San Silvestro
VITTORIA.Here let us rest a while, until the crowdHas left the church. I have already sentFor Michael Angelo to join us here.
After Fra Bernardino's wise discourseOn the Pauline Epistles, certainlySome words of Michael Angelo on ArtWere not amiss, to bring us back to earth.
MICHAEL ANGELO, at the door.How like a Saint or Goddess she appears;Diana or Madonna, which I know not!In attitude and aspect formed to beAt once the artist's worship and despair!
VITTORIA.Welcome, Maestro. We were waiting for you.
I met your messenger upon the way,And hastened hither.
VITTORIA.It is kind of youTo come to us, who linger here like gossipsWasting the afternoon in idle talk.These are all friends of mine and friends of yours.
If friends of yours, then are they friends of mine.Pardon me, gentlemen. But when I enteredI saw but the Marchesa.
VITTORIA.Take this seatBetween me and Ser Claudio Tolommei,Who still maintains that our Italian tongueShould be called Tuscan. But for that offenceWe will not quarrel with him.
Eccellenza--
VITTORIA.Ser Claudio has banished EccellenzaAnd all such titles from the Tuscan tongue.
'T is the abuse of them and not the useI deprecate.
The use or the abuseIt matters not. Let them all go together,As empty phrases and frivolities,And common as gold-lace upon the collarOf an obsequious lackey.
VITTORIA.That may be,But something of politeness would go with them;We should lose something of the stately mannersOf the old school.
Undoubtedly.
VITTORlA.But thatIs not what occupies my thoughts at present,Nor why I sent for you, Messer Michele.It was to counsel me. His HolinessHas granted me permission, long desired,To build a convent in this neighborhood,Where the old tower is standing, from whose topNero looked down upon the burning city.
It is an inspiration!
VITTORIA.I am doubtfulHow I shall build; how large to make the convent,And which way fronting.
Ah, to build, to build!That is the noblest art of all the arts.Painting and sculpture are but images,Are merely shadows cast by outward thingsOn stone or canvas, having in themselvesNo separate existence. Architecture,Existing in itself, and not in seemingA something it is not, surpasses themAs substance shadow. Long, long years ago,Standing one morning near the Baths of Titus,I saw the statue of LaocoonRise from its grave of centuries, like a ghostWrithing in pain; and as it tore awayThe knotted serpents from its limbs, I heard,Or seemed to hear, the cry of agonyFrom its white, parted lips. And still I marvelAt the three Rhodian artists, by whose handsThis miracle was wrought. Yet he beholdsFar nobler works who looks upon the ruinsOf temples in the Forum here in Rome.If God should give me power in my old ageTo build for Him a temple half as grandAs those were in their glory, I should countMy age more excellent than youth itself,And all that I have hitherto accomplishedAs only vanity.
VITTORIA.I understand you.Art is the gift of God, and must be usedUnto His glory. That in art is highestWhich aims at this. When St. Hilarion blessedThe horses of Italicus, they wonThe race at Gaza, for his benedictionO'erpowered all magic; and the people shoutedThat Christ had conquered Marnas. So that artWhich bears the consecration and the sealOf holiness upon it will prevailOver all others. Those few words of yoursInspire me with new confidence to build.What think you? The old walls might serve, perhaps,Some purpose still. The tower can hold the bells.
If strong enough.
VITTORIA.If not, it can be strengthened.
I see no bar nor drawback to this building,And on our homeward way, if it shall please you,We may together view the site.
VITTORIA.I thank you.I did not venture to request so much.
Let us now go to the old walls you spake of,Vossignoria--
VITTORIA.What, again, Maestro?
Pardon me, Messer Claudio, if once moreI use the ancient courtesies of speech.I am too old to change.
A richly furnished apartment in the Palace of CARDINAL IPPOLITO.Night.
NARDI.I am bewildered. These Numidian slaves,In strange attire; these endless ante-chambers;This lighted hall, with all its golden splendors,Pictures, and statues! Can this be the dwellingOf a disciple of that lowly ManWho had not where to lay his head? These statuesAre not of Saints; nor is this a Madonna,This lovely face, that with such tender eyesLooks down upon me from the painted canvas.My heart begins to fail me. What can heWho lives in boundless luxury at RomeCare for the imperilled liberties of Florence,Her people, her Republic? Ah, the richFeel not the pangs of banishment. All doorsAre open to them, and all hands extended,The poor alone are outcasts; they who riskedAll they possessed for liberty, and lost;And wander through the world without a friend,Sick, comfortless, distressed, unknown, uncared for.
IPPOLITO.I pray you pardon me that I have kept youWaiting so long alone.
NARDI.I wait to seeThe Cardinal.
IPPOLITO.I am the Cardinal.And you?
NARDI.Jacopo Nardi.
IPPOLITO.You are welcomeI was expecting you. Philippo StrozziHad told me of your coming.
NARDI.'T was his sonThat brought me to your door.
IPPOLITO.Pray you, be seated.You seem astonished at the garb I wear,But at my time of life, and with my habits,The petticoats of a Cardinal would be--Troublesome; I could neither ride nor walk,Nor do a thousand things, if I were dressedLike an old dowager. It were putting wineYoung as the young Astyanax into gobletsAs old as Priam.
NARDI.Oh, your EminenceKnows best what you should wear.
IPPOLITO.Dear Messer Nardi,You are no stranger to me. I have readYour excellent translation of the booksOf Titus Livius, the historianOf Rome, and model of all historiansThat shall come after him. It does you honor;But greater honor still the love you bearTo Florence, our dear country, and whose annalsI hope your hand will write, in happier daysThan we now see.
NARDI.Your Eminence will pardonThe lateness of the hour.
IPPOLITO.The hours I count notAs a sun-dial; but am like a clock,That tells the time as well by night as day.So no excuse. I know what brings you here.You come to speak of Florence.
NARDI.And her woes.
IPPOLITO.The Duke, my cousin, the black Alessandro,Whose mother was a Moorish slave, that fedThe sheep upon Lorenzo's farm, still livesAnd reigns.
NARDI.Alas, that such a scourgeShould fall on such a city!
IPPOLITO.When he dies,The Wild Boar in the gardens of Lorenzo,The beast obscene, should be the monumentOf this bad man.
NARDI.He walks the streets at nightWith revellers, insulting honest men.No house is sacred from his lusts. The conventsAre turned by him to brothels, and the honorOf women and all ancient pious customsAre quite forgotten now. The officesOf the Priori and GonfalonieriHave been abolished. All the magistratesAre now his creatures. Liberty is dead.The very memory of all honest livingIs wiped away, and even our Tuscan tongueCorrupted to a Lombard dialect.
