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A room in MICHAEL ANGELO’S house.
MICHAEL ANGELO. FLED to Viterbo, the old Papal city | |
| Where once an Emperor, humbled in his pride, | |
| Held the Pope’s stirrup, as his Holiness | |
| Alighted from his mule! A fugitive | |
| From Cardinal Caraffa’s hate, who hurls | 5 |
| His thunders at the house of the Colonna, | |
| With endless bitterness!—Among the nuns | |
| In Santa Caterina’s convent hidden, | |
| Herself in soul a nun! And now she chides me | |
| For my too frequent letters, that disturb | 10 |
| Her meditations, and that hinder me | |
| And keep me from my work; now graciously | |
| She thanks me for the crucifix I sent her, | |
| And says that she will keep it: with one hand | |
| Inflicts a wound, and with the other heals it. [Reading. | 15 |
| “Profoundly I believed that God would grant you | |
| A supernatural faith to paint this Christ; | |
| I wished for that which now I see fulfilled | |
| So marvellously, exceeding all my wishes. | |
| Nor more could be desired, or even so much. | 20 |
| And greatly I rejoice that you have made | |
| The angel on the right so beautiful; | |
| For the Archangel Michael will place you, | |
| You, Michael Angelo, on that new day, | |
| Upon the Lord’s right hand! And waiting that, | 25 |
| How can I better serve you than to pray | |
| To this sweet Christ for you, and to beseech you | |
| To hold me altogether yours in all things.” | |
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| Well, I will write less often, or no more, | |
| But wait her coming. No one born in Rome | 30 |
| Can live elsewhere; but he must pine for Rome, | |
| And must return to it. I, who am born | |
| And bred a Tuscan and a Florentine, | |
| Feel the attraction, and I linger here | |
| As if I were a pebble in the pavement | 35 |
| Trodden by priestly feet. This I endure, | |
| Because I breathe in Rome an atmosphere | |
| Heavy with odors of the laurel leaves | |
| That crowned great heroes of the sword and pen, | |
| In ages past. I feel myself exalted | 40 |
| To walk the streets in which a Virgil walked, | |
| Or Trajan rode in triumph; but far more, | |
| And most of all, because the great Colonna | |
| Breathes the same air I breathe, and is to me | |
| An inspiration. Now that she is gone, | 45 |
| Rome is no longer Rome till she return. | |
| This feeling overmasters me. I know not | |
| If it be love, this strong desire to be | |
| Forever in her presence; but I know | |
| That I, who was the friend of solitude, | 50 |
| And ever was best pleased when most alone, | |
| Now weary grow of my own company. | |
| For the first time old age seems lonely to me. [Opening the Divina Commedia. | |
| I turn for consolation to the leaves | |
| Of the great master of our Tuscan tongue, | 55 |
| Whose words, like colored garnet-shirls in lava, | |
| Betray the heat in which they were engendered. | |
| A mendicant, he ate the bitter bread | |
| Of others, but repaid their meagre gifts | |
| With immortality. In courts of princes | 60 |
| He was a by-word, and in streets of towns | |
| Was mocked by children, like the Hebrew prophet, | |
| Himself a prophet. I too know the cry, | |
| Go up, thou bald head! from a generation | |
| That, wanting reverence, wanteth the best food | 65 |
| The soul can feed on. There ’s not room enough | |
| For age and youth upon this little planet. | |
| Age must give way. There was not room enough | |
| Even for this great poet. In his song | |
| I hear reverberate the gates of Florence, | 70 |
| Closing upon him, never more to open; | |
| But mingled with the sound are melodies | |
| Celestial from the gates of paradise. | |
| He came and he is gone. The people knew not | |
| What manner of man was passing by their doors, | 75 |
| Until he passed no more; but in his vision | |
| He saw the torments and beatitudes | |
| Of souls condemned or pardoned, and hath left | |
| Behind him this sublime Apocalypse. | |
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| I strive in vain to draw here on the margin | 80 |
| The face of Beatrice. It is not hers, | |
| But the Colonna’s. Each hath his ideal, | |
| The image of some woman excellent, | |
| That is his guide. No Grecian art, nor Roman, | |
| Hath yet revealed such loveliness as hers. | 85 |
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