay, Azzo's—who, not privy to, abhors
Our step; but we were zealous." Azzo 's then
To do with! Straight a meeting of old men:
"Old Salinguerra dead, his heir a boy,
What if we change our ruler and decoy
The Lombard Eagle of the azure sphere
With Italy to build in, fix him here,
Settle the city's troubles in a trice?
For private wrong, let public good suffice!"
The original check to his fortunes,
In fine, young Salinguerra's stanchest friends
Talked of the townsmen making him amends,
Gave him a goshawk, and affirmed there was
Rare sport, one morning, over the green grass
A mile or so. He sauntered through the plain,
Was restless, fell to thinking, turned again
In time for Azzo's entry with the bride;
Count Boniface rode smirking at their side;
"She brings him half Ferrara," whispers flew,
"And all Ancona! If the stripling knew!"
Anon the stripling was in Sicily
Where Heinrich ruled in right of Constance; he
Was gracious nor his guest incapable;
Each understood the other. So it fell,
One Spring, when Azzo, thoroughly at ease,
Had near forgotten by what precise degrees
He crept at first to such a downy seat,
The Count trudged over in a special heat
To bid him of God's love dislodge from each
Of Salinguerra's palaces,—a breach
Might yawn else, not so readily to shut,
For who was just arrived at Mantua but
The youngster, sword on thigh and tuft on chin,
Which he was in the way to retrieve,
With tokens for Celano, Ecelin,
Pistore, and the like! Next news,—no whit
Do any of Ferrara's domes befit
His wife of Heinrich's very blood: a band
Of foreigners assemble, understand
Garden-constructing, level and surround,
Build up and bury in. A last news crowned
The consternation: since his infant's birth,
He only waits they end his wondrous girth
Of trees that link San Pietro with Tomà,
To visit Mantua. When the Podestà
Ecelin, at Vicenza, called his friend
Taurello thither, what could be their end
But to restore the Ghibellins' late Head,
The Kaiser helping? He with most to dread
From vengeance and reprisal, Azzo, there
With Boniface beforehand, as aware
Of plots in progress, gave alarm, expelled
Both plotters: but the Guelfs in triumph yelled
Too hastily. The burning and the flight,
And how Taurello, occupied that night
With Ecelin, lost wife and son, I told:
When a fresh calamity destroyed all:
—Not how he bore the blow, retained his hold,
Got friends safe through, left enemies the worst
O' the fray, and hardly seemed to care at first:
But afterward men heard not constantly
Of Salinguerra's House so sure to be!
Though Azzo simply gained by the event
A shifting of his plagues—the first, content
To fall behind the second and estrange
So far his nature, suffer such a change
That in Romano sought he wife and child
And for Romano's sake seemed reconciled
To losing individual life, which shrunk
As the other prospered—mortised in his trunk,
Like a dwarf palm which wanton Arabs foil
Of bearing its own proper wine and oil,
By grafting into it the stranger-vine,
Which sucks its heart out, sly and serpentine,
Till forth one vine-palm feathers to the root,
And red drops moisten the insipid fruit.
Once Adelaide set on,—the subtle mate
Of the weak soldier, urged to emulate
The Church's valiant women deed for deed,
And paragon her namesake, win the meed
O' the great Matilda,—soon they overbore
The rest of Lombardy,—not as before
By an instinctive truculence, but patched
The Kaiser's strategy until it matched
The Pontiff's, sought old ends by novel means.
"Only, why is it Salinguerra screens
Himself behind Romano?—him we bade
Enjoy our shine i' the front, not seek the shade!"
—Asked Heinrich, somewhat of the tardiest
To comprehend. Nor Philip acquiesced
At once in the arrangement; reasoned, plied
His friend with offers of another bride,
A statelier function—fruitlessly: 't was plain
He sank into a secondary personage,
Taurello through some weakness must remain
Obscure. And Otho, free to judge of both,
—Ecelin the unready, harsh and loth,
And this more plausible and facile wight
With every point a-sparkle—chose the right,
Admiring how his predecessors harped
On the wrong man: "thus," quoth he, "wits are warped
By outsides!" Carelessly, meanwhile, his life
Suffered its many turns of peace and strife
In many lands—you hardly could surprise
The man; who shamed Sordello (recognize!)