IPPOLITO.And worst of all his impious hand has brokenThe Martinella,--our great battle bell,That, sounding through three centuries, has ledThe Florentines to victory,--lest its voiceShould waken in their souls some memoryOf far-off times of glory.
NARDI.What a changeTen little years have made! We all rememberThose better days, when Niccola Capponi,The Gonfaloniere, from the windowsOf the Old Palace, with the blast of trumpets,Proclaimed to the inhabitants that ChristWas chosen King of Florence; and alreadyChrist is dethroned, and slain, and in his steadReigns Lucifer! Alas, alas, for Florence!
IPPOLITO.Lilies with lilies, said Savonarola;Florence and France! But I say Florence only,Or only with the Emperor's hand to help usIn sweeping out the rubbish.
NARDI.Little hopeOf help is there from him. He has betrothedHis daughter Margaret to this shameless Duke.What hope have we from such an Emperor?
IPPOLITO.Baccio Valori and Philippo Strozzi,Once the Duke's friends and intimates are with us,And Cardinals Salvati and Ridolfi.We shall soon see, then, as Valori says,Whether the Duke can best spare honest men,Or honest men the Duke.
NARDI.We have determinedTo send ambassadors to Spain, and layOur griefs before the Emperor, though I fearMore than I hope.
IPPOLITO.The Emperor is busyWith this new war against the Algerines,And has no time to listen to complaintsFrom our ambassadors; nor will I trust them,But go myself. All is in readinessFor my departure, and to-morrow morningI shall go down to Itri, where I meetDante da Castiglione and some others,Republicans and fugitives from Florence,And then take ship at Gaeta, and goTo join the Emperor in his new crusadeAgainst the Turk. I shall have time enoughAnd opportunity to plead our cause.
NARDI, rising.It is an inspiration, and I hail itAs of good omen. May the power that sends itBless our beloved country, and restoreIts banished citizens. The soul of FlorenceIs now outside its gates. What lies withinIs but a corpse, corrupted and corrupting.Heaven help us all, I will not tarry longer,For you have need of rest. Good-night.
IPPOLITO.Good-night.
IPPOLITO.Fra Bastiano, how your portly presenceContrasts with that of the spare FlorentineWho has just left me!
As we passed each other,I saw that he was weeping.
IPPOLITO.Poor old man!
Who is he?
IPPOLITO.Jacopo Nardi. A brave soul;One of the Fuoruseiti, and the bestAnd noblest of them all; but he has made meSad with his sadness. As I look on youMy heart grows lighter. I behold a manWho lives in an ideal world, apartFrom all the rude collisions of our life,In a calm atmosphere.
Your EminenceIs surely jesting. If you knew the lifeOf artists as I know it, you might thinkFar otherwise.
IPPOLITO.But wherefore should I jest?The world of art is an ideal world,--The world I love, and that I fain would live in;So speak to me of artists and of art,Of all the painters, sculptors, and musiciansThat now illustrate Rome.
Of the musicians,I know but Goudimel, the brave maestroAnd chapel-master of his Holiness,Who trains the Papal choir.
IPPOLITO.In church this morning,I listened to a mass of Goudimel,Divinely chanted. In the Incarnatus,In lieu of Latin words, the tenor sangWith infinite tenderness, in plain Italian,A Neapolitan love-song.
You amaze me.Was it a wanton song?
IPPOLITO.Not a divine one.I am not over-scrupulous, as you know,In word or deed, yet such a song as that.Sung by the tenor of the Papal choir,And in a Papal mass, seemed out of place;There's something wrong in it.
There's something wrongIn everything. We cannot make the worldGo right. 'T is not my business to reformThe Papal choir.
IPPOLITO.Nor mine, thank Heaven.Then tell me of the artists.
Naming oneI name them all; for there is only one.His name is Messer Michael Angelo.All art and artists of the present dayCentre in him.
IPPOLITO.You count yourself as nothing!
Or less than nothing, since I am at bestOnly a portrait-painter; one who drawsWith greater or less skill, as best he may,The features of a face.
IPPOLITO.And you have hadThe honor, nay, the glory, of portrayingJulia Gonzaga! Do you count as nothingA privilege like that? See there the portraitRebuking you with its divine expression.Are you not penitent? He whose skilful handPainted that lovely picture has not rightTo vilipend the art of portrait-painting.But what of Michael Angelo?
But latelyStrolling together down the crowded Corso,We stopped, well pleased, to see your EminencePass on an Arab steed, a noble creature,Which Michael Angelo, who is a loverOf all things beautiful, especiallyWhen they are Arab horses, much admired,And could not praise enough.
IPPOLITO, to an attendant.Hassan, to-morrow,When I am gone, but not till I am gone,--Be careful about that,--take BarbarossaTo Messer Michael Angelo, the sculptor,Who lives there at Macello dei Corvi,Near to the Capitol; and take besidesSome ten mule-loads of provender, and sayYour master sends them to him as a present.
A princely gift. Though Michael AngeloRefuses presents from his Holiness,Yours he will not refuse.
IPPOLITO.You think him likeThymoetes, who received the wooden horseInto the walls of Troy. That book of VirgilHave I translated in Italian verse,And shall, some day, when we have leisure for it,Be pleased to read you. When I speak of TroyI am reminded of another townAnd of a lovelier Helen, our dear CountessJulia Gonzaga. You remember, surely,The adventure with the corsair Barbarossa,And all that followed?
A most strange adventure;A tale as marvellous and full of wonderAs any in Boccaccio or Sacchetti;Almost incredible!
IPPOLITO.Were I a painterI should not want a better theme than that:The lovely lady fleeing through the nightIn wild disorder; and the brigands' campWith the red fire-light on their swarthy faces.Could you not paint it for me?
No, not I.It is not in my line.
IPPOLITO.Then you shall paintThe portrait of the corsair, when we bring himA prisoner chained to Naples: for I feelSomething like admiration for a manWho dared this strange adventure.
I will do it.But catch the corsair first.
IPPOLITO.You may beginTo-morrow with the sword. Hassan, come hither;Bring me the Turkish scimitar that hangsBeneath the picture yonder. Now unsheathe it.'T is a Damascus blade; you see the inscriptionIn Arabic: La Allah illa Allah,--There is no God but God.
How beautifulIn fashion and in finish! It is perfect.The Arsenal of Venice can not boastA finer sword.
IPPOLITO.You like it? It is yours.
You do not mean it.
IPPOLITO.I am not a Spaniard,To say that it is yours and not to mean it.I have at Itri a whole armoryFull of such weapons. When you paint the portraitOf Barbarossa, it will be of use.You have not been rewarded as you should beFor painting the Gonzaga. Throw this baubleInto the scale, and make the balance equal.Till then suspend it in your studio;You artists like such trifles.
I will keep itIn memory of the donor. Many thanks.
