VI
PALAZZO CESARINI
VITTORIA COLONNA, seated in an armchair; JULIA GONZAGA, standing near her.
JULIA.
It grieves me that I find you still so weak And suffering.
VITTORIA.
No, not suffering; only dying. Death is the chillness that precedes the dawn; We shudder for a moment, then awake
In the broad sunshine of the other life. I am a shadow, merely, and these hands,
These cheeks, these eyes, these tresses that my husband Once thought so beautiful, and I was proud of Because he thought them so, are faded quite,– All beauty gone from them.
JULIA.
Ah, no, not that.
Paler you are, but not less beautiful.
VITTORIA.
Hand me the mirror. I would fain behold What change comes o’er our features when we die. Thank you. And now sit down beside me here How glad I am that you have come to-day, Above all other days, and at the hour
When most I need you!
JULIA.
Do you ever need me?
VICTORIA.
Always, and most of all to-day and now. Do you remember, Julia, when we walked,
One afternoon, upon the castle terrace At Ischia, on the day before you left me?
JULIA.
Well I remember; but it seems to me Something unreal, that has never been,– Something that I have read of in a book, Or heard of some one else.
VITTORIA.
Ten years and more
Have passed since then; and many things have happened In those ten years, and many friends have died: Marco Flaminio, whom we all admired
And loved as our Catullus; dear Valldesso, The noble champion of free thought and speech; And Cardinal Ippolito, your friend.
JULIA.
Oh, do not speak of him! His sudden death O’ercomes me now, as it o’ercame me then. Let me forget it; for my memory
Serves me too often as an unkind friend, And I remember things I would forget,
While I forget the things I would remember.
VITTORIA.
Forgive me; I will speak of him no more, The good Fra Bernardino has departed,
Has fled from Italy, and crossed the Alps, Fearing Caraffa’s wrath, because he taught That He who made us all without our help Could also save us without aid of ours.
Renee of France, the Duchess of Ferrara, That Lily of the Loire, is bowed by winds That blow from Rome; Olympia Morata
Banished from court because of this new doctrine. Therefore be cautious. Keep your secret thought Locked in your breast.
JULIA.
I will be very prudent
But speak no more, I pray; it wearies you.
VITTORIA.
Yes, I am very weary. Read to me.
JULIA.
Most willingly. What shall I read?
VITTORIA.
Petrarca’s
Triumph of Death. The book lies on the table; Beside the casket there. Read where you find The leaf turned down. ‘T was there I left off reading.
JULIA, reads.
“Not as a flame that by some force is spent, But one that of itself consumeth quite, Departed hence in peace the soul content, In fashion of a soft and lucent light
Whose nutriment by slow gradation goes, Keeping until the end its lustre bright. Not pale, but whiter than the sheet of snows That without wind on some fair hill-top lies, Her weary body seemed to find repose.
Like a sweet slumber in her lovely eyes, When now the spirit was no longer there, Was what is dying called by the unwise. E’en Death itself in her fair face seemed fair”–
Is it of Laura that he here is speaking?– She doth not answer, yet is not asleep;
Her eyes are full of light and fixed on something Above her in the air. I can see naught
Except the painted angels on the ceiling. Vittoria! speak! What is it? Answer me!– She only smiles, and stretches out her hands.
[The mirror falls and breaks.
VITTORIA.
Not disobedient to the heavenly vision! Pescara! my Pescara! [Dies.
JULIA.
Holy Virgin!
Her body sinks together,–she is dead!
[Kneels and hides her face in Vittoria’s lap.
Enter MICHAEL ANGELO.
JULIA.
Hush! make no noise.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
How is she?
JULIA.
Never better.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Then she is dead!
JULIA.
Alas! yes, she is dead!
Even death itself in her fair face seems fair. How wonderful! The light upon her face
Shines from the windows of another world. Saint only have such faces. Holy Angels! Bear her like sainted Catherine to her rest!
[Kisses Vittoria’s hand.
PART THIRD
I
MONOLOGUE
Macello de’ Corvi. A room in MICHAEL ANGELO’S house. MICHAEL ANGELO, standing before a model of St. Peter’s.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Better than thou I cannot, Brunelleschi, And less than thou I will not! If the thought Could, like a windlass, lift the ponderous stones And swing them to their places; if a breath Could blow this rounded dome into the air, As if it were a bubble, and these statues Spring at a signal to their sacred stations, As sentinels mount guard upon a wall.
Then were my task completed. Now, alas! Naught am I but a Saint Sebaldus, holding Upon his hand the model of a church,
As German artists paint him; and what years, What weary years, must drag themselves along, Ere this be turned to stone! What hindrances Must block the way; what idle interferences Of Cardinals and Canons of St. Peter’s,
Who nothing know of art beyond the color Of cloaks and stockings, nor of any building Save that of their own fortunes! And what then? I must then the short-coming of my means Piece out by stepping forward, as the Spartan Was told to add a step to his short sword.
[A pause.
And is Fra Bastian dead? Is all that light Gone out, that sunshine darkened; all that music And merriment, that used to make our lives Less melancholy, swallowed up in silence Like madrigals sung in the street at night By passing revellers? It is strange indeed That he should die before me. ‘T is against The laws of nature that the young should die, And the old live; unless it be that some Have long been dead who think themselves alive, Because not buried. Well, what matters it, Since now that greater light, that was my sun, Is set, and all is darkness, all is darkness! Death’s lightnings strike to right and left of me, And, like a ruined wall, the world around me Crumbles away, and I am left alone.
I have no friends, and want none. My own thoughts Are now my sole companions,–thoughts of her, That like a benediction from the skies
Come to me in my solitude and soothe me. When men are old, the incessant thought of Death Follows them like their shadow; sits with them At every meal; sleeps with them when they sleep; And when they wake already is awake,
And standing by their bedside. Then, what folly It is in us to make an enemy
Of this importunate follower, not a friend! To me a friend, and not an enemy,
Has he become since all my friends are dead.
II
VIGNA DI PAPA GIULIO
POPE JULIUS III. seated by the Fountain of Acqua Vergine, surrounded by Cardinals.
JULIUS.