In this as much beside, that, unconcerned
What qualities were natural or earned,
With no ideal of graces, as they came
He took them, singularly well the same—
Speaking the Greek's own language, just because
Your Greek eludes you, leave the least of flaws
In contracts with him; while, since Arab lore
Holds the stars' secret—take one trouble more
And master it! 'Tis done, and now deter
Who may the Tuscan, once Jove trined for her,
From Friedrich's path!—Friedrich, whose pilgrimage
The same man puts aside, whom he'll engage
To leave next year John Brienne in the lurch,
Come to Bassano, see Saint Francis' church
And judge of Guido the Bolognian's piece
Which, lend Taurello credit, rivals Greece—
Angels, with aureoles like golden quoits
Pitched home, applauding Ecelin's exploits.
For elegance, he strung the angelot,
With the appropriate graces of such.
Made rhymes thereto; for prowess, clove he not
Tiso, last siege, from crest to crupper? Why
Detail you thus a varied mastery
But to show how Taurello, on the watch
For men, to read their hearts and thereby catch
Their capabilities and purposes,
Displayed himself so far as displayed these:
While our Sordello only cared to know
About men as a means whereby he'd show
Himself, and men had much or little worth
According as they kept in or drew forth
That self; the other's choicest instruments
Surmised him shallow.
Meantime, malcontents
Dropped off, town after town grew wiser. "How
Change the world's face?" asked people; "as 't is now
It has been, will be ever: very fine
Subjecting things profane to things divine,
In talk! This contumacy will fatigue
The vigilance of Este and the League!
The Ghibellins gain on us!"—as it happed.
Old Azzo and old Boniface, entrapped
By Ponte Alto, both in one month's space
Slept at Verona: either left a brace
Of sons—but, three years after, either's pair
Lost Guglielm and Aldobrand its heir:
Azzo remained and Richard—all the stay
Of Este and Saint Boniface, at bay
But Ecelin, he set in front, falling,
As 't were. Then, either Ecelin grew old
Or his brain altered—not o' the proper mould
For new appliances—his old palm-stock
Endured no influx of strange strengths. He'd rock
As in a drunkenness, or chuckle low
As proud of the completeness of his woe,
Then weep real tears;—now make some mad onslaught
On Este, heedless of the lesson taught
So painfully,—now cringe for peace, sue peace
At price of past gain, bar of fresh increase
To the fortunes of Romano. Up at last
Rose Este, down Romano sank as fast.
And men remarked these freaks of peace and war
Happened while Salinguerra was afar:
Whence every friend besought him, all in vain,
To use his old adherent's wits again.
Not he!—"who had advisers in his sons,
Could plot himself, nor needed any one's
Advice." 'T was Adelaide's remaining stanch
Prevented his destruction root and branch
Forthwith; but when she died, doom fell, for gay
He made alliances, gave lands away
To whom it pleased accept them, and withdrew
Forever from the world. Taurello, who
Was summoned to the convent, then refused
A word at the wicket, patience thus abused,
Promptly threw off alike his imbecile
Ally's yoke, and his own frank, foolish smile.
Soon a few movements of the happier sort
Changed matters, put himself in men's report
As heretofore; he had to fight, beside,
And that became him ever. So, in pride
Salinguerra must again come forward,
And flushing of this kind of second youth,
He dealt a good-will blow. Este in truth
Lay prone—and men remembered, somewhat late,
A laughing old outrageous stifled hate
He bore to Este—how it would outbreak
At times spite of disguise, like an earthquake
In sunny weather—as that noted day
When with his hundred friends he tried to slay
Azzo before the Kaiser's face: and how,
On Azzo's calm refusal to allow
A liegeman's challenge, straight he too was calmed:
As if his hate could bear to lie embalmed,
Bricked up, the moody Pharaoh, and survive
All intermediate crumblings, to arrive
At earth's catastrophe—'t was Este's crash,
Not Azzo's he demanded, so, no rash
Procedure! Este's true antagonist
Rose out of Ecelin: all voices whist,
All eyes were sharpened, wits predicted. He
'T was, leaned in the embrasure absently,
Why and how, is let out in soliloquy.
Amused with his own efforts, now, to trace
With his steel-sheathed forefinger Friedrich's face
I' the dust: but as the trees waved sere, his smile
Deepened, and words expressed its thought erewhile.
"Ay, fairly housed at last, my old compeer?
That we should stick together, all the year
I kept Vicenza!—How old Boniface,
Old Azzo caught us in its market-place,
He by that pillar, I at this,—caught each
In mid swing, more than fury of his speech,
Egging the rabble on to disavow
Allegiance to their Marquis—Bacchus, how
They boasted! Ecelin must turn their drudge,
Nor, if released, will Salinguerra grudge
Paying arrears of tribute due long since—
Bacchus! My man could promise then, nor wince,
The bones-and-muscles! Sound of wind and limb,
Spoke he the set excuse I framed for him:
And now he sits me, slavering and mute,
Intent on chafing each starved purple foot
Benumbed past aching with the altar slab—
Will no vein throb there when some monk shall blab
Spitefully to the circle of bald scalps,
Ecelin, he did all for, is a monk now,
'Friedrich's affirmed to be our side the Alps'
—Eh, brother Lactance, brother Anaclet?
