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I. I am listening here in Rome. “England’s strong,” say many speakers, “If she winks, the Czar must come, Prow and topsail, to the breakers.” II. “England’s rich in coal and oak,” Adds a Roman, getting moody; “If she shakes a travelling cloak, Down our Appian roll the scudi.” III. “England’s righteous,” they rejoin: “Who shall grudge her exaltations When her wealth of golden coin Works the welfare of the nations?” I am listening here in Rome. Over Alps a voice is sweeping— “England’s cruel, save us some Of these victims in her keeping!” V. As the cry beneath the wheel Of an old triumphant Roman Cleft the people’s shouts like steel, While the show was spoilt for no man, VI. Comes that voice. Let others shout, Other poets praise my land here: I am sadly sitting out, Praying, “God forgive her grandeur.” VII. Shall we boast of empire, where Time with ruin sits commissioned? In God’s liberal blue air Peter’s dome itself looks wizened; And the mountains, in disdain, Gather back their lights of opal From the dumb despondent plain Heaped with jawbones of a people. IX. Lordly English, think it o’er, Cæsar’s doing is all undone! You have cannons on your shore, And free Parliaments in London; X. Princes’ parks, and merchants’ homes, Tents for soldiers, ships for seamen,— Ay, but ruins worse than Rome’s In your pauper men and women. XI. Women leering through the gas (Just such bosoms used to nurse you), Men, turned wolves by famine—pass! Those can speak themselves, and curse you. But these others—children small, Spilt like blots about the city, Quay, and street, and palace-wall— Take them up into your pity! XIII. Ragged children with bare feet, Whom the angels in white raiment Know the names of, to repeat When they come on you for payment. XIV. Ragged children, hungry-eyed, Huddled up out of the coldness On your doorsteps, side by side, Till your footman damns their boldness. XV. In the alleys, in the squares, Begging, lying little rebels; In the noisy thoroughfares, Struggling on with piteous trebles. Patient children—think what pain Makes a young child patient—ponder! Wronged too commonly to strain After right, or wish, or wonder. XVII. Wicked children, with peaked chins, And old foreheads! there are many With no pleasures except sins, Gambling with a stolen penny. XVIII. Sickly children, that whine low To themselves and not their mothers, From mere habit,—never so Hoping help or care from others. XIX. Healthy children, with those blue English eyes, fresh from their Maker, Fierce and ravenous, staring through At the brown loaves of the baker. I am listening here in Rome, And the Romans are confessing, “English children pass in bloom All the prettiest made for blessing. XXI. “Angli angeli!” (resumed From the mediæval story) “Such rose angelhoods, emplumed In such ringlets of pure glory!” XXII. Can we smooth down the bright hair, O my sisters, calm, unthrilled in Our heart’s pulses? Can we bear The sweet looks of our own children, XXIII. While those others, lean and small, Scurf and mildew of the city, Spot our streets, convict us all Till we take them into pity? “Is it our fault?” you reply, “When, throughout civilization, Every nation’s empery Is asserted by starvation? XXV. “All these mouths we cannot feed, And we cannot clothe these bodies.” Well, if man’s so hard indeed, Let them learn at least what God is! XXVI. Little outcasts from life’s fold, The grave’s hope they may be joined in By Christ’s covenant consoled For our social contract’s grinding. XXVII. If no better can be done, Let us do but this,—endeavour That the sun behind the sun Shine upon them while they shiver! On the dismal London flags, Through the cruel social juggle, Put a thought beneath their rags To ennoble the heart’s struggle. XXIX. O my sisters, not so much Are we asked for—not a blossom From our children’s nosegay, such As we gave it from our bosom,— XXX. Not the milk left in their cup, Not the lamp while they are sleeping, Not the little cloak hung up While the coat’s in daily keeping,— XXXI. But a place in Ragged Schools, Where the outcasts may to-morrow Learn by gentle words and rules Just the uses of their sorrow. O my sisters! children small, Blue-eyed, wailing through the city— Our own babes cry in them all: Let us take them into pity. |
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I. You love all, you say, Round, beneath, above me: Find me then some way Better than to love me, Me, too, dearest May! II. O world-kissing eyes Which the blue heavens melt to; I, sad, overwise, Loathe the sweet looks dealt to All things—men and flies. III. You love all, you say: Therefore, Dear, abate me Just your love, I pray! Shut your eyes and hate me— Only me—fair May! |