Tell me, why is it ye are discontent, You, Cardinals Salviati and Marcello,
With Michael Angelo? What has he done, Or left undone, that ye are set against him? When one Pope dies, another is soon made; And I can make a dozen Cardinals,
But cannot make one Michael Angelo.
CARDINAL SALVIATI.
Your Holiness, we are not set against him; We but deplore his incapacity.
He is too old.
JULIUS.
You, Cardinal Salviati,
Are an old man. Are you incapable?
‘T is the old ox that draws the straightest furrow.
CARDINAL MARCELLO.
Your Holiness remembers he was charged With the repairs upon St. Mary’s bridge; Made cofferdams, and heaped up load on load Of timber and travertine; and yet for years The bridge remained unfinished, till we gave it To Baccio Bigio.
JULIUS.
Always Baccio Bigio!
Is there no other architect on earth? Was it not he that sometime had in charge The harbor of Ancona.
CARDINAL MARCELLO.
Ay, the same.
JULIUS.
Then let me tell you that your Baccio Bigio Did greater damage in a single day
To that fair harbor than the sea had done Or would do in ten years. And him you think To put in place of Michael Angelo,
In building the Basilica of St. Peter! The ass that thinks himself a stag discovers His error when he comes to leap the ditch.
CARDINAL MARCELLO.
He does not build; he but demolishes The labors of Bramante and San Gallo.
JULIUS.
Only to build more grandly.
CARDINAL MARCELLO.
But time passes:
Year after year goes by, and yet the work Is not completed. Michael Angelo
Is a great sculptor, but no architect. His plans are faulty.
JULIUS.
I have seen his model,
And have approved it. But here comes the artist. Beware of him. He may make Persians of you, To carry burdens on your backs forever.
SCENE II.
The same: MICHAEL ANGELO.
JULIUS.
Come forward, dear Maestro! In these gardens All ceremonies of our court are banished. Sit down beside me here.
MICHAEL ANGELO, sitting down.
How graciously
Your Holiness commiserates old age
And its infirmities!
JULIUS.
Say its privileges.
Art I respect. The building of this palace And laying out these pleasant garden walks Are my delight, and if I have not asked
Your aid in this, it is that I forbear To lay new burdens on you at an age
When you need rest. Here I escape from Rome To be at peace. The tumult of the city
Scarce reaches here.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
How beautiful it is,
And quiet almost as a hermitage!
JULIUS.
We live as hermits here; and from these heights O’erlook all Rome and see the yellow Tiber Cleaving in twain the city, like a sword, As far below there as St. Mary’s bridge. What think you of that bridge?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I would advise
Your Holiness not to cross it, or not often It is not safe.
JULIUS.
It was repaired of late.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Some morning you will look for it in vain; It will be gone. The current of the river Is undermining it.
JULIUS.
But you repaired it.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I strengthened all its piers, and paved its road With travertine. He who came after me
Removed the stone, and sold it, and filled in The space with gravel.
JULIUS.
Cardinal Salviati
And Cardinal Marcello, do you listen? This is your famous Nanni Baccio Bigio.
MICHAEL ANGELO, aside.
There is some mystery here. These Cardinals Stand lowering at me with unfriendly eyes.
JULIUS.
Now let us come to what concerns us more Than bridge or gardens. Some complaints are made Concerning the Three Chapels in St. Peter’s; Certain supposed defects or imperfections, You doubtless can explain.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
This is no longer
The golden age of art. Men have become Iconoclasts and critics. They delight not In what an artist does, but set themselves To censure what they do not comprehend.
You will not see them bearing a Madonna Of Cimabue to the church in triumph,
But tearing down the statue of a Pope To cast it into cannon. Who are they
That bring complaints against me?
JULIUS.
Deputies
Of the commissioners; and they complain Of insufficient light in the Three Chapels.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Your Holiness, the insufficient light Is somewhere else, and not in the Three Chapels. Who are the deputies that make complaint?
JULIUS.
The Cardinals Salviati and Marcello, Here present.
MICHAEL ANGELO, rising.
With permission, Monsignori,
What is it ye complain of?
CARDINAL MARCELLO,
We regret
You have departed from Bramante’s plan, And from San Gallo’s.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Since the ancient time
No greater architect has lived on earth Than Lazzari Bramante. His design,
Without confusion, simple, clear, well-lighted. Merits all praise, and to depart from it Would be departing from the truth. San Gallo, Building about with columns, took all light Out of this plan; left in the choir dark corners For infinite ribaldries, and lurking places For rogues and robbers; so that when the church Was shut at night, not five and twenty men Could find them out. It was San Gallo, then, That left the church in darkness, and not I.
CARDINAL MARCELLO.
Excuse me; but in each of the Three Chapels Is but a single window.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Monsignore,
Perhaps you do not know that in the vaulting Above there are to go three other windows.
CARDINAL SALVIATI.
How should we know? You never told us of it.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I neither am obliged, nor will I be, To tell your Eminence or any other
What I intend or ought to do. Your office Is to provide the means, and see that thieves Do not lay hands upon them. The designs
Must all be left to me.
CARDINAL MARCELLO.
Sir architect,
You do forget yourself, to speak thus rudely In presence of his Holiness, and to us
Who are his cardinals.
MICHAEL ANGELO, putting on his hat.
I do not forget
I am descended from the Counts Canossa, Linked with the Imperial line, and with Matilda, Who gave the Church Saint Peter’s Patrimony. I, too, am proud to give unto the Church The labor of these hands, and what of life Remains to me. My father Buonarotti
Was Podesta of Chiusi and Caprese.
I am not used to have men speak to me As if I were a mason, hired to build
A garden wall, and paid on Saturdays So much an hour.
CARDINAL SALVIATI, aside.
No wonder that Pope Clement
Never sat down in presence of this man, Lest he should do the same; and always bade him Put on his hat, lest he unasked should do it!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
If any one could die of grief and shame, I should. This labor was imposed upon me; I did not seek it; and if I assumed it,
‘T was not for love of fame or love of gain, But for the love of God. Perhaps old age Deceived me, or self-interest, or ambition; I may be doing harm instead of good.