Sworn to abjure the world, its fume and fret,
God's own now? Drop the dormitory bar,
Enfold the scanty gray serge scapular
Twice o'er the cowl to muffle memories out!
So! But the midnight whisper turns a shout,
Eyes wink, mouths open, pulses circulate
In the stone walls: the past, the world you hate
Is with you, ambush, open field—or see
The surging flame—we fire Vicenza—glee!
Follow, let Pilio and Bernardo chafe!
Bring up the Mantuans—through San Biagio—safe!
Ah, the mad people waken? Ah, they writhe
And reach us? If they block the gate? No tithe
Can pass—keep back, you Bassanese! The edge,
Use the edge—shear, thrust, hew, melt down the wedge,
Let out the black of those black upturned eyes!
Hell—are they sprinkling fire too? The blood fries
And hisses on your brass gloves as they tear
Those upturned faces choking with despair.
Brave! Slidder through the reeking gate! 'How now?
You six had charge of her?' And then the vow
Comes, and the foam spirts, hair's plucked, till one shriek
(I hear it) and you fling—you cannot speak—
Your gold-flowered basnet to a man who haled
The Adelaide he dared scarce view unveiled
This morn, naked across the fire: how crown
The archer that exhausted lays you down
Your infant, smiling at the flame, and dies?
While one, while mine ...
"Bacchus! I think there lies
More than one corpse there" (and he paced the room)
"—Another cinder somewhere: 't was my doom
Beside, my doom! If Adelaide is dead,
I live the same, this Azzo lives instead
Of that to me, and we pull, any how,
Este into a heap: the matter's now
Just when the prize awaits somebody;
At the true juncture slipping us so oft.
Ay, Heinrich died and Otho, please you doffed
His crown at such a juncture! Still, if holds
Our Friedrich's purpose, if this chain enfolds
The neck of ... who but this same Ecelin
That must recoil when the best days begin!
Recoil? that's naught; if the recoiler leaves
His name for me to fight with, no one grieves:
But he must interfere, forsooth, unlock
His cloister to become my stumbling-block
Just as of old! Ay, ay, there 't is again—
The land's inevitable Head—explain
The reverences that subject us! Count
These Ecelins now! Not to say as fount,
Originating power of thought,—from twelve
That drop i' the trenches they joined hands to delve,
Six shall surpass him, but ... why, men must twine
Somehow with something! Ecelin's a fine
Himself, if it were only worth while,
Clear name! 'T were simpler, doubtless, twine with me
At once our cloistered friend's capacity
Was of a sort! I had to share myself
In fifty portions, like an o'ertasked elf
That's forced illume in fifty points the vast
Rare vapor he's environed by. At last
My strengths, though sorely frittered, e'en converge
And crown ... no, Bacchus, they have yet to urge
The man be crowned!
"That aloe, an he durst,
Would climb! Just such a bloated sprawler first
I noted in Messina's castle-court
The day I came, when Heinrich asked in sport
If I would pledge my faith to win him back
His right in Lombardy: 'for, once bid pack
Marauders,' he continued, 'in my stead
You rule, Taurello!' and upon this head
Laid the silk glove of Constance—I see her
Too, mantled head to foot in miniver,
Retrude following!
"I am absolved
From further toil: the empery devolved
On me, 't was Tito's word: I have to lay
For once my plan, pursue my plan my way,
Prompt nobody, and render an account
Taurello to Taurello! Nay, I mount
To Friedrich: he conceives the post I kept,
—Who did true service, able or inept,
Who's worthy guerdon, Ecelin or I.
Me guerdoned, counsel follows: would he vie
With the Pope really? Azzo, Boniface
Compose a right-arm Hohenstauffen's race
Must break ere govern Lombardy. I point
How easy 't were to twist, once out of joint,
The socket from the bone: my Azzo's stare
Meanwhile! for I, this idle strap to wear,
Shall—fret myself abundantly, what end
To serve? There's left me twenty years to spend
As it may be—but also, as it may not be—
—How better than my old way? Had I one
Who labored to o'erthrow my work—a son
Hatching with Azzo superb treachery,
To root my pines up and then poison me,
Suppose—'t were worth while frustrate that! Beside,
Another life's ordained me: the world's tide
Rolls, and what hope of parting from the press
Of waves, a single wave through weariness
Gently lifted aside, laid upon shore?
