[5]
Savonarola
was burnt for his testimony against papal corruptions
as early as March, 1498: and, as late as our own day, it has
been a custom in Florence to strew with violets the pavement
where he suffered, in grateful recognition of the anniversary.
as early as March, 1498: and, as late as our own day, it has
been a custom in Florence to strew with violets the pavement
where he suffered, in grateful recognition of the anniversary.
Elizabeth Browning
How oft, indeed,
We've sent our souls out from the rigid north,
On bare white feet which would not print nor bleed,
To climb the Alpine passes and look forth,
Where booming low the Lombard rivers lead
To gardens, vineyards, all a dream is worth,--
Sights, thou and I, Love, have seen afterward
From Tuscan Bellosguardo, wide awake,[11]
When, standing on the actual blessed sward
Where Galileo stood at nights to take
The vision of the stars, we have found it hard,
Gazing upon the earth and heaven, to make
A choice of beauty.
Therefore let us all
Refreshed in England or in other land,
By visions, with their fountain-rise and fall,
Of this earth's darling,--we, who understand
A little how the Tuscan musical
Vowels do round themselves as if they planned
Eternities of separate sweetness,--we,
Who loved Sorrento vines in picture-book,
Or ere in wine-cup we pledged faith or glee,--
Who loved Rome's wolf with demi-gods at suck,
Or ere we loved truth's own divinity,--
Who loved, in brief, the classic hill and brook,
And Ovid's dreaming tales and Petrarch's song,
Or ere we loved Love's self even,--let us give
The blessing of our souls (and wish them strong
To bear it to the height where prayers arrive,
When faithful spirits pray against a wrong,)
To this great cause of southern men who strive
In God's name for man's rights, and shall not fail.
Behold, they shall not fail. The shouts ascend
Above the shrieks, in Naples, and prevail.
Rows of shot corpses, waiting for the end
Of burial, seem to smile up straight and pale
Into the azure air and apprehend
That final gun-flash from Palermo's coast
Which lightens their apocalypse of death.
So let them die! The world shows nothing lost;
Therefore, not blood. Above or underneath,
What matter, brothers, if ye keep your post
On duty's side? As sword returns to sheath,
So dust to grave, but souls find place in Heaven.
Heroic daring is the true success,
The eucharistic bread requires no leaven;
And though your ends were hopeless, we should bless
Your cause as holy. Strive--and, having striven,
Take, for God's recompense, that righteousness!
FOOTNOTES:
[2] They show at Verona, as the tomb of Juliet, an empty trough of
stone.
[3] These famous statues recline in the Sagrestia Nuova, on the tombs
of Giuliano de' Medici, third son of Lorenzo the Magnificent,
and Lorenzo of Urbino, his grandson. Strozzi's epigram on the
Night, with Michel Angelo's rejoinder, is well known.
[4] This mocking task was set by Pietro, the unworthy successor of
Lorenzo the Magnificent.
[5] Savonarola was burnt for his testimony against papal corruptions
as early as March, 1498: and, as late as our own day, it has
been a custom in Florence to strew with violets the pavement
where he suffered, in grateful recognition of the anniversary.
[6] See his description of the plague in Florence.
[7] Charles of Anjou, in his passage through Florence, was permitted
to see this picture while yet in Cimabue's "bottega. " The
populace followed the royal visitor, and, from the universal
delight and admiration, the quarter of the city in which the
artist lived was called "Borgo Allegri. " The picture was
carried in triumph to the church, and deposited there.
[8] How Cimabue found Giotto, the shepherd-boy, sketching a ram of
his flock upon a stone, is prettily told by Vasari,--who also
relates that the elder artist Margheritone died "infastidito"
of the successes of the new school.
[9] The Florentines, to whom the Ravennese refused the body of Dante
(demanded of them "in a late remorse of love"), have given a
cenotaph in this church to their divine poet. Something less
than a grave!
[10] In allusion to Mr. Kirkup's discovery of Giotto's fresco portrait
of Dante.
[11] Galileo's villa, close to Florence, is built on an eminence
called Bellosguardo.
PART II.