Therefore, I pray your Holiness, release me; Take off from me the burden of this work; Let me go back to Florence.
JULIUS.
Never, never,
While I am living.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Doth your Holiness
Remember what the Holy Scriptures say Of the inevitable time, when those
Who look out of the windows shall be darkened, And the almond-tree shall flourish?
JULIUS.
That is in
Ecclesiastes.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
And the grasshopper
Shall be a burden, and desire shall fail, Because man goeth unto his long home.
Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher; all Is vanity.
JULIUS.
Ah, were to do a thing
As easy as to dream of doing it,
We should not want for artists. But the men Who carry out in act their great designs Are few in number; ay, they may be counted Upon the fingers of this hand. Your place Is at St. Peter’s.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I have had my dream,
And cannot carry out my great conception, And put it into act.
JULIUS.
Then who can do it?
You would but leave it to some Baccio Bigio To mangle and deface.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Rather than that
I will still bear the burden on my shoulders A little longer. If your Holiness
Will keep the world in order, and will leave The building of the church to me, the work Will go on better for it. Holy Father,
If all the labors that I have endured, And shall endure, advantage not my soul, I am but losing time.
JULIUS, laying his hands on MICHAEL ANGELO’S shoulders. You will be gainer
Both for your soul and body.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Not events
Exasperate me, but the funest conclusions I draw from these events; the sure decline Of art, and all the meaning of that word: All that embellishes and sweetens life,
And lifts it from the level of low cares Into the purer atmosphere of beauty;
The faith in the Ideal; the inspiration That made the canons of the church of Seville Say, “Let us build, so that all men hereafter Will say that we were madmen.” Holy Father, I beg permission to retire from here.
JULIUS.
Go; and my benediction be upon you.
[Michael Angelo goes out.
My Cardinals, this Michael Angelo
Must not be dealt with as a common mason. He comes of noble blood, and for his crest Bear two bull’s horns; and he has given us proof That he can toss with them. From this day forth Unto the end of time, let no man utter
The name of Baccio Bigio in my presence. All great achievements are the natural fruits Of a great character. As trees bear not
Their fruits of the same size and quality, But each one in its kind with equal ease, So are great deeds as natural to great men As mean things are to small ones. By his work We know the master. Let us not perplex him.
III
BINDO ALTOVITI
A street in Rome. BINDO ALTOVITI, standing at the door of his house.
MICHAEL ANGELO, passing.
BINDO.
Good-morning, Messer Michael Angelo!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Good-morning, Messer Bindo Altoviti!
BINDO.
What brings you forth so early?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
The same reason
That keeps you standing sentinel at your door,– The air of this delicious summer morning. What news have you from Florence?
BINDO.
Nothing new;
The same old tale of violence and wrong. Since the disastrous day at Monte Murlo, When in procession, through San Gallo’s gate, Bareheaded, clothed in rags, on sorry steeds, Philippo Strozzi and the good Valori
Were led as prisoners down the streets of Florence, Amid the shouts of an ungrateful people, Hope is no more, and liberty no more.
Duke Cosimo, the tyrant, reigns supreme.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Florence is dead: her houses are but tombs; Silence and solitude are in her streets.
BINDO.
Ah yes; and often I repeat the words You wrote upon your statue of the Night, There in the Sacristy of San Lorenzo:
“Grateful to me is sleep; to be of stone More grateful, while the wrong and shame endure; To see not, feel not, is a benediction;
Therefore awake me not; oh, speak in whispers.”
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Ah, Messer Bindo, the calamities,
The fallen fortunes, and the desolation Of Florence are to me a tragedy
Deeper than words, and darker than despair. I, who have worshipped freedom from my cradle, Have loved her with the passion of a lover, And clothed her with all lovely attributes That the imagination can conceive,
Or the heart conjure up, now see her dead, And trodden in the dust beneath the feet Of an adventurer! It is a grief
Too great for me to bear in my old age.
BINDO.
I say no news from Florence: I am wrong, For Benvenuto writes that he is coming
To be my guest in Rome.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Those are good tidings.
He hath been many years away from us.
BINDO.
Pray you, come in.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I have not time to stay,
And yet I will. I see from here your house Is filled with works of art. That bust in bronze Is of yourself. Tell me, who is the master That works in such an admirable way,
And with such power and feeling?
BINDO.
Benvenuto.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Ah? Benvenuto? ‘T is a masterpiece! It pleases me as much, and even more,
Than the antiques about it; and yet they Are of the best one sees. But you have placed it By far too high. The light comes from below, And injures the expression. Were these windows Above and not beneath it, then indeed
It would maintain its own among these works Of the old masters, noble as they are.
I will go in and study it more closely. I always prophesied that Benvenuto,
With all his follies and fantastic ways, Would show his genius in some work of art That would amaze the world, and be a challenge Unto all other artists of his time.
[They go in.
IV
IN THE COLISEUM
MICHAEL ANGELO and TOMASO DE CAVALIERI
CAVALIERI.
What have you here alone, Messer Michele?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I come to learn.
CAVALIERI.
You are already master,
And teach all other men.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Nay, I know nothing;
Not even my own ignorance, as some
Philosopher hath said. I am a schoolboy Who hath not learned his lesson, and who stands Ashamed and silent in the awful presence Of the great master of antiquity
Who built these walls cyclopean.
CAVALIERI.
Gaudentius
His name was, I remember. His reward Was to be thrown alive to the wild beasts Here where we now are standing.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Idle tales.
CAVALIERI.
But you are greater than Gaudentius was, And your work nobler.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Silence, I beseech you.
CAVALIERI.
Tradition says that fifteen thousand men Were toiling for ten years incessantly
Upon this amphitheatre.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Behold
How wonderful it is! The queen of flowers, The marble rose of Rome! Its petals torn By wind and rain of thrice five hundred years; Its mossy sheath half rent away, and sold To ornament our palaces and churches,
Or to be trodden under feet of man
Upon the Tiber’s bank; yet what remains Still opening its fair bosom to the sun, And to the constellations that at night
Hang poised above it like a swarm of bees.
CAVALIERI.