My life must be lived out in foam and roar,
No question. Fifty years the province held
Taurello; troubles raised, and troubles quelled,
He in the midst—who leaves this quaint stone place,
These trees a year or two, then not a trace
Of him! How obtain hold, fetter men's tongues
Like this poor minstrel with the foolish songs—
To which, despite our bustle, he is linked?
—Flowers one may tease, that never grow extinct.
Ay, that patch, surely, green as ever, where
I set Her Moorish lentisk, by the stair,
To overawe the aloes; and we trod
Those flowers, how call you such?—into the sod;
A stately foreigner—a world of pain
To make it thrive, arrest rough winds—all vain!
It would decline; these would not he destroyed:
And now, where is it? where can you avoid
The flowers? I frighten children twenty years
Longer!—which way, too, Ecelin appears
To thwart me, for his son's besotted youth
Gives promise of the proper tiger-tooth:
They feel it at Vicenza! Fate, fate, fate,
My fine Taurello! Go you, promulgate
Friedrich's decree, and here 's shall aggrandize
Young Ecelin—your Prefect's badge! a prize
The supposition he most inclines to;
Too precious, certainly.
"How now? Compete
With my old comrade? shuffle from their seat
His children? Paltry dealing! Don't I know
Ecelin? now, I think, and years ago!
What's changed—the weakness? did not I compound
For that, and undertake to keep him sound
Despite it? Here's Taurello hankering
After a boy's preferment—this plaything
To carry, Bacchus!" And he laughed.
Remark
Why schemes wherein cold-blooded men embark
Prosper, when your enthusiastic sort
Fail: while these last are ever stopping short—
(So much they should—so little they can do!)
The careless tribe see nothing to pursue
If they desist; meantime their scheme succeeds.
Thoughts were caprices in the course of deeds
Methodic with Taurello; so, he turned,
Enough amused by fancies fairly earned
Of Este's horror-struck submitted neck,
And Richard, the cowed braggart, at his beck,
Being contented with mere vengeance.
To his own petty but immediate doubt
If he could pacify the League without
Conceding Richard; just to this was brought
That interval of vain discursive thought!
As, shall I say, some Ethiop, past pursuit
Of all enslavers, dips a shackled foot
Burnt to the blood, into the drowsy black
Enormous watercourse which guides him back
To his own tribe again, where he is king;
And laughs because he guesses, numbering
The yellower poison-wattles on the pouch
Of the first lizard wrested from its couch
Under the slime (whose skin, the while he strips
To cure his nostril with, and festered lips,
And eyeballs bloodshot through the desert-blast)
That he has reached its boundary, at last
May breathe;—thinks o'er enchantments of the South
Sovereign to plague his enemies, their mouth,
Eyes, nails, and hair; but, these enchantments tried
In fancy, puts them soberly aside
For truth, projects a cool return with friends,
The likelihood of winning mere amends
Ere long; thinks that, takes comfort silently,
Then, from the river's brink, his wrongs and he,
Hugging revenge close to their hearts, are soon
Off-striding for the Mountains of the Moon.
Midnight: the watcher nodded on his spear,
Since clouds dispersing left a passage clear
For any meagre and discolored moon
To venture forth; and such was peering soon
Above the harassed city—her close lanes
Closer, not half so tapering her fanes,
As though she shrunk into herself to keep
What little life was saved, more safely. Heap
By heap the watch-fires mouldered, and beside
The blackest spoke Sordello and replied
Palma with none to listen. "'T is your cause:
Sordello, taught what Ghibellins are,
What makes a Ghibellin? There should be laws—
(Remember how my youth escaped! I trust
To you for manhood, Palma; tell me just
As any child)—there must be laws at work
Explaining this. Assure me, good may lurk
Under the bad,—my multitude has part
In your designs, their welfare is at heart
With Salinguerra, to their interest
Refer the deeds he dwelt on,—so divest
Our conference of much that scared me. Why
Affect that heartless tone to Tito? I
Esteemed myself, yes, in my inmost mind
This morn, a recreant to my race—mankind
O'erlooked till now: why boast my spirit's force,
—Such force denied its object? why divorce
These, then admire my spirit's flight the same
As though it bore up, helped some half-orbed flame
Else quenched in the dead void, to living space?
That orb cast off to chaos and disgrace,
Why vaunt so much my unencumbered dance,
Making a feat's facilities enhance
Its marvel? But I front Taurello, one
Of happier fate, and all I should have done,
He does; the people's good being paramount
With him, their progress may perhaps account
For his abiding still; whereas you heard
The talk with Tito—the excuse preferred
For burning those five hostages,—and broached
By way of blind, as you and I approached,
I do believe."