IPPOLITO.Fra Bastian, I am growing tired of Rome,The old dead city, with the old dead people;Priests everywhere, like shadows on a wall,And morning, noon, and night the ceaseless soundOf convent bells. I must be gone from here;Though Ovid somewhere says that Rome is worthyTo be the dwelling-place of all the Gods,I must be gone from here. To-morrow morningI start for Itri, and go thence by seaTo join the Emperor, who is making warUpon the Algerines; perhaps to sinkSome Turkish galleys, and bring back in chainsThe famous corsair. Thus would I avengeThe beautiful Gonzaga.
An achievementWorthy of Charlemagne, or of Orlando.Berni and Ariosto both shall addA canto to their poems, and describe youAs Furioso and Innamorato.Now I must say good-night.
IPPOLITO.You must not go;First you shall sup with me. My seneschalGiovan Andrea dal Borgo a San Sepolcro,--I like to give the whole sonorous name,It sounds so like a verse of the Aeneid,--Has brought me eels fresh from the Lake of Fondi,And Lucrine oysters cradled in their shells:These, with red Fondi wine, the Caecu banThat Horace speaks of, under a hundred keysKept safe, until the heir of PosthumusShall stain the pavement with it, make a feastFit for Lucullus, or Fra Bastian even;So we will go to supper, and be merry.
Beware! I Remember that Bolsena's eelsAnd Vernage wine once killed a Pope of Rome!
IPPOLITO.'T was a French Pope; and then so long ago;Who knows?--perhaps the story is not true.
Words in this poem 68
- pauline a.
- Of or pertaining to the apostle Paul, or his writings; resembling, or conforming to, the writings of Paul; as, the Pauline epistles; Pauline doctrine. [L. Paulinus, fr. Paulus Paul.]
- diana n.
- The daughter of Jupiter and Latona; a virgin goddess who presided over hunting, chastity, and marriage; -- identified with the Greek goddess Artemis. [L. Diana.]
- madonna n.
- My lady; -- a term of address in Italian formerly used as the equivalent of Madame, but for which Signora is now substituted. [It. madonna my lady. See Dame, Donna, and cf. Madame, Monkey.]
- maestro n.
- A master in any art, especially in music; a composer. [It., fr. L. magister. See Master.]
- afternoon n.
- The part of the day which follows noon, between noon and evening.
- offence n.
- The act of offending in any sense; esp., a crime or a sin, an affront or an injury. [F., fr. L. offensa. See Offend.]
- deprecate v. t.
- To pray against, as an evil; to seek to avert by player; to desire the removal of; to seek deliverance from; to express deep regret for; to disapprove of strongly. [L. deprecatus, p. p. of deprecari to avert by player, to deprecate; de- + precari to pray. See Pray.]
- obsequious a.
- Promptly obedient, or submissive, to the will of another; compliant; yielding to the desires of another; devoted. [L.obsequiosus, fr. obsequium compliance, fr. obsequi, fr. obsequi: cf. F. obséquieux, See Obsequent, and cf. Obsequy.]
- lackey n.
- An attending male servant; a footman; a servile follower. [F. laquais; cf. Sp. & Pg. lacayo; of uncertain origin; perh. of German origin, and akin to E.lick, v.]
- politeness n.
- High finish; smoothness; burnished elegance. Evelyn.
- nero n.
- A Roman emperor notorius for debauchery and barbarous cruelty; hence, any profligate and cruel ruler or merciless tyrant.
- shall v. i.
- To owe; to be under obligation for. [OE. shal, schal, imp. sholde, scholde, AS. scal, sceal, I am obliged, imp. scolde, sceolde, inf. sculan; akin to OS. skulan, pres. skal, imp. skolda, D. zullen,]
- laocoon n.
- A priest of Apollo, during the Trojan war. (See 2.)
- ghost n.
- The spirit; the soul of man. [OE. gast, gost, soul, spirit, AS. gast breath, spirit, soul; akin to OS. g spirit, soul, D. geest, G. geist, and prob. to E. gaze, ghastly.]
- tore n.
- The dead grass that remains on mowing land in winter and spring. Mortimer. [Probably from the root of tear; cf. W. tór a break, cut, tóri to break, cut.]
- rhodian a.
- Of or pertaining to Rhodes, an island of the Mediterranean. [L. Rhodius: cf. F. rhodien.]
- forum n.
- A market place or public place in Rome, where causes were judicially tried, and orations delivered to the people. [L.; akin to foris, foras, out of doors. See Foreign.]
- hitherto adv.
- To this place; to a prescribed limit.
- drawback n.
- A lose of advantage, or deduction from profit, value, success, etc.; a discouragement or hindrance; objectionable feature.
- homeward a.
- Being in the direction of home; as, the homeward way.
- thank n.
- A expression of gratitude; an acknowledgment expressive of a sense of favor or kindness received; obligation, claim, or desert, or gratitude; -- now generally used in the plural. [AS. Þanc, Þonc, thanks, favor, thought; akin to OS. thank favor, pleasure, thanks, D. & G. dank thanks, Icel. Þ\'94kk, Dan. tak, Sw. tack, Goth. Þagks thanks; -]
- numidian a.
- Of or pertaining to ancient Numidia in Northern Africa.
- republic n.
- Common weal. B. Jonson. [F. république, L. respublica commonwealth; res a thing, an affair + publicus, publica, public. See Real, a., and Public.]
- comfortless a.
- Without comfort or comforts; in want or distress; cheerless.
- uncared a.
- Not cared for; not heeded; -- with for.
- garb n.
- External appearance, as expressive of the feelings or character; looks; fashion or manner, as of speech. [OF. garbe looks, countenance, grace, ornament, fr. OHG. garawi, garwi, ornament, dress. akin to E. gear. See Gear, n.]
- annals n.
- A relation of events in chronological order, each event being recorded under the year in which it happened. [L. annalis (sc. liber), and more frequently in the pl. annales (sc. libri), chronicles, fr. annus year. Cf. Annual.]
- duke n.
- A leader; a chief; a prince. [F. duc, fr. L. dux, ducis, leader, commander, fr. ducere to lead; akin to AS. teón to draw; cf. AS. heretoga (here army) an army leader, general, G. herzog duke]
- scourge n.
- A lash; a strap or cord; especially, a lash used to inflict pain or punishment; an instrument of punishment or discipline; a whip. [F. escourgée, fr. L. excoriata (sc. scutica) a stripped off (lash or whip), fr. excoriate to strip, to skin. See Excoriate.]
- lombard a.
- Of or pertaining to Lombardy, or the inhabitants of Lombardy.
- waken v. i.
- To wake; to cease to sleep; to be awakened. [OE. waknen, AS. wæcnan; akin to Goth. gawaknan. See Wake, v. i.]