The rose of Rome, but not of Paradise; Not the white rose our Tuscan poet saw,
With saints for petals. When this rose was perfect Its hundred thousand petals were not Saints, But senators in their Thessalian caps,
And all the roaring populace of Rome; And even an Empress and the Vestal Virgins, Who came to see the gladiators die,
Could not give sweetness to a rose like this.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I spake not of its uses, but its beauty.
CAVALIERI.
The sand beneath our feet is saturate With blood of martyrs; and these rifted stones Are awful witnesses against a people
Whose pleasure was the pain of dying men.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Tomaso Cavalieri, on my word,
You should have been a preacher, not a painter! Think you that I approve such cruelties, Because I marvel at the architects
Who built these walls, and curved these noble arches? Oh, I am put to shame, when I consider
How mean our work is, when compared with theirs! Look at these walls about us and above us! They have been shaken by earthquake; have been made A fortress, and been battered by long sieges; The iron clamps, that held the stones together, Have been wrenched from them; but they stand erect And firm, as if they had been hewn and hollowed Out of the solid rock, and were a part
Of the foundations of the world itself.
CAVALIERI.
Your work, I say again, is nobler work, In so far as its end and aim are nobler; And this is but a ruin, like the rest.
Its vaulted passages are made the caverns Of robbers, and are haunted by the ghosts Of murdered men.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
A thousand wild flowers bloom From every chink, and the birds build their nests Among the ruined arches, and suggest
New thoughts of beauty to the architect, Now let us climb the broken stairs that lead Into the corridors above, and study
The marvel and the mystery of that art In which I am a pupil, not a master.
All things must have an end; the world itself Must have an end, as in a dream I saw it. There came a great hand out of heaven, and touched The earth, and stopped it in its course. The seas Leaped, a vast cataract, into the abyss; The forests and the fields slid off, and floated Like wooded islands in the air. The dead Were hurled forth from their sepulchres; the living Were mingled with them, and themselves were dead,– All being dead; and the fair, shining cities Dropped out like jewels from a broken crown. Naught but the core of the great globe remained, A skeleton of stone. And over it
The wrack of matter drifted like a cloud, And then recoiled upon itself, and fell
Back on the empty world, that with the weight Reeled, staggered, righted, and then headlong plunged Into the darkness, as a ship, when struck By a great sea, throws off the waves at first On either side, then settles and goes down Into the dark abyss, with her dead crew.
CAVALIERI.
But the earth does not move.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Who knows? who knowst?
There are great truths that pitch their shining tents Outside our walls, and though but dimly seen In the gray dawn, they will be manifest
When the light widens into perfect day. A certain man, Copernicus by name,
Sometime professor here in Rome, has whispered It is the earth, and not the sun, that moves. What I beheld was only in a dream,
Yet dreams sometimes anticipate events, Being unsubstantial images of things
As yet unseen.
V
MACELLO DE’ CORVI
MICHAEL ANGELO, BENVENUTO CELLINI.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
So, Benvenuto, you return once more To the Eternal City. ‘T is the centre
To which all gravitates. One finds no rest Elsewhere than here. There may be other cities That please us for a while, but Rome alone Completely satisfies. It becomes to all
A second native land by predilection, And not by accident of birth alone.
BENVENUTO.
I am but just arrived, and am now lodging With Bindo Altoviti. I have been
To kiss the feet of our most Holy Father, And now am come in haste to kiss the hands Of my miraculous Master.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
And to find him
Grown very old.
BENVENUTO.
You know that precious stones
Never grow old.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Half sunk beneath the horizon,
And yet not gone. Twelve years are a long while. Tell me of France.
BENVENUTO.
It were too long a tale
To tell you all. Suffice in brief to say The King received me well, and loved me well; Gave me the annual pension that before me Our Leonardo had, nor more nor less,
And for my residence the Tour de Nesle, Upon the river-side.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
A princely lodging.
BENVENUTO.
What in return I did now matters not, For there are other things, of greater moment, I wish to speak of. First of all, the letter You wrote me, not long since, about my bust Of Bindo Altoviti, here in Rome. You said, “My Benvenuto, I for many years
Have known you as the greatest of all goldsmiths, And now I know you as no less a sculptor.” Ah, generous Master! How shall I e’er thank you For such kind language?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
By believing it.
I saw the bust at Messer Bindo’s house, And thought it worthy of the ancient masters, And said so. That is all.
BENVENUTO.
It is too much;
And I should stand abashed here in your presence, Had I done nothing worthier of your praise Than Bindo’s bust.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
What have you done that’s better?
BENVENUTO.
When I left Rome for Paris, you remember I promised you that if I went a goldsmith I would return a sculptor. I have kept
The promise I then made.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Dear Benvenuto,
I recognized the latent genius in you, But feared your vices.
BENVENUTO.
I have turned them all
To virtues. My impatient, wayward nature, That made me quick in quarrel, now has served me Where meekness could not, and where patience could not, As you shall hear now. I have cast in bronze A statue of Perseus, holding thus aloft
In his left hand the head of the Medusa, And in his right the sword that severed it; His right foot planted on the lifeless corse; His face superb and pitiful, with eyes
Down-looking on the victim of his vengeance.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I see it as it should be.
BENVENUTO.
As it will be
When it is placed upon the Ducal Square, Half-way between your David and the Judith Of Donatello.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Rival of them both!
BENVENUTO.
But ah, what infinite trouble have I had With Bandinello, and that stupid beast,
The major-domo of Duke Cosimo,
Francesco Ricci, and their wretched agent Gorini, who came crawling round about me Like a black spider, with his whining voice That sounded like the buzz of a mosquito! Oh, I have wept in utter desperation,
And wished a thousand times I had not left My Tour do Nesle, nor e’er returned to Florence, Or thought of Perseus. What malignant falsehoods They told the Grand Duke, to impede my work, And make me desperate!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
The nimble lie
Is like the second-hand upon a clock; We see it fly; while the hour-hand of truth Seems to stand still, and yet it moves unseen, And wins at last, for the clock will not strike Till it has reached the goal.
BENVENUTO.
