Parting with friends is temporary death, As all death is.We see no more their faces, Nor hear their voices, save in memory;But messages of love give us assurance That we are not forgotten.Who shall say That from the world of spirits comes no greeting, No message of remembrance? It may be The thoughts that visit us, we know not whence, Sudden as inspiration, are the whispers Of disembodied spirits, speaking to us As friends, who wait outside a prison wall, Through the barred windows speak to those within.
[A pause.
As quiet as the lake that lies beneath me, As quiet as the tranquil sky above me, As quiet as a heart that beats no more, This convent seems.Above, below, all peace!
Silence and solitude, the soul's best friends, Are with me here, and the tumultuous world Makes no more noise than the remotest planet.
O gentle spirit, unto the third circle Of heaven among the blessed souls ascended, Who, living in the faith and dying for it, Have gone to their reward, I do not sigh For thee as being dead, but for myself That I am still alive.Turn those dear eyes, Once so benignant to me, upon mine, That open to their tears such uncontrolled And such continual issue.Still awhile Have patience; I will come to thee at last.
A few more goings in and out these doors, A few more chimings of these convent bells, A few more prayers, a few more sighs and tears, And the long agony of this life will end, And I shall be with thee.If I am wanting To thy well-being, as thou art to mine, Have patience; I will come to thee at last.
Ye minds that loiter in these cloister gardens, Or wander far above the city walls, Bear unto him this message, that I ever Or speak or think of him, or weep for him.
By unseen hands uplifted in the light Of sunset, yonder solitary cloud Floats, with its white apparel blown abroad, And wafted up to heaven.It fades away, And melts into the air.Ah, would that ICould thus be wafted unto thee, Francesco, A cloud of white, an incorporeal spirit!
III
MICHAEL ANGELO AND BENVENUTO CELLINI
MICHAEL ANGELO, BENVENUTO CELLINI in gay attire.
BENVENUTO.
A good day and good year to the divine Maestro Michael Angelo, the sculptor!
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Welcome, my Benvenuto.
BENVENUTO.
That is what My father said, the first time he beheld This handsome face.But say farewell, not welcome.
I come to take my leave.I start for Florence As fast as horse can carry me.I long To set once more upon its level flags These feet, made sore by your vile Roman pavements.
Come with me; you are wanted there in Florence.
The Sacristy is not finished.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Speak not of it!
How damp and cold it was! How my bones ached And my head reeled, when I was working there!
I am too old.I will stay here in Rome, Where all is old and crumbling, like myself, To hopeless ruin.All roads lead to Rome.
BENVENUTO.
And all lead out of it.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
There is a charm, A certain something in the atmosphere, That all men feel, and no man can describe.
BENVENUTO.
Malaria?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Yes, malaria of the mind, Out of this tomb of the majestic Past!
The fever to accomplish some great work That will not let us sleep.I must go on Until I die.
BENVENUTO.
Do you ne'er think of Florence?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Yes; whenever I think of anything beside my work, I think of Florence.I remember, too, The bitter days I passed among the quarries Of Seravezza and Pietrasanta;Road-building in the marshes; stupid people, And cold and rain incessant, and mad gusts Of mountain wind, like howling dervishes, That spun and whirled the eddying snow about them As if it were a garment; aye, vexations And troubles of all kinds, that ended only In loss of time and money.
BENVENUTO.
True; Maestro, But that was not in Florence.You should leave Such work to others.Sweeter memories Cluster about you, in the pleasant city Upon the Arno.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
In my waking dreams I see the marvellous dome of Brunelleschi, Ghiberti's gates of bronze, and Giotto's tower;And Ghirlandajo's lovely Benci glides With folded hands amid my troubled thoughts, A splendid vision! Time rides with the old At a great pace.As travellers on swift steeds See the near landscape fly and flow behind them, While the remoter fields and dim horizons Go with them, and seem wheeling round to meet them, So in old age things near us slip away, And distant things go with as.Pleasantly Come back to me the days when, as a youth, I walked with Ghirlandajo in the gardens Of Medici, and saw the antique statues, The forms august of gods and godlike men, And the great world of art revealed itself To my young eyes.Then all that man hath done Seemed possible to me.Alas! how little Of all I dreamed of has my hand achieved!
BENVENUTO.
Nay, let the Night and Morning, let Lorenzo And Julian in the Sacristy at Florence, Prophets and Sibyls in the Sistine Chapel, And the Last Judgment answer.Is it finished?
MICHAEL ANGELO.
The work is nearly done.But this Last Judgment Has been the cause of more vexation to me Than it will be of honor.Ser Biagio, Master of ceremonies at the Papal court, A man punctilious and over nice, Calls it improper; says that those nude forms, Showing their nakedness in such shameless fashion, Are better suited to a common bagnio, Or wayside wine-shop, than a Papal Chapel.
To punish him I painted him as Minos And leave him there as master of ceremonies In the Infernal Regions.What would you Have done to such a man?
BENVENUTO.
I would have killed him.
When any one insults me, if I can I kill him, kill him.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
Oh, you gentlemen, Who dress in silks and velvets, and wear swords, Are ready with your weapon; and have all A taste for homicide.
BENVENUTO.
I learned that lesson Under Pope Clement at the siege of Rome, Some twenty years ago.As I was standing Upon the ramparts of the Campo Santo With Alessandro Bene, I beheld A sea of fog, that covered all the plain, And hid from us the foe; when suddenly, A misty figure, like an apparition, Rose up above the fog, as if on horseback.
At this I aimed my arquebus, and fired.