She spoke: then he, "My thought
Plainlier expressed! All to your profit—naught
Meantime of these, of conquests to achieve
For them, of wretchedness he might relieve
And what Guelfs, approves of neither.
While profiting your party. Azzo, too,
Supports a cause: what cause? Do Guelfs pursue
Their ends by means like yours, or better?"
When
The Guelfs were proved alike, men weighed with men,
And deed with deed, blaze, blood, with blood and blaze,
Morn broke: "Once more, Sordello, meet its gaze
Proudly—the people's charge against thee fails
In every point, while either party quails!
These are the busy ones: be silent thou!
Two parties take the world up, and allow
No third, yet have one principle, subsist
By the same injustice; whoso shall enlist
With either, ranks with man's inveterate foes.
So there is one less quarrel to compose:
The Guelf, the Ghibellin may be to curse—
I have done nothing, but both sides do worse
Than nothing. Nay, to me, forgotten, reft
Of insight, lapped by trees and flowers, was left
The notion of a service—ha? What lured
Me here, what mighty aim was I assured
Must move Taurello? What if there remained
Have men a cause distinct from both?
A cause, intact, distinct from these, ordained
For me, its true discoverer?"
Some one pressed
Before them here, a watcher, to suggest
The subject for a ballad: "They must know
The tale of the dead worthy, long ago
Consul of Rome—that 's long ago for us,
Minstrels and bowmen, idly squabbling thus
In the world's corner—but too late no doubt,
For the brave time he sought to bring about.
Who was the famed Roman Crescentius?
—Not know Crescentius Nomentanus?" Then
He cast about for terms to tell him, when
Sordello disavowed it, how they used
Whenever their Superior introduced
A novice to the Brotherhood—("for I
Was just a brown-sleeve brother, merrily
Appointed too," quoth he, "till Innocent
Bade me relinquish, to my small content,
My wife or my brown sleeves")—some brother spoke
Ere nocturns of Crescentius, to revoke
The edict issued, after his demise,
Which blotted fame alike and effigies,
All out except a floating power, a name
Including, tending to produce the same
Great act. Rome, dead, forgotten, lived at least
Within that brain, though to a vulgar priest
And a vile stranger,—two not worth a slave
Of Rome's, Pope John, King Otho,—fortune gave
The rule there: so, Crescentius, haply dressed
In white, called Roman Consul for a jest,
Taking the people at their word, forth stepped
As upon Brutus' heel, nor ever kept
Rome waiting,—stood erect, and from his brain
Gave Rome out on its ancient place again,
Ay, bade proceed with Brutus' Rome, Kings styled
Themselves mere citizens of, and, beguiled
Into great thoughts thereby, would choose the gem
Out of a lapfull, spoil their diadem
—The Senate's cypher was so hard to scratch!
He flashes like a phanal, all men catch
The flame, Rome 's just accomplished! when returned
Otho, with John, the Consul's step had spurned,
And Hugo Lord of Este, to redress
The wrongs of each. Crescentius in the stress
Of adverse fortune bent. "They crucified
Their Consul in the Forum; and abide
E'er since such slaves at Rome, that I—(for I
Was once a brown-sleeve brother, merrily
Appointed)—I had option to keep wife
Or keep brown sleeves, and managed in the strife
Lose both. A song of Rome!"
And Rome, indeed,
Robed at Goito in fantastic weed,
The Mother-City of his Mantuan days,
Looked an established point of light whence rays
Traversed the world; for, all the clustered homes
Beside of men, seemed bent on being Romes
In their degree; the question was, how each
Should most resemble Rome, clean out of reach.
How if, in the reintegration of Rome,
Nor, of the Two, did either principle
Struggle to change—but to possess—Rome, still,
Guelf Rome or Ghibellin Rome.
Let Rome advance!
Rome, as she struck Sordello's ignorance—
How could he doubt one moment? Rome 's the Cause!
Rome of the Pandects, all the world's new laws—
Of the Capitol, of Castle Angelo;
New structures, that inordinately glow,
Subdued, brought back to harmony, made ripe
By many a relic of the archetype
Extant for wonder; every upstart church
That hoped to leave old temples in the lurch,
Corrected by the Theatre forlorn
That,—as a mundane shell, its world late born,—
Lay and o'ershadowed it. These hints combined,
Be typified the triumph of mankind?
Rome typifies the scheme to put mankind
Once more in full possession of their rights.
"Let us have Rome again! On me it lights
To build up Rome—on me, the first and last:
For such a future was endured the past!"
And thus, in the gray twilight, forth he sprung
To give his thought consistency among
The very People—let their facts avail
Finish the dream grown from the archer's tale.