My obstinacy
Stood me in stead, and helped me to o’ercome The hindrances that envy and ill-will
Put in my way.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
When anything is done
People see not the patient doing of it, Nor think how great would be the loss to man If it had not been done. As in a building Stone rests on stone, and wanting the foundation All would be wanting, so in human life
Each action rests on the foregone event, That made it possible, but is forgotten
And buried in the earth.
BENVENUTO.
Even Bandinello,
Who never yet spake well of anything, Speaks well of this; and yet he told the Duke That, though I cast small figures well enough, I never could cast this.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
But you have done it,
And proved Ser Bandinello a false prophet. That is the wisest way.
BENVENUTO.
And ah, that casting
What a wild scene it was, as late at night, A night of wind and rain, we heaped the furnace With pine of Serristori, till the flames Caught in the rafters over us, and threatened To send the burning roof upon our heads; And from the garden side the wind and rain Poured in upon us, and half quenched our fires. I was beside myself with desperation.
A shudder came upon me, then a fever; I thought that I was dying, and was forced To leave the work-shop, and to throw myself Upon my bed, as one who has no hope.
And as I lay there, a deformed old man Appeared before me, and with dismal voice, Like one who doth exhort a criminal
Led forth to death, exclaimed, “Poor Benvenuto, Thy work is spoiled! There is no remedy!” Then, with a cry so loud it might have reached The heaven of fire, I bounded to my feet, And rushed back to my workmen. They all stood Bewildered and desponding; and I looked
Into the furnace, and beheld the mass Half molten only, and in my despair
I fed the fire with oak, whose terrible heat Soon made the sluggish metal shine and sparkle. Then followed a bright flash, and an explosion, As if a thunderbolt had fallen among us. The covering of the furnace had been rent Asunder, and the bronze was flowing over; So that I straightway opened all the sluices To fill the mould. The metal ran like lava, Sluggish and heavy; and I sent my workmen To ransack the whole house, and bring together My pewter plates and pans, two hundred of them, And cast them one by one into the furnace To liquefy the mass, and in a moment
The mould was filled! I fell upon my knees And thanked the Lord; and then we ate and drank And went to bed, all hearty and contented. It was two hours before the break of day. My fever was quite gone.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
A strange adventure,
That could have happened to no man alive But you, my Benvenuto.
BENVENUTO.
As my workmen said
To major-domo Ricci afterward,
When he inquired of them: “‘T was not a man, But an express great devil.”
MICHAEL ANGELO.
And the statue?
BENVENUTO.
Perfect in every part, save the right foot Of Perseus, as I had foretold the Duke.
There was just bronze enough to fill the mould; Not a drop over, not a drop too little.
I looked upon it as a miracle
Wrought by the hand of God.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
And now I see
How you have turned your vices into virtues.
BENVENUTO.
But wherefore do I prate of this? I came To speak of other things. Duke Cosimo
Through me invites you to return to Florence, And offers you great honors, even to make you One of the Forty-Eight, his Senators.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
His Senators! That is enough. Since Florence Was changed by Clement Seventh from a Republic Into a Dukedom, I no longer wish
To be a Florentine. That dream is ended. The Grand Duke Cosimo now reigns supreme; All liberty is dead. Ah, woe is me!
I hoped to see my country rise to heights Of happiness and freedom yet unreached
By other nations, but the climbing wave Pauses, lets go its hold, and slides again Back to the common level, with a hoarse
Death rattle in its throat. I am too old To hope for better days. I will stay here And die in Rome. The very weeds, that grow Among the broken fragments of her ruins, Are sweeter to me than the garden flowers Of other cities; and the desolate ring
Of the Campagna round about her walls Fairer than all the villas that encircle The towns of Tuscany.
BENVENUTO.
But your old friends!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
All dead by violence. Baccio Valori Has been beheaded; Guicciardini poisoned; Philippo Strozzi strangled in his prison. Is Florence then a place for honest men
To flourish in? What is there to prevent My sharing the same fate?
BENVENUTO.
Why this: if all
Your friends are dead, so are your enemies.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Is Aretino dead?
BENVENUTO.
He lives in Venice,
And not in Florence.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
‘T is the same to me
This wretched mountebank, whom flatterers Call the Divine, as if to make the word
Unpleasant in the mouths of those who speak it And in the ears of those who hear it, sends me A letter written for the public eye,
And with such subtle and infernal malice, I wonder at his wickedness. ‘T is he
Is the express great devil, and not you. Some years ago he told me how to paint
The scenes of the Last Judgment.
BENVENUTO.
I remember.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Well, now he writes to me that, as a Christian, He is ashamed of the unbounded freedom
With which I represent it.
BENVENUTO.
Hypocrite!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
He says I show mankind that I am wanting In piety and religion, in proportion
As I profess perfection in my art.
Profess perfection? Why, ‘t is only men Like Bugiardini who are satisfied
With what they do. I never am content, But always see the labors of my hand
Fall short of my conception.
BENVENUTO.
I perceive
The malice of this creature. He would taint you With heresy, and in a time like this!
‘T is infamous!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I represent the angels
Without their heavenly glory, and the saints Without a trace of earthly modesty.
BENVENUTO.
Incredible audacity!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
The heathen
Veiled their Diana with some drapery, And when they represented Venus naked
They made her by her modest attitude, Appear half clothed. But I, who am a Christian, Do so subordinate belief to art
That I have made the very violation Of modesty in martyrs and in virgins
A spectacle at which all men would gaze With half-averted eyes even in a brothel.
BENVENUTO.
He is at home there, and he ought to know What men avert their eyes from in such places; From the Last Judgment chiefly, I imagine.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
But divine Providence will never leave The boldness of my marvellous work unpunished; And the more marvellous it is, the more
‘T is sure to prove the ruin of my fame! And finally, if in this composition
I had pursued the instructions that he gave me Concerning heaven and hell and paradise, In that same letter, known to all the world, Nature would not be forced, as she is now, To feel ashamed that she invested me
With such great talent; that I stand myself A very idol in the world of art.
He taunts me also with the Mausoleum Of Julius, still unfinished, for the reason That men persuaded the inane old man
It was of evil augury to build
His tomb while he was living; and he speaks Of heaps of gold this Pope bequeathed to me, And calls it robbery;–that is what he says. What prompted such a letter?