- trumpets n.
- A plant (Sarracenia flava) with long, hollow leaves.
- departure n.
- Division; separation; putting away. [From Depart.]
- turk n.
- A member of any of numerous Tartar tribes of Central Asia, etc.; esp., one of the dominant race in Turkey. [Per. Turk; probably of Tartar origin: cf. F. Turc.]
- corpse n.
- A human body in general, whether living or dead; -- sometimes contemptuosly. [OF. cors (sometimes written corps), F. corps, L. corpus; akin to AS. hrif womb. See Midriff, and cf. Corse, Corselet, Corps, Cuerpo.]
- portly a.
- Having a dignified port or mien; of a noble appearance; imposing. [From Port demeanor.]
- sadness n.
- Heaviness; firmness.
- wherefore adv.
- For which reason; so; -- used relatively. [Where + for.]
- jest n.
- A deed; an action; a gest. [OE. jeste, geste, deed, action, story, tale, OF. geste, LL. gesta, orig., exploits, neut. pl. from L. gestus, p. p. of gerere to bear, carry, accomplish, perfor]
- fain v. t.
- To be glad ; to wish or desire.
- neapolitan a.
- Of of pertaining to Maples in Italy.
- amaze v. t.
- To bewilder; to stupefy; to bring into a maze. [Pref. a- + maze.]
- centre v. i.
- To be placed in a center; to be central.
- vilipend v. t.
- To value lightly; to depreciate; to slight; to despise. [L. vilipendere; vilis vile + pendere to weigh, to value: cf. F. vilipender.]
- steed n.
- A horse, especially a spirited horse for state of war; -- used chiefly in poetry or stately prose. [OE. stede, AS. steda a stud-horse, war horse, fr. stod a stud of breeding steeds; akin to G. stute a mare, Icel. stedda, sto, a stud. *163. See Stud of horses.]
- admired a.
- Regarded with wonder and delight; highly prized; as, an admired poem.
- sculptor n.
- One who sculptures; one whose occupation is to carve statues, or works of sculpture. [L. sculptor, fr. sculpere, sculptum, to carve; cf. scalpere to cut, carve, scratch, and Gr. sculpteur.]
- capitol
- The temple of Jupiter, at Rome, on the Mona Capitolinus, where the Senate met. [L. capitolium, fr. caput head: cf. F. capitole. See Chief.]
- countess n.
- The wife of an earl in the British peerage, or of a count in the Continental nobility; also, a lady possessed of the same dignity in her own right. See the Note under Count. [F. comtesse. See Count a nobleman.]
- corsair n.
- A pirate; one who cruises about without authorization from any government, to seize booty on sea or land. [F. corsaire (cf. It. corsare, corsale, Pr. corsari), LL. corsarius, fr. L. cursus a running, course, whence Sp. corso cruise, corsa cruise, coasting voyage, cor]
- incredible a.
- Not credible; surpassing belief; too extraordinary and improbable to admit of belief; unlikely; marvelous; fabulous. [L. incredibilis: cf. OF. incredible. See In- not, and Credible.]
- admiration n.
- Wonder; astonishment. [F., fr. L. admiratio. See Admire.]
- scimitar n.
- A saber with a much curved blade having the edge on the convex side, -- in use among Mohammedans, esp., the Arabs and persians. [F. cimeterre, cf. It. scimitarra, Sp. cimitarra; fr. Biscayan cimetarry with a sharp edge; or corrupted from Per. shimshir.]
- yonder adv.
- At a distance, but within view. [OE. yonder, ýonder; cf. OD. ginder, Goth. jaindr there. Yond, adv.]
- unsheathe v. t.
- To deprive of a sheath; to draw from the sheath or scabbard, as a sword. To unsheathe the sword, to make war. [1st pref. un- + sheath.]
- allah n.
- The name of the Supreme Being, in use among the Arabs and the Mohammedans generally. [contr. fr. the article al the + ilah God.]
- arsenal n.
- A public establishment for the storage, or for the manufacture and storage, of arms and all military equipments, whether for land or naval service. [Sp. & F. arsenal arsenal, dockyard, or It. arzanale, arsenale (cf. It. & darsena dock); all fr. Ar. dar house of industry or fabrication; dar house + art, indus]
- spaniard n.
- A native or inhabitant of Spain.
- armory n.
- A place where arms and instruments of war are deposited for safe keeping. [OF. armaire, armarie, F. armoire, fr. L. armarium place for keeping arms; but confused with F. armoiries. See Armorial, Ambry.]
- bauble n.
- A trifling piece of finery; a gewgaw; that which is gay and showy without real value; a cheap, showy plaything. [Cf. OF. baubel a child's plaything, F. babiole, It. babbola, LL. baubellum gem, jewel, L. babulus,a baburrus, foolish.]
- studio n.
- The working room of an artist. [It. studio, properly, study. See Study.]
- donor n.
- One who gives or bestows; one who confers anything gratuitously; a benefactor. [F. donneur, OF. daneor, fr. donner. See Donee, and cf. Donator.]
- ceaseless a.
- Without pause or end; incessant.
- somewhere adv.
- In some place unknown or not specified; in one place or another.
- canto n.
- One of the chief divisions of a long poem; a book. [It. canto, fr. L. cantus singing, song. See Chant.]
- furioso a.
- With great force or vigor; vehemently. [It.]
- beware v. t.
- To avoid; to take care of; to have a care for.
- vernage n.
- A kind of sweet wine from Italy. [It. vernaccia.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
San Silvestro is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Project Gutenberg ebook #1365; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, San Silvestro, in Michael Angelo: A Fragment (1883), Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/longfellow-michael-angelo/san-silvestro.html.
