Part Second: Monologue

Fled to Viterbo, the old Papal cityWhere once an Emperor, humbled in his pride,Held the Pope's stirrup, as his HolinessAlighted from his mule! A fugitiveFrom Cardinal Caraffa's hate, who hurlsHis thunders at the house of the Colonna,With endless bitterness!--Among the nunsIn Santa Catarina's convent hidden,Herself in soul a nun! And now she chides meFor my too frequent letters, that disturbHer meditations, and that hinder meAnd keep me from my work; now graciouslyShe thanks me for the crucifix I sent her,And says that she will keep it: with one handInflicts a wound, and with the other heals it.

"Profoundly I believed that God would grant youA supernatural faith to paint this Christ;I wished for that which I now see fulfilledSo marvellously, exceeding all my wishes.Nor more could be desired, or even so much.And greatly I rejoice that you have madeThe angel on the right so beautiful;For the Archangel Michael will place you,You, Michael Angelo, on that new dayUpon the Lord's right hand! And waiting that,How can I better serve you than to prayTo this sweet Christ for you, and to beseech youTo hold me altogether yours in all things."

Well, I will write less often, or no more,But wait her coming. No one born in RomeCan live elsewhere; but he must pine for Rome,And must return to it. I, who am bornAnd bred a Tuscan and a Florentine,Feel the attraction, and I linger hereAs if I were a pebble in the pavementTrodden by priestly feet. This I endure,Because I breathe in Rome an atmosphereHeavy with odors of the laurel leavesThat crowned great heroes of the sword and pen,In ages past. I feel myself exaltedTo walk the streets in which a Virgil walked,Or Trajan rode in triumph; but far more,And most of all, because the great ColonnaBreathes the same air I breathe, and is to meAn inspiration. Now that she is gone,Rome is no longer Rome till she return.This feeling overmasters me. I know notIf it be love, this strong desire to beForever in her presence; but I knowThat I, who was the friend of solitude,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.I turn for consolation to the leavesOf the great master of our Tuscan tongue,Whose words, like colored garnet-shirls in lava,Betray the heat in which they were engendered.A mendicant, he ate the bitter breadOf others, but repaid their meagre giftsWith immortality. In courts of princesHe was a by-word, and in streets of townsWas mocked by children, like the Hebrew prophet,Himself a prophet. I too know the cry,Go up, thou bald head! from a generationThat, wanting reverence, wanteth the best foodThe soul can feed on. There's not room enoughFor age and youth upon this little planet.Age must give way. There was not room enoughEven for this great poet. In his songI hear reverberate the gates of Florence,Closing upon him, never more to open;But mingled with the sound are melodiesCelestial from the gates of paradise.He came, and he is gone. The people knew notWhat manner of man was passing by their doors,Until he passed no more; but in his visionHe saw the torments and beatitudesOf souls condemned or pardoned, and hath leftBehind him this sublime Apocalypse.

I strive in vain to draw here on the marginThe 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.