BENVENUTO.
Vanity.
He is a clever writer, and he likes To draw his pen, and flourish it in the face Of every honest man, as swordsmen do
Their rapiers on occasion, but to show How skilfully they do it. Had you followed The advice he gave, or even thanked him for it, You would have seen another style of fence. ‘T is but his wounded vanity, and the wish To see his name in print. So give it not A moment’s thought; it soon will be forgotten.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I will not think of it, but let it pass For a rude speech thrown at me in the street, As boys threw stones at Dante.
BENVENUTO.
And what answer
Shall I take back to Grand Duke Cosimo? He does not ask your labor or your service; Only your presence in the city of Florence, With such advice upon his work in hand
As he may ask, and you may choose to give.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
You have my answer. Nothing he can offer Shall tempt me to leave Rome. My work is here, And only here, the building of St. Peter’s. What other things I hitherto have done
Have fallen from me, are no longer mine; I have passed on beyond them, and have left them As milestones on the way. What lies before me, That is still mine, and while it is unfinished No one shall draw me from it, or persuade me, By promises of ease, or wealth, or honor, Till I behold the finished dome uprise
Complete, as now I see it in my thought.
BENVENUTO.
And will you paint no more?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
No more.
BENVENUTO.
‘T is well.
Sculpture is more divine, and more like Nature, That fashions all her works in high relief, And that is sculpture. This vast ball, the Earth, Was moulded out of clay, and baked in fire; Men, women, and all animals that breathe Are statues, and not paintings. Even the plants, The flowers, the fruits, the grasses, were first sculptured, And colored later. Painting is a lie,
A shadow merely.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Truly, as you say,
Sculpture is more than painting. It is greater To raise the dead to life than to create Phantoms that seem to live. The most majestic Of the three sister arts is that which builds; The eldest of them all, to whom the others Are but the hand-maids and the servitors, Being but imitation, not creation.
Henceforth I dedicate myself to her.
BENVENUTO.
And no more from the marble hew those forms That fill us all with wonder?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Many statues
Will there be room for in my work. Their station Already is assigned them in my mind.
But things move slowly. There are hindrances, Want of material, want of means, delays
And interruptions, endless interference Of Cardinal Commissioners, and disputes
And jealousies of artists, that annoy me. But twill persevere until the work
Is wholly finished, or till I sink down Surprised by death, that unexpected guest, Who waits for no man’s leisure, but steps in, Unasked and unannounced, to put a stop
To all our occupations and designs. And then perhaps I may go back to Florence; This is my answer to Duke Cosimo.
VI
MICHAEL ANGELO’S STUDIO
MICHAEL ANGELO and URBINO.
MICHAEL ANGELO, pausing in his work.
Urbino, thou and I are both old men. My strength begins to fail me.
URBINO.
Eccellenza.
That is impossible. Do I not see you Attack the marble blocks with the same fury As twenty years ago?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
‘T is an old habit.
I must have learned it early from my nurse At Setignano, the stone-mason’s wife;
For the first sounds I heard were of the chisel chipping away the stone.
URBINO.
At every stroke
You strike fire with your chisel.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Ay, because
The marble is too hard.
URBINO.
It is a block
That Topolino sent you from Carrara. He is a judge of marble.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I remember.
With it he sent me something of his making,– A Mercury, with long body and short legs, As if by any possibility
A messenger of the gods could have short legs. It was no more like Mercury than you are, But rather like those little plaster figures That peddlers hawk about the villages
As images of saints. But luckily
For Topolino, there are many people Who see no difference between what is best And what is only good, or not even good; So that poor artists stand in their esteem On the same level with the best, or higher.
URBINO.
How Eccellenza laughed!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Poor Topolino!
All men are not born artists, nor will labor E’er make them artists.
URBINO.
No, no more
Than Emperors, or Popes, or Cardinals. One must be chosen for it. I have been
Your color-grinder six and twenty years, And am not yet an artist.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Some have eyes
That see not; but in every block of marble I see a statue,–see it as distinctly
As if it stood before me shaped and perfect In attitude and action. I have only
To hew away the stone walls that imprison The lovely apparition, and reveal it
To other eyes as mine already see it. But I grow old and weak. What wilt thou do When I am dead, Urbino?
URBINO.
Eccellenza,
I must then serve another master.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Never!
Bitter is servitude at best. Already So many years hast thou been serving me; But rather as a friend than as a servant. We have grown old together. Dost thou think So meanly of this Michael Angelo
As to imagine he would let thee serve, When he is free from service? Take this purse, Two thousand crowns in gold.
URBINO.
Two thousand crowns!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Ay, it will make thee rich. Thou shalt not die A beggar in a hospital.
URBINO.
Oh, Master!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
I cannot have them with me on the journey That I am undertaking. The last garment
That men will make for me will have no pockets.
URBINO, kissing the hand of MICHAEL ANGELO. My generous master!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Hush!
URBINO.
My Providence!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Not a word more. Go now to bed, old man. Thou hast served Michael Angelo. Remember, Henceforward thou shalt serve no other master.
VII
THE OAKS OF MONTE LUCA
MICHAEL ANGELO, alone in the woods.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
How still it is among these ancient oaks! Surges and undulations of the air
Uplift the leafy boughs, and let them fall With scarce a sound. Such sylvan quietudes Become old age. These huge centennial oaks, That may have heard in infancy the trumpets Of Barbarossa’s cavalry, deride
Man’s brief existence, that with all his strength He cannot stretch beyond the hundredth year. This little acorn, turbaned like the Turk, Which with my foot I spurn, may be an oak Hereafter, feeding with its bitter mast
The fierce wild boar, and tossing in its arms The cradled nests of birds, when all the men That now inhabit this vast universe,
They and their children, and their children’s children, Shall be but dust and mould, and nothing more. Through openings in the trees I see below me The valley of Clitumnus, with its farms
And snow-white oxen grazing in the shade Of the tall poplars on the river’s brink. O Nature, gentle mother, tender nurse!