Form and metre
San Silvestro is 482 lines in 90 stanzas.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 15 -----AA-- vittorla · that · present · michele · holiness · desiredA · neighborhoodA · top · city
- 19 ---AABB-------- vittoria · you · used · highestA · blessedA · wonB · benedictionB · shouted · art · seal · prevail · yours · build · perhaps · bells
- 28 --AA--A------------- nardi · slaves · chambersA · splendorsA · dwelling · man · statuesA · madonna · eyes · canvas · he · rome · florence · rich · doors · extended · risked · lost · friend · for
- 32 AA nardiA · nardiA
- 44 ----------AA- nardi · night · men · convents · honor · customs · offices · gonfalonieri · magistrates · dead · livingA · tongueA · dialect
- 52 -AA------ rising · itA · itA · restore · florence · within · corrupting · longer · night
- 62 -A--A-- ippolito · morningA · goudimel · incarnatus · sangA · italian · song
- 67 AA--- oneA · oneA · angelo · day · him
- 70 ----A--A-- ippolito · had · portraying · nothing · portraitA · expression · hand · rightA · painting · angelo
- 74 ----A---A--- ippolito · like · horse · virgil · verseA · it · troy · town · countessA · surely · barbarossa · followed
- 80 -A---A-- ippolito · beginA · hither · hangs · it · inscriptionA · allah · god
- 84 --A-A------ ippolito · spaniard · itA · armory · portraitA · use · be · bauble · equal · studio · trifles
- 86 --AA----------- ippolito · rome · peopleA · wallA · sound · here · worthy · gods · morning · sea · war · sink · chains · avenge · gonzaga
- 88 --------A---A- ippolito · go · seneschal · sepolcro · name · aeneid · fondi · shells · banA · keys · posthumus · feast · evenA · merry
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| VITTORIA. | 4 | ˘/˘˘ |
| Here let us rest a while, until the crowd | 10 | ·········· |
| Has left the church. I have already sent | 10 | ······˘/˘· |
| For Michael Angelo to join us here. | 10 | ·/˘/˘····· |
| After Fra Bernardino's wise discourse | 10 | ···˘˘/˘·/˘ |
| On the Pauline Epistles, certainly | 10 | ··˘/˘/˘/˘˘ |
| Some words of Michael Angelo on Art | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| Were not amiss, to bring us back to earth. | 10 | ··˘/······ |
| MICHAEL ANGELO, at the door. | 8 | /˘/˘···· |
| How like a Saint or Goddess she appears; | 10 | ·····/˘·˘/ |
| Diana or Madonna, which I know not! | 11 | ˘/˘·˘/˘···· |
| In attitude and aspect formed to be | 10 | ·/˘··/···· |
| At once the artist's worship and despair! | 10 | ···/˘/˘·˘/ |
| VITTORIA. | 4 | ˘/˘˘ |
| Welcome, Maestro. We were waiting for you. | 10 | /˘/˘··/˘·· |
| I met your messenger upon the way, | 10 | ···/˘˘···· |
| And hastened hither. | 5 | ·/˘/˘ |
| VITTORIA. | 4 | ˘/˘˘ |
| It is kind of you | 5 | ····· |
| To come to us, who linger here like gossips | 11 | ·····/˘··/˘ |
| Wasting the afternoon in idle talk. | 10 | /˘··˘/·/˘· |
| These are all friends of mine and friends of yours. | 10 | ·········· |
| If friends of yours, then are they friends of mine. | 10 | ·········· |
| Pardon me, gentlemen. But when I entered | 11 | /˘·/˘˘···/˘ |
| I saw but the Marchesa. | 7 | ······· |
| VITTORIA. | 4 | ˘/˘˘ |
| Take this seat | 3 | ··· |
| Between me and Ser Claudio Tolommei, | 11 | ·····/˘···· |
| Who still maintains that our Italian tongue | 10 | ··˘/·/˘/˘· |
| Should be called Tuscan. But for that offence | 10 | ···/˘···˘/ |
| We will not quarrel with him. | 7 | ···/˘·· |
| Eccellenza-- | 4 | ···· |
| VITTORIA. | 4 | ˘/˘˘ |
| Ser Claudio has banished Eccellenza | 11 | ·/˘··/˘···· |
| And all such titles from the Tuscan tongue. | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| 'T is the abuse of them and not the use | 11 | ···˘/······ |
| I deprecate. | 4 | ·/˘· |
| The use or the abuse | 6 | ····˘/ |
| It matters not. Let them all go together, | 11 | ·/˘·····˘/˘ |
| As empty phrases and frivolities, | 10 | ·/˘/˘·˘/˘˘ |
| And common as gold-lace upon the collar | 11 | ·/˘······/˘ |
| Of an obsequious lackey. | 8 | ··˘/˘˘/˘ |
| VITTORIA. | 4 | ˘/˘˘ |
| That may be, | 3 | ··· |
| But something of politeness would go with them; | 11 | ·/˘·˘/˘···· |
| We should lose something of the stately manners | 11 | ···/˘··/˘/˘ |
| Of the old school. | 4 | ···· |
| Undoubtedly. | 4 | ˘/˘˘ |
| VITTORlA. | 3 | ··· |
| But that | 2 | ·· |
| Is not what occupies my thoughts at present, | 11 | ···/˘····/˘ |
| Nor why I sent for you, Messer Michele. | 10 | ······/˘˘/ |
| It was to counsel me. His Holiness | 10 | ···/˘··/˘˘ |
| Has granted me permission, long desired, | 11 | ·/˘·˘/˘·˘/˘ |
| To build a convent in this neighborhood, | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| Where the old tower is standing, from whose top | 10 | ···/·/˘··· |
| Nero looked down upon the burning city. | 11 | /˘·····/˘/˘ |
| It is an inspiration! | 7 | ····˘/˘ |
| VITTORIA. | 4 | ˘/˘˘ |
| I am doubtful | 4 | ··/˘ |
| How I shall build; how large to make the convent, | 11 | ·········/˘ |
| And which way fronting. | 5 | ···/˘ |
| Ah, to build, to build! | 5 | ····· |
| That is the noblest art of all the arts. | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Painting and sculpture are but images, | 10 | /˘·/˘··/˘˘ |
| Are merely shadows cast by outward things | 10 | ·/˘/···/˘· |
| On stone or canvas, having in themselves | 10 | ···/˘/˘·˘/ |
| No separate existence. Architecture, | 11 | ·/˘·˘/˘/˘·˘ |
| Existing in itself, and not in seeming | 11 | ˘/˘·˘/···/˘ |
| A something it is not, surpasses them | 10 | ·/˘···˘/˘· |
| As substance shadow. Long, long years ago, | 10 | ·/˘/····˘/ |
| Standing one morning near the Baths of Titus, | 11 | /˘·/˘····/˘ |
| I saw the statue of Laocoon | 8 | ···/···· |
| Rise from its grave of centuries, like a ghost | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Writhing in pain; and as it tore away | 10 | /˘······˘/ |
| The knotted serpents from its limbs, I heard, | 10 | ·/˘/˘····· |
| Or seemed to hear, the cry of agony | 10 | ·······/˘˘ |
| From its white, parted lips. And still I marvel | 11 | ···/˘····/˘ |
| At the three Rhodian artists, by whose hands | 11 | ···/˘˘/˘··· |