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I. Fair Amy of the terraced house, Assist me to discover Why you who would not hurt a mouse Can torture so your lover. II. You give your coffee to the cat, You stroke the dog for coming, And all your face grows kinder at The little brown bee’s humming. III. But when he haunts your door ... the town Marks coming and marks going ... You seem to have stitched your eyelids down To that long piece of sewing! You never give a look, not you, Nor drop him a “Good morning,” To keep his long day warm and blue, So fretted by your scorning. V. She shook her head—“The mouse and bee For crumb or flower will linger: The dog is happy at my knee, The cat purrs at my finger. VI. “But he ... to him, the least thing given Means great things at a distance; He wants my world, my sun, my heaven, Soul, body, whole existence. VII. “They say love gives as well as takes; But I’m a simple maiden,— My mother’s first smile when she wakes I still have smiled and prayed in. “I only know my mother’s love Which gives all and asks nothing; And this new loving sets the groove Too much the way of loathing. IX. “Unless he gives me all in change, I forfeit all things by him: The risk is terrible and strange— I tremble, doubt, ... deny him. X. “He’s sweetest friend or hardest foe, Best angel or worst devil; I either hate or ... love him so, I can’t be merely civil! XI. “You trust a woman who puts forth Her blossoms thick as summer’s? You think she dreams what love is worth, Who casts it to new-comers? “Such love’s a cowslip-ball to fling, A moment’s pretty pastime; I give ... all me, if anything, The first time and the last time. XIII. “Dear neighbour of the trellised house, A man should murmur never, Though treated worse than dog and mouse, Till doated on for ever!” |
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I. Enough! we’re tired, my heart and I. We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us. The moss reprints more tenderly The hard types of the mason’s knife, As heaven’s sweet life renews earth’s life With which we’re tired, my heart and I. II. You see we’re tired, my heart and I. We dealt with books, we trusted men, And in our own blood drenched the pen, As if such colours could not fly. We walked too straight for fortune’s end, We loved too true to keep a friend; At last we’re tired, my heart and I. How tired we feel, my heart and I! We seem of no use in the world; Our fancies hang grey and uncurled About men’s eyes indifferently; Our voice which thrilled you so, will let You sleep; our tears are only wet: What do we here, my heart and I? IV. So tired, so tired, my heart and I! It was not thus in that old time When Ralph sat with me ’neath the lime To watch the sunset from the sky. “Dear love, you’re looking tired,” he said; I, smiling at him, shook my head: ’T is now we’re tired, my heart and I. V. So tired, so tired, my heart and I! Though now none takes me on his arm To fold me close and kiss me warm Till each quick breath end in a sigh Of happy languor. Now, alone, We lean upon this graveyard stone, Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I. Tired out we are, my heart and I. Suppose the world brought diadems To tempt us, crusted with loose gems Of powers and pleasures? Let it try. We scarcely care to look at even A pretty child, or God’s blue heaven, We feel so tired, my heart and I. VII. Yet who complains? My heart and I? In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if before the days grew rough We once were loved, used,—well enough, I think, we’ve fared, my heart and I. |
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What’s the best thing in the world? June-rose, by May-dew impearled; Sweet south-wind, that means no rain; Truth, not cruel to a friend; Pleasure, not in haste to end; Beauty, not self-decked and curled Till its pride is over-plain; Light, that never makes you wink; Memory, that gives no pain; Love, when, so, you’re loved again. What’s the best thing in the world? —Something out of it, I think. |
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I. Nay, if I had come back so, And found her dead in her grave, And if a friend I know Had said, “Be strong, nor rave: She lies there, dead below: II. “I saw her, I who speak, White, stiff, the face one blank: The blue shade came to her cheek Before they nailed the plank, For she had been dead a week.” III. Why, if he had spoken so, I might have believed the thing, Although her look, although Her step, laugh, voice’s ring Lived in me still as they do. But dead that other way, Corrupted thus and lost? That sort of worm in the clay? I cannot count the cost, That I should rise and pay. V. My Agnes false? such shame? She? Rather be it said That the pure saint of her