I who have never loved thee as I ought, But wasted all my years immured in cities, And breathed the stifling atmosphere of streets, Now come to thee for refuge. Here is peace. Yonder I see the little hermitages
Dotting the mountain side with points of light, And here St. Julian’s convent, like a nest Of curlews, clinging to some windy cliff. Beyond the broad, illimitable plain
Down sinks the sun, red as Apollo’s quoit, That, by the envious Zephyr blown aside, Struck Hyacinthus dead, and stained the earth With his young blood, that blossomed into flowers. And now, instead of these fair deities
Dread demons haunt the earth; hermits inhabit The leafy homes of sylvan Hamadryads;
And jovial friars, rotund and rubicund, Replace the old Silenus with his ass.
Here underneath these venerable oaks, Wrinkled and brown and gnarled like them with age, A brother of the monastery sits,
Lost in his meditations. What may be The questions that perplex, the hopes that cheer him? Good-evening, holy father.
MONK.
God be with you.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Pardon a stranger if he interrupt
Your meditations.
MONK.
It was but a dream,–
The old, old dream, that never will come true; The dream that all my life I have been dreaming, And yet is still a dream.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
All men have dreams:
I have had mine; but none of them came true; They were but vanity. Sometimes I think
The happiness of man lies in pursuing, Not in possessing; for the things possessed Lose half their value. Tell me of your dream.
MONK.
The yearning of my heart, my sole desire, That like the sheaf of Joseph stands up right, While all the others bend and bow to it; The passion that torments me, and that breathes New meaning into the dead forms of prayer, Is that with mortal eyes I may behold
The Eternal City.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Rome?
MONK.
There is but one;
The rest are merely names. I think of it As the Celestial City, paved with gold,
And sentinelled with angels.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Would it were.
I have just fled from it. It is beleaguered By Spanish troops, led by the Duke of Alva.
MONK.
But still for me ‘t is the Celestial City, And I would see it once before I die.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Each one must bear his cross.
MONK.
Were it a cross
That had been laid upon me, I could bear it, Or fall with it. It is a crucifix;
I am nailed hand and foot, and I am dying!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
What would you see in Rome?
MONK.
His Holiness.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Him that was once the Cardinal Caraffa? You would but see a man of fourscore years, With sunken eyes, burning like carbuncles, Who sits at table with his friends for hours, Cursing the Spaniards as a race of Jews
And miscreant Moors. And with what soldiery Think you he now defends the Eternal City?
MONK.
With legions of bright angels.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
So he calls them;
And yet in fact these bright angelic legions Are only German Lutherans.
MONK, crossing himself.
Heaven protect us?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
What further would you see?
MONK.
The Cardinals,
Going in their gilt coaches to High Mass.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Men do not go to Paradise in coaches.
MONK.
The catacombs, the convents, and the churches; The ceremonies of the Holy Week
In all their pomp, or, at the Epiphany, The Feast of the Santissima Bambino
At Ara Coeli. But I shall not see them.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
These pompous ceremonies of the Church Are but an empty show to him who knows
The actors in them. Stay here in your convent, For he who goes to Rome may see too much. What would you further?
MONK.
I would see the painting
of the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
The smoke of incense and of altar candles Has blackened it already.
MONK.
Woe is me!
Then I would hear Allegri’s Miserere, Sung by the Papal choir.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
A dismal dirge!
I am an old, old man, and I have lived In Rome for thirty years and more, and know The jarring of the wheels of that great world, Its jealousies, its discords, and its strife. Therefore I say to you, remain content
Here in your convent, here among your woods, Where only there is peace. Go not to Rome. There was of old a monk of Wittenberg
Who went to Rome; you may have heard of him; His name was Luther; and you know what followed.
[The convent bell rings.
MONK, rising.
It is the convent bell; it rings for vespers. Let us go in; we both will pray for peace.
VIII
THE DEAD CHRIST.
MICHAEL ANGELO’S studio. MICHAEL ANGELO, with a light, working upon the Dead Christ. Midnight.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
O Death, why is it I cannot portray Thy form and features? Do I stand too near thee? Or dost thou hold my hand, and draw me back, As being thy disciple, not thy master?
Let him who knows not what old age is like Have patience till it comes, and he will know. I once had skill to fashion Life and Death And Sleep, which is the counterfeit of Death; And I remember what Giovanni Strozzi
Wrote underneath my statue of the Night In San Lorenzo, ah, so long ago!
Grateful to me is sleep! More grateful now Than it was then; for all my friends are dead; And she is dead, the noblest of them all. I saw her face, when the great sculptor Death, Whom men should call Divine, had at a blow Stricken her into marble; and I kissed
Her cold white hand. What was it held me back From kissing her fair forehead, and those lips, Those dead, dumb lips? Grateful to me is sleep!
Enter GIORGIO VASARI.
GIORGIO.
Good-evening, or good-morning, for I know not Which of the two it is.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
How came you in?
GIORGIO.
Why, by the door, as all men do.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Ascanio
Must have forgotten to bolt it.
GIORGIO.
Probably.
Am I a spirit, or so like a spirit, That I could slip through bolted door or window? As I was passing down the street, I saw
A glimmer of light, and heard the well-known chink Of chisel upon marble. So I entered,
To see what keeps you from your bed so late.
MICHAEL ANGELO, coming forward with the lamp. You have been revelling with your boon companions, Giorgio Vasari, and you come to me
At an untimely hour.
GIORGIO.
The Pope hath sent me.
His Holiness desires to see again
The drawing you once showed him of the dome Of the Basilica.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
We will look for it.
GIORGIO.
What is the marble group that glimmers there Behind you?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Nothing, and yet everything,–
As one may take it. It is my own tomb, That I am building.
GIORGIO.
Do not hide it from me.
By our long friendship and the love I bear you, Refuse me not!
MICHAEL ANGELO, letting fall the lamp. Life hath become to me
An empty theatre,–its lights extinguished, The music silent, and the actors gone;
And I alone sit musing on the scenes That once have been. I am so old that Death Oft plucks me by the cloak, to come with him And some day, like this lamp, shall I fall down, And my last spark of life will be extinguished. Ah me! ah me! what darkness of despair!
So near to death, and yet so far from God!