| This miracle was wrought. Yet he beholds | 10 | ·/˘˘····˘/ |
| Far nobler works who looks upon the ruins | 11 | ·/˘······/˘ |
| Of temples in the Forum here in Rome. | 10 | ·/˘··/˘··· |
| If God should give me power in my old age | 10 | ·····/···· |
| To build for Him a temple half as grand | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| As those were in their glory, I should count | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| My age more excellent than youth itself, | 10 | ···/˘˘··˘/ |
| And all that I have hitherto accomplished | 11 | ·····/·/˘/˘ |
| As only vanity. | 6 | ·/˘/˘˘ |
| VITTORIA. | 4 | ˘/˘˘ |
| I understand you. | 5 | ··˘/· |
| Art is the gift of God, and must be used | 10 | ·········· |
| Unto His glory. That in art is highest | 11 | ···/˘····/˘ |
| Which aims at this. When St. Hilarion blessed | 10 | ·········· |
| The horses of Italicus, they won | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| The race at Gaza, for his benediction | 11 | ···/˘···˘/˘ |
| O'erpowered all magic; and the people shouted | 12 | ····/˘··/˘/˘ |
| That Christ had conquered Marnas. So that art | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Which bears the consecration and the seal | 10 | ····˘/˘··· |
| Of holiness upon it will prevail | 10 | ·/˘˘····˘/ |
| Over all others. Those few words of yours | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Inspire me with new confidence to build. | 10 | ˘/···/˘˘·· |
| What think you? The old walls might serve, perhaps, | 10 | ········˘/ |
| Some purpose still. The tower can hold the bells. | 10 | ·/˘··/···· |
| If strong enough. | 4 | ··˘/ |
| VITTORIA. | 4 | ˘/˘˘ |
| If not, it can be strengthened. | 7 | ·····/˘ |
| I see no bar nor drawback to this building, | 11 | ·····/···/˘ |
| And on our homeward way, if it shall please you, | 11 | ··//˘······ |
| We may together view the site. | 8 | ··˘/˘··· |
| VITTORIA. | 4 | ˘/˘˘ |
| I thank you. | 3 | ··· |
| I did not venture to request so much. | 10 | ···/˘·˘/·· |
| Let us now go to the old walls you spake of, | 11 | ··········· |
| Vossignoria-- | 4 | ···· |
| VITTORIA. | 4 | ˘/˘˘ |
| What, again, Maestro? | 5 | ·˘//˘ |
| Pardon me, Messer Claudio, if once more | 11 | /˘·/˘/˘···· |
| I use the ancient courtesies of speech. | 10 | ···/˘/˘˘·· |
| I am too old to change. | 6 | ······ |
| A richly furnished apartment in the Palace of CARDINAL IPPOLITO. | 19 | ·/˘/˘˘/˘··/˘·/˘·˘/˘ |
| Night. | 1 | · |
| NARDI. | 2 | /˘ |
| I am bewildered. These Numidian slaves, | 11 | ··˘/˘·˘/˘˘· |
| In strange attire; these endless ante-chambers; | 11 | ··˘/·/˘/˘/˘ |
| This lighted hall, with all its golden splendors, | 11 | ·/˘····/˘/˘ |
| Pictures, and statues! Can this be the dwelling | 11 | /˘·/·····/˘ |
| Of a disciple of that lowly Man | 10 | ··˘/˘··/˘· |
| Who had not where to lay his head? These statues | 11 | ·········/· |
| Are not of Saints; nor is this a Madonna, | 11 | ········˘/˘ |
| This lovely face, that with such tender eyes | 10 | ·/˘····/˘· |
| Looks down upon me from the painted canvas. | 11 | ·······/˘/˘ |
| My heart begins to fail me. What can he | 10 | ··˘/······ |
| Who lives in boundless luxury at Rome | 10 | ···/˘/˘˘·· |
| Care for the imperilled liberties of Florence, | 11 | ···˘/˘/˘·/˘ |
| Her people, her Republic? Ah, the rich | 10 | ·/˘·˘/˘··· |
| Feel not the pangs of banishment. All doors | 10 | ·····/˘˘·· |
| Are open to them, and all hands extended, | 11 | ·/˘·····˘/˘ |
| The poor alone are outcasts; they who risked | 10 | ··˘/·/···· |
| All they possessed for liberty, and lost; | 10 | ··˘/·/˘˘·· |
| And wander through the world without a friend, | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| Sick, comfortless, distressed, unknown, uncared for. | 11 | ·/˘˘˘/˘/˘/· |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| I pray you pardon me that I have kept you | 11 | ···/˘······ |
| Waiting so long alone. | 6 | /˘··˘/ |
| NARDI. | 2 | /˘ |
| I wait to see | 4 | ···· |
| The Cardinal. | 4 | ·/˘˘ |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| I am the Cardinal. | 6 | ···/˘˘ |
| And you? | 2 | ·· |
| NARDI. | 2 | /˘ |
| Jacopo Nardi. | 5 | ···/˘ |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| You are welcome | 4 | ··/˘ |
| I was expecting you. Philippo Strozzi | 11 | ··˘/˘······ |
| Had told me of your coming. | 7 | ·····/˘ |
| NARDI. | 2 | /˘ |
| 'T was his son | 4 | ···· |
| That brought me to your door. | 6 | ······ |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| Pray you, be seated. | 5 | ···/˘ |
| You seem astonished at the garb I wear, | 10 | ··˘/˘····· |
| But at my time of life, and with my habits, | 11 | ·········/˘ |
| The petticoats of a Cardinal would be-- | 10 | ·/˘···/˘·· |
| Troublesome; I could neither ride nor walk, | 10 | /˘˘··/˘··· |
| Nor do a thousand things, if I were dressed | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Like an old dowager. It were putting wine | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| Young as the young Astyanax into goblets | 11 | ·········/˘ |
| As old as Priam. | 5 | ···/· |
| NARDI. | 2 | /˘ |
| Oh, your Eminence | 5 | ··/˘˘ |
| Knows best what you should wear. | 6 | ······ |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| Dear Messer Nardi, | 5 | ·/˘/˘ |
| You are no stranger to me. I have read | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Your excellent translation of the books | 10 | ·/˘˘˘/˘··· |
| Of Titus Livius, the historian | 10 | ·/˘···˘/˘˘ |
| Of Rome, and model of all historians | 11 | ···/˘··˘/˘˘ |
| That shall come after him. It does you honor; | 11 | ·········/˘ |
| But greater honor still the love you bear | 10 | ·/˘/˘····· |
| To Florence, our dear country, and whose annals | 11 | ·/˘/·/˘··/˘ |
| I hope your hand will write, in happier days | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Than we now see. | 4 | ···· |
| NARDI. | 2 | /˘ |
| Your Eminence will pardon | 7 | ·/˘˘·/˘ |
| The lateness of the hour. | 7 | ·/˘··/˘ |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| The hours I count not | 6 | ·/˘··· |
