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(From Italy)
OF all the fairest cities of the earth | |
| None is so fair as Florence. ’T is a gem | |
| Of purest ray; and what a light broke forth | |
| When it emerged from darkness! Search within, | |
| Without; all is enchantment! ’T is the past | 5 |
| Contending with the present; and in turn | |
Each has the mastery.
In this chapel wrought | |
| One of the few, Nature’s interpreters, | |
| The few whom genius gives as lights to shine, | |
| Masaccio; and he slumbers underneath. | 10 |
| Wouldst thou behold his monument? Look round! | |
| And know that where we stand stood oft and long, | |
| Oft till the day was gone, Raphael himself; | |
| Nor he alone, so great the ardor there, | |
| Such, while it reigned, the generous rivalry; | 15 |
| He and how many as at once called forth, | |
| Anxious to learn of those who came before, | |
| To steal a spark from their authentic fire, | |
| Theirs who first broke the universal gloom, | |
Sons of the Morning.
On that ancient seat, | 20 |
| The seat of stone that runs along the wall, | |
| South of the church, east of the belfry-tower, | |
| (Thou canst not miss it,) in the sultry time | |
| Would Dante sit conversing, and with those | |
| Who little thought that in his hand he held | 25 |
| The balance, and assigned at his good pleasure | |
| To each his place in the invisible world, | |
| To some an upper region, some a lower; | |
| Many a transgressor sent to his account, | |
| Long ere in Florence numbered with the dead; | 30 |
| The body still as full of life and stir | |
| At home, abroad; still and as oft inclined | |
| To eat, drink, sleep; still clad as others were, | |
| And at noonday, where men were wont to meet, | |
| Met as continually; when the soul went, | 35 |
| Relinquished to a demon, and by him | |
| (So says the bard, and who can read and doubt?) | |
Dwelt in and governed.
Sit thee down awhile; | |
| Then, by the gates so marvellously wrought, | |
| That they might serve to be the gates of Heaven, | 40 |
| Enter the Baptistery. That place he loved, | |
| Loved as his own; and in his visits there | |
| Well might he take delight! For when a child, | |
| Playing, as many are wont, with venturous feet | |
| Near and yet nearer to the sacred font, | 45 |
| Slipped and fell in, he flew and rescued him, | |
| Flew with an energy, a violence, | |
| That broke the marble,—a mishap ascribed | |
| To evil motives; his, alas, to lead | |
| A life of trouble, and erelong to leave | 50 |
| All things most dear to him, erelong to know | |
| How salt another’s bread is, and the toil | |
| Of going up and down another’s stairs. | |
Nor then forget that chamber of the dead, | |
| Where the gigantic shapes of night and day, | 55 |
| Turned into stone, rest everlastingly; | |
| Yet still are breathing, and shed round at noon | |
| A twofold influence,—only to be felt,— | |
| A light, a darkness, mingling each with each; | |
| Both and yet neither. There, from age to age, | 60 |
| Two ghosts are sitting on their sepulchres. | |
| That is the Duke Lorenzo. Mark him well. | |
| He meditates, his head upon his hand. | |
| What from beneath his helm-like bonnet scowls? | |
| Is it a face, or but an eyeless skull? | 65 |
| ’T is lost in shade; yet, like the basilisk, | |
| It fascinates, and is intolerable. | |
| His mien is noble, most majestical! | |
| Then most so, when the distant choir is heard | |
| At morn or eve,—nor fail thou to attend | 70 |
| On that thrice-hallowed day, when all are there; | |
| When all, propitiating with solemn songs, | |
| Visit the dead. Then wilt thou feel his power! | |
But let not sculpture, painting, poesy, | |
| Or they, the masters of these mighty spells, | 75 |
| Detain us. Our first homage is to virtue. | |
| Where, in what dungeon of the citadel, | |
| (It must be known,—the writing on the wall | |
| Cannot be gone,—’t was with the blade cut in, | |
| Ere, on his knees to God, he slew himself,) | 80 |
| Did he, the last, the noblest citizen, 1 | |
| Breathe out his soul, lest in the torturing hour | |
He might accuse the guiltless?
That debt paid, | |
| But with a sigh, a tear for human frailty, | |
| We may return, and once more give a loose | 85 |
| To the delighted spirit,—worshipping, | |
| In her small temple of rich workmanship, | |
| Venus herself, who, when she left the skies, | |
| Came hither. | |