*****
TRANSLATIONS
PRELUDE
As treasures that men seek,
Deep-buried in sea-sands,
Vanish if they but speak,
And elude their eager hands,
So ye escape and slip,
O songs, and fade away,
When the word is on my lip
To interpret what ye say.
Were it not better, then,
To let the treasures rest
Hid from the eyes of men,
Locked in their iron chest?
I have but marked the place,
But half the secret told,
That, following this slight trace,
Others may find the gold.
FROM THE SPANISH
COPLAS DE MANRIQUE.
O let the soul her slumbers break,
Let thought be quickened, and awake; Awake to see
How soon this life is past and gone, And death comes softly stealing on,
How silently!
Swiftly our pleasures glide away,
Our hearts recall the distant day
With many sighs;
The moments that are speeding fast
We heed not, but the past,–the past, More highly prize.
Onward its course the present keeps,
Onward the constant current sweeps, Till life is done;
And, did we judge of time aright,
The past and future in their flight Would be as one.
Let no one fondly dream again,
That Hope and all her shadowy train Will not decay;
Fleeting as were the dreams of old, Remembered like a tale that’s told,
They pass away.
Our lives are rivers, gliding free
To that unfathomed, boundless sea,
The silent grave!
Thither all earthly pomp and boast
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost
In one dark wave.
Thither the mighty torrents stray,
Thither the brook pursues its way,
And tinkling rill,
There all are equal; side by side
The poor man and the son of pride
Lie calm and still.
I will not here invoke the throng
Of orators and sons of song,
The deathless few;
Fiction entices and deceives,
And, sprinkled o’er her fragrant leaves, Lies poisonous dew.
To One alone my thoughts arise,
The Eternal Truth, the Good and Wise, To Him I cry,
Who shared on earth our common lot, But the world comprehended not
His deity.
This world is but the rugged road
Which leads us to the bright abode
Of peace above;
So let us choose that narrow way,
Which leads no traveller’s foot astray From realms of love,
Our cradle is the starting-place,
Life is the running of the race,
We reach the goal
When, in the mansions of the blest, Death leaves to its eternal rest
The weary soul.
Did we but use it as we ought,
This world would school each wandering thought To its high state.
Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, Up to that better world on high,
For which we wait.
Yes, the glad messenger of love,
To guide us to our home above,
The Saviour came;
Born amid mortal cares and fears.
He suffered in this vale of tears
A death of shame.
Behold of what delusive worth
The bubbles we pursue on earth,
The shapes we chase,
Amid a world of treachery!
They vanish ere death shuts the eye, And leave no trace.
Time steals them from us, chances strange, Disastrous accident, and change,
That come to all;
Even in the most exalted state,
Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate; The strongest fall.
Tell me, the charms that lovers seek
In the clear eye and blushing cheek, The hues that play
O’er rosy lip and brow of snow,
When hoary age approaches slow,
Ah; where are they?
The cunning skill, the curious arts,
The glorious strength that youth imparts In life’s first stage;
These shall become a heavy weight,
When Time swings wide his outward gate To weary age.
The noble blood of Gothic name,
Heroes emblazoned high to fame,
In long array;
How, in the onward course of time,
The landmarks of that race sublime
Were swept away!
Some, the degraded slaves of lust,
Prostrate and trampled in the dust, Shall rise no more;
Others, by guilt and crime, maintain The scutcheon, that without a stain,
Their fathers bore.
Wealth and the high estate of pride,
With what untimely speed they glide, How soon depart!
Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay,
The vassals of a mistress they,
Of fickle heart.
These gifts in Fortune’s hands are found; Her swift revolving wheel turns round,
And they are gone!
No rest the inconstant goddess knows, But changing, and without repose,
Still hurries on.
Even could the hand of avarice save
Its gilded baubles till the grave
Reclaimed its prey,
Let none on such poor hopes rely;
Life, like an empty dream, flits by, And where are they?
Earthly desires and sensual lust
Are passions springing from the dust, They fade and die;
But in the life beyond the tomb,
They seal the immortal spirits doom Eternally!
The pleasures and delights, which mask In treacherous smiles life’s serious task, What are they, all,
But the fleet coursers of the chase, And death an ambush in the race,
Wherein we fall?
No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed,
Brook no delay, but onward speed
With loosened rein;
And, when the fatal snare is near,
We strive to check our mad career,
But strive in vain.
Could we new charms to age impart,
And fashion with a cunning art
The human face,
As we can clothe the soul with light, And make the glorious spirit bright
With heavenly grace,
How busily each passing hour
Should we exert that magic power,
What ardor show,
To deck the sensual slave of sin,
Yet leave the freeborn soul within, In weeds of woe!
Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, Famous in history and in song
Of olden time,
Saw, by the stern decrees of fate,
Their kingdoms lost, and desolate
Their race sublime.
Who is the champion? who the strong?
Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng? On these shall fall
As heavily the hand of Death,
As when it stays the shepherd’s breath Beside his stall.
I speak not of the Trojan name,
Neither its glory nor its shame
Has met our eyes;
Nor of Rome’s great and glorious dead, Though we have heard so oft, and read,
Their histories.
Little avails it now to know
Of ages passed so long ago,
Nor how they rolled;
Our theme shall be of yesterday,
Which to oblivion sweeps away,
Like day’s of old.
Where is the King, Don Juan? Where
Each royal prince and noble heir
Of Aragon ?
Where are the courtly gallantries?
The deeds of love and high emprise, In battle done?
Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, And scarf, and gorgeous panoply,
And nodding plume,
What were they but a pageant scene? What but the garlands, gay and green,
That deck the tomb?
Where are the high-born dames, and where Their gay attire, and jewelled hair,
And odors sweet?
Where are the gentle knights, that came To kneel, and breathe love’s ardent flame, Low at their feet?
Where is the song of Troubadour?
Where are the lute and gay tambour
They loved of yore?
Where is the mazy dance of old,
The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, The dancers wore?
And he who next the sceptre swayed,
Henry, whose royal court displayed
Such power and pride;
O, in what winning smiles arrayed,
The world its various pleasures laid His throne beside!
But O how false and full of guile
That world, which wore so soft a smile But to betray!
She, that had been his friend before, Now from the fated monarch tore
Her charms away.