| As a sun-dial; but am like a clock, | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| That tells the time as well by night as day. | 10 | ·········· |
| So no excuse. I know what brings you here. | 10 | ··˘/······ |
| You come to speak of Florence. | 7 | ·····/˘ |
| NARDI. | 2 | /˘ |
| And her woes. | 3 | ··· |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| The Duke, my cousin, the black Alessandro, | 11 | ···/˘··˘˘/˘ |
| Whose mother was a Moorish slave, that fed | 10 | ·/˘··/˘··· |
| The sheep upon Lorenzo's farm, still lives | 10 | ····˘/˘··· |
| And reigns. | 2 | ·· |
| NARDI. | 2 | /˘ |
| Alas, that such a scourge | 6 | ˘/···· |
| Should fall on such a city! | 7 | ·····/˘ |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| When he dies, | 3 | ··· |
| The Wild Boar in the gardens of Lorenzo, | 11 | ·····/˘·˘/˘ |
| The beast obscene, should be the monument | 10 | ··˘/···/˘˘ |
| Of this bad man. | 4 | ···· |
| NARDI. | 2 | /˘ |
| He walks the streets at night | 6 | ······ |
| With revellers, insulting honest men. | 10 | ·/˘˘˘/˘/˘· |
| No house is sacred from his lusts. The convents | 11 | ···/˘····/˘ |
| Are turned by him to brothels, and the honor | 11 | ·····/˘··/˘ |
| Of women and all ancient pious customs | 11 | ·/˘··/˘/˘/˘ |
| Are quite forgotten now. The offices | 10 | ··˘/˘··/˘˘ |
| Of the Priori and Gonfalonieri | 10 | ·········· |
| Have been abolished. All the magistrates | 10 | ··˘/˘··/˘· |
| Are now his creatures. Liberty is dead. | 10 | ···/˘/˘˘·· |
| The very memory of all honest living | 11 | ·/˘/˘··/˘/˘ |
| Is wiped away, and even our Tuscan tongue | 10 | ··˘/·///˘· |
| Corrupted to a Lombard dialect. | 10 | ˘/˘··/˘/˘· |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| And worst of all his impious hand has broken | 12 | ·····˘/˘··/˘ |
| The Martinella,--our great battle bell, | 10 | ·····/·/˘· |
| That, sounding through three centuries, has led | 10 | ·/˘··/˘˘·· |
| The Florentines to victory,--lest its voice | 10 | ·/˘··/˘··· |
| Should waken in their souls some memory | 10 | ·/˘····/˘˘ |
| Of far-off times of glory. | 7 | ·····/˘ |
| NARDI. | 2 | /˘ |
| What a change | 3 | ··· |
| Ten little years have made! We all remember | 11 | ·/˘·····˘/˘ |
| Those better days, when Niccola Capponi, | 11 | ·/˘········ |
| The Gonfaloniere, from the windows | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| Of the Old Palace, with the blast of trumpets, | 11 | ···/˘····/˘ |
| Proclaimed to the inhabitants that Christ | 10 | ˘/··˘/˘˘·· |
| Was chosen King of Florence; and already | 11 | ·/˘··/˘·˘/˘ |
| Christ is dethroned, and slain, and in his stead | 10 | ··˘/······ |
| Reigns Lucifer! Alas, alas, for Florence! | 11 | ·/˘˘˘/˘/·/˘ |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| Lilies with lilies, said Savonarola; | 11 | /˘·/˘······ |
| Florence and France! But I say Florence only, | 11 | /˘·····/˘/˘ |
| Or only with the Emperor's hand to help us | 11 | ·/˘··/˘···· |
| In sweeping out the rubbish. | 7 | ·/˘··/˘ |
| NARDI. | 2 | /˘ |
| Little hope | 3 | /˘· |
| Of help is there from him. He has betrothed | 10 | ·········· |
| His daughter Margaret to this shameless Duke. | 10 | ·/˘/˘··/˘· |
| What hope have we from such an Emperor? | 10 | ·······/˘˘ |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| Baccio Valori and Philippo Strozzi, | 11 | ··········· |
| Once the Duke's friends and intimates are with us, | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| And Cardinals Salvati and Ridolfi. | 11 | ·/˘˘˘/˘·˘/˘ |
| We shall soon see, then, as Valori says, | 10 | ·········· |
| Whether the Duke can best spare honest men, | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Or honest men the Duke. | 6 | ·/˘··· |
| NARDI. | 2 | /˘ |
| We have determined | 5 | ··˘/˘ |
| To send ambassadors to Spain, and lay | 10 | ··˘/˘˘···· |
| Our griefs before the Emperor, though I fear | 10 | /····/˘··· |
| More than I hope. | 4 | ···· |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| The Emperor is busy | 7 | ·/˘˘·/˘ |
| With this new war against the Algerines, | 10 | ·········· |
| And has no time to listen to complaints | 10 | ·····/˘·˘/ |
| From our ambassadors; nor will I trust them, | 10 | ·/˘/˘····· |
| But go myself. All is in readiness | 10 | ···/···/˘˘ |
| For my departure, and to-morrow morning | 11 | ··˘/˘··/˘/˘ |
| I shall go down to Itri, where I meet | 10 | ·········· |
| Dante da Castiglione and some others, | 11 | /˘·˘˘/˘··/˘ |
| Republicans and fugitives from Florence, | 11 | ˘/˘˘·/˘˘·/˘ |
| And then take ship at Gaeta, and go | 9 | ·····/˘·· |
| To join the Emperor in his new crusade | 10 | ···/˘···˘/ |
| Against the Turk. I shall have time enough | 10 | ········˘/ |
| And opportunity to plead our cause. | 10 | ··˘/˘˘··/· |
| NARDI, rising. | 4 | /˘/˘ |
| It is an inspiration, and I hail it | 11 | ····˘/˘···· |
| As of good omen. May the power that sends it | 11 | ···/˘··/··· |
| Bless our beloved country, and restore | 10 | ·/˘˘//˘·˘/ |
| Its banished citizens. The soul of Florence | 11 | ·/˘/˘˘···/˘ |
| Is now outside its gates. What lies within | 10 | ··//······ |
| Is but a corpse, corrupted and corrupting. | 11 | ····˘/˘·˘/˘ |
| Heaven help us all, I will not tarry longer, | 11 | /······/˘/˘ |
| For you have need of rest. Good-night. | 8 | ········ |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| Good-night. | 2 | ·· |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| Fra Bastiano, how your portly presence | 10 | ······/˘/˘ |
| Contrasts with that of the spare Florentine | 10 | ˘/·····/˘· |
| Who has just left me! | 5 | ····· |
| As we passed each other, | 6 | ····/˘ |
| I saw that he was weeping. | 7 | ·····/˘ |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| Poor old man! | 3 | ··· |
| Who is he? | 3 | ··· |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| Jacopo Nardi. A brave soul; | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| One of the Fuoruseiti, and the best | 10 | ·········· |
| And noblest of them all; but he has made me | 11 | ·/˘········ |