name Has stood there in her stead, And tricked you to this blame. VI. Her very gown, her cloak Fell chastely: no disguise, But expression! while she broke With her clear grey morning-eyes Full upon me and then spoke. VII. She wore her hair away From her forehead,—like a cloud Which a little wind in May Peels off finely: disallowed Though bright enough to stay. For the heavens must have the place To themselves, to use and shine in, As her soul would have her face To press through upon mine, in That orb of angel grace. IX. Had she any fault at all, ’T was having none, I thought too— There seemed a sort of thrall; As she felt her shadow ought to Fall straight upon the wall. X. Her sweetness strained the sense Of common life and duty; And every day’s expense Of moving in such beauty Required, almost, defence. XI. What good, I thought, is done By such sweet things, if any? This world smells ill i’ the sun Though the garden-flowers are many,— She is only one. Can a voice so low and soft Take open actual part With Right,—maintain aloft Pure truth in life or art, Vexed always, wounded oft?— XIII. She fit, with that fair pose Which melts from curve to curve, To stand, run, work with those Who wrestle and deserve, And speak plain without glose? XIV. But I turned round on my fear Defiant, disagreeing— What if God has set her here Less for action than for Being?— For the eye and for the ear. XV. Just to show what beauty may, Just to prove what music can,— And then to die away From the presence of a man, Who shall learn, henceforth, to pray? As a door, left half ajar In heaven, would make him think How heavenly-different are Things glanced at through the chink, Till he pined from near to far. XVII. That door could lead to hell? That shining merely meant Damnation? What! She fell Like a woman, who was sent Like an angel, by a spell? XVIII. She, who scarcely trod the earth, Turned mere dirt? My Agnes,—mine! Called so! felt of too much worth To be used so! too divine To be breathed near, and so forth! XIX. Why, I dared not name a sin In her presence: I went round, Clipped its name and shut it in Some mysterious crystal sound,— Changed the dagger for the pin. Now you name herself that word? O my Agnes! O my saint! Then the great joys of the Lord Do not last? Then all this paint Runs off nature? leaves a board? XXI. Who’s dead here? No, not she: Rather I! or whence this damp Cold corruption’s misery? While my very mourners stamp Closer in the clods on me. XXII. And my mouth is full of dust Till I cannot speak and curse— Speak and damn him ... “Blame’s unjust”? Sin blots out the universe, All because she would and must? XXIII. She, my white rose, dropping off The high rose-tree branch! and not That the night-wind blew too rough, Or the noon-sun burnt too hot, But, that being a rose—’t was enough! Then henceforth may earth grow trees! No more roses!—hard straight lines To score lies out! none of these Fluctuant curves, but firs and pines, Poplars, cedars, cypresses! |
END OF THE FOURTH VOLUME.
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These famous statues recline in the Sagrestia Nuova, on the tombs of Giuliano de’ Medici, third son of Lorenzo the Magnificent, and Lorenzo of Urbino, his grandson. Strozzi’s epigram on the Night, with Michel Angelo’s rejoinder, is well known.
Savonarola was burnt for his testimony against papal corruptions as early as March, 1498: and, as late as our own day, it has been a custom in Florence to strew with violets the pavement where he suffered, in grateful recognition of the anniversary.
Charles of Anjou, in his passage through Florence, was permitted to see this picture while yet in Cimabue’s “bottega.” The populace followed the royal visitor, and, from the universal delight and admiration, the quarter of the city in which the artist lived was called “Borgo Allegri.” The picture was carried in triumph to the church, and deposited there.
How Cimabue found Giotto, the shepherd-boy, sketching a ram of his flock upon a stone, is prettily told by Vasari,—who also relates that the elder artist Margheritone died “infastidito” of the successes of the new school.
The Florentines, to whom the Ravennese refused the body of Dante (demanded of them “in a late remorse of love”), have given a cenotaph in this church to their divine poet. Something less than a grave!
Philostratus relates of Apollonius how he objected to the musical instrument of Linus the Rhodian that it could not enrich or beautify. The history of music in our day would satisfy the philosopher on one point at least.
Transcriber Notes
Archaic and variable spelling and hyphenation are preserved.
Sections in Greek will yield a transliteration when the pointer is moved over each line, e.g. ὡς βασιλεῖ, ὡς θεῷ, ὡς νεκρῷ.