| Sad with his sadness. As I look on you | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| My heart grows lighter. I behold a man | 10 | ···/˘·˘/·· |
| Who lives in an ideal world, apart | 9 | ····˘/·˘/ |
| From all the rude collisions of our life, | 10 | ····˘/˘·/· |
| In a calm atmosphere. | 6 | ···/˘· |
| Your Eminence | 4 | ·/˘˘ |
| Is surely jesting. If you knew the life | 10 | ·/˘/˘····· |
| Of artists as I know it, you might think | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| Far otherwise. | 4 | ·/˘· |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| But wherefore should I jest? | 6 | ·/˘··· |
| The world of art is an ideal world,-- | 9 | ······˘/· |
| The world I love, and that I fain would live in; | 11 | ··········· |
| So speak to me of artists and of art, | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Of all the painters, sculptors, and musicians | 11 | ···/˘/˘·˘/˘ |
| That now illustrate Rome. | 6 | ··/˘·· |
| Of the musicians, | 5 | ··˘/˘ |
| I know but Goudimel, the brave maestro | 10 | ········/˘ |
| And chapel-master of his Holiness, | 10 | ·/˘/˘··/˘˘ |
| Who trains the Papal choir. | 7 | ···/˘/˘ |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| In church this morning, | 5 | ···/˘ |
| I listened to a mass of Goudimel, | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| Divinely chanted. In the Incarnatus, | 11 | ˘/˘/˘······ |
| In lieu of Latin words, the tenor sang | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| With infinite tenderness, in plain Italian, | 11 | ·/˘/˘˘··˘/˘ |
| A Neapolitan love-song. | 8 | ··˘/˘˘·· |
| You amaze me. | 4 | ·˘/· |
| Was it a wanton song? | 6 | ···/˘· |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| Not a divine one. | 5 | ··˘/· |
| I am not over-scrupulous, as you know, | 10 | ····/˘˘··· |
| In word or deed, yet such a song as that. | 10 | ·········· |
| Sung by the tenor of the Papal choir, | 11 | ···/˘··/˘/˘ |
| And in a Papal mass, seemed out of place; | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| There's something wrong in it. | 6 | ·/˘··· |
| There's something wrong | 4 | ·/˘· |
| In everything. We cannot make the world | 10 | ·/˘··/˘··· |
| Go right. 'T is not my business to reform | 11 | ······/˘·˘/ |
| The Papal choir. | 5 | ·/˘/˘ |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| Nor mine, thank Heaven. | 5 | ···/˘ |
| Then tell me of the artists. | 7 | ·····/˘ |
| Naming one | 3 | /˘· |
| I name them all; for there is only one. | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| His name is Messer Michael Angelo. | 10 | ···/˘/˘/˘· |
| All art and artists of the present day | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| Centre in him. | 4 | /˘·· |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| You count yourself as nothing! | 7 | ··˘/·/˘ |
| Or less than nothing, since I am at best | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Only a portrait-painter; one who draws | 10 | /˘·/˘/˘··· |
| With greater or less skill, as best he may, | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| The features of a face. | 6 | ·/˘··· |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| And you have had | 4 | ···· |
| The honor, nay, the glory, of portraying | 11 | ·/˘··/˘·˘/˘ |
| Julia Gonzaga! Do you count as nothing | 11 | ·········/˘ |
| A privilege like that? See there the portrait | 10 | ·/˘·····/˘ |
| Rebuking you with its divine expression. | 11 | ˘/˘···˘/˘/˘ |
| Are you not penitent? He whose skilful hand | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| Painted that lovely picture has not right | 10 | /˘·/˘/˘··· |
| To vilipend the art of portrait-painting. | 11 | ·/˘˘···/˘/˘ |
| But what of Michael Angelo? | 8 | ···/˘/˘· |
| But lately | 3 | ·/˘ |
| Strolling together down the crowded Corso, | 11 | /˘˘/˘··/˘/˘ |
| We stopped, well pleased, to see your Eminence | 10 | ·······/˘˘ |
| Pass on an Arab steed, a noble creature, | 11 | ···/˘··/˘/˘ |
| Which Michael Angelo, who is a lover | 11 | ·/˘/˘····/˘ |
| Of all things beautiful, especially | 9 | ···/˘˘˘/˘ |
| When they are Arab horses, much admired, | 11 | ···/˘/˘·˘/˘ |
| And could not praise enough. | 6 | ····˘/ |
| IPPOLITO, to an attendant. | 9 | ·˘/˘··˘/˘ |
| Hassan, to-morrow, | 5 | ˘/·/˘ |
| When I am gone, but not till I am gone,-- | 10 | ·········· |
| Be careful about that,--take Barbarossa | 11 | ·/˘········ |
| To Messer Michael Angelo, the sculptor, | 11 | ·/˘/˘/˘··/˘ |
| Who lives there at Macello dei Corvi, | 10 | ·········· |
| Near to the Capitol; and take besides | 10 | ···/˘˘··˘/ |
| Some ten mule-loads of provender, and say | 10 | ·····/˘˘·· |
| Your master sends them to him as a present. | 11 | ·/˘······/˘ |
| A princely gift. Though Michael Angelo | 10 | ·/˘··/˘/˘· |
| Refuses presents from his Holiness, | 10 | ˘/˘/˘··/˘˘ |
| Yours he will not refuse. | 6 | ····˘/ |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| You think him like | 4 | ···· |
| Thymoetes, who received the wooden horse | 10 | ···˘/˘·/˘· |
| Into the walls of Troy. That book of Virgil | 11 | ·········/˘ |
| Have I translated in Italian verse, | 10 | ··˘/˘·˘/˘· |
| And shall, some day, when we have leisure for it, | 11 | ·······/˘·· |
| Be pleased to read you. When I speak of Troy | 10 | ·········· |
| I am reminded of another town | 10 | ··˘/˘·˘/˘· |
| And of a lovelier Helen, our dear Countess | 12 | ······/˘/·/˘ |
| Julia Gonzaga. You remember, surely, | 11 | ······˘/˘/˘ |
| The adventure with the corsair Barbarossa, | 12 | ·˘/˘··/˘···· |
| And all that followed? | 5 | ···/˘ |
| A most strange adventure; | 6 | ···˘/˘ |
| A tale as marvellous and full of wonder | 11 | ·········/˘ |
| As any in Boccaccio or Sacchetti; | 11 | ·/˘········ |
| Almost incredible! | 6 | /·˘/˘˘ |
| IPPOLITO. | 4 | ·˘/˘ |
| Were I a painter | 5 | ···/˘ |
| I should not want a better theme than that: | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
The first 400 of 482 lines; the reader marks them all.
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.