I wrote a meditation and a dream,
Hearing a little child sing in the street:
I leant upon his music as a theme,
Till it gave way beneath my heart's full beat
Which tried at an exultant prophecy
But dropped before the measure was complete--
Alas, for songs and hearts! O Tuscany,
O Dante's Florence, is the type too plain?
Didst thou, too, only sing of liberty
As little children take up a high strain
With unintentioned voices, and break off
To sleep upon their mothers' knees again?
Couldst thou not watch one hour?
We've sent our souls out from the rigid north,
On bare white feet which would not print nor bleed,
To climb the Alpine passes and look forth,
Where booming low the Lombard rivers lead
To gardens, vineyards, all a dream is worth,--
Sights, thou and I, Love, have seen afterward
From Tuscan Bellosguardo, wide awake,[11]
When, standing on the actual blessed sward
Where Galileo stood at nights to take
The vision of the stars, we have found it hard,
Gazing upon the earth and heaven, to make
A choice of beauty.
Therefore let us all
Refreshed in England or in other land,
By visions, with their fountain-rise and fall,
Of this earth's darling,--we, who understand
A little how the Tuscan musical
Vowels do round themselves as if they planned
Eternities of separate sweetness,--we,
Who loved Sorrento vines in picture-book,
Or ere in wine-cup we pledged faith or glee,--
Who loved Rome's wolf with demi-gods at suck,
Or ere we loved truth's own divinity,--
Who loved, in brief, the classic hill and brook,
And Ovid's dreaming tales and Petrarch's song,
Or ere we loved Love's self even,--let us give
The blessing of our souls (and wish them strong
To bear it to the height where prayers arrive,
When faithful spirits pray against a wrong,)
To this great cause of southern men who strive
In God's name for man's rights, and shall not fail.
Behold, they shall not fail. The shouts ascend
Above the shrieks, in Naples, and prevail.
Rows of shot corpses, waiting for the end
Of burial, seem to smile up straight and pale
Into the azure air and apprehend
That final gun-flash from Palermo's coast
Which lightens their apocalypse of death.
So let them die! The world shows nothing lost;
Therefore, not blood. Above or underneath,
What matter, brothers, if ye keep your post
On duty's side? As sword returns to sheath,
So dust to grave, but souls find place in Heaven.
Heroic daring is the true success,
The eucharistic bread requires no leaven;
And though your ends were hopeless, we should bless
Your cause as holy. Strive--and, having striven,
Take, for God's recompense, that righteousness!
FOOTNOTES:
[2] They show at Verona, as the tomb of Juliet, an empty trough of
stone.
[3] These famous statues recline in the Sagrestia Nuova, on the tombs
of Giuliano de' Medici, third son of Lorenzo the Magnificent,
and Lorenzo of Urbino, his grandson. Strozzi's epigram on the
Night, with Michel Angelo's rejoinder, is well known.
[4] This mocking task was set by Pietro, the unworthy successor of
Lorenzo the Magnificent.
[5] Savonarola was burnt for his testimony against papal corruptions
as early as March, 1498: and, as late as our own day, it has
been a custom in Florence to strew with violets the pavement
where he suffered, in grateful recognition of the anniversary.
[6] See his description of the plague in Florence.
[7] Charles of Anjou, in his passage through Florence, was permitted
to see this picture while yet in Cimabue's "bottega. " The
populace followed the royal visitor, and, from the universal
delight and admiration, the quarter of the city in which the
artist lived was called "Borgo Allegri. " The picture was
carried in triumph to the church, and deposited there.
[8] How Cimabue found Giotto, the shepherd-boy, sketching a ram of
his flock upon a stone, is prettily told by Vasari,--who also
relates that the elder artist Margheritone died "infastidito"
of the successes of the new school.
[9] The Florentines, to whom the Ravennese refused the body of Dante
(demanded of them "in a late remorse of love"), have given a
cenotaph in this church to their divine poet. Something less
than a grave!
[10] In allusion to Mr. Kirkup's discovery of Giotto's fresco portrait
of Dante.
[11] Galileo's villa, close to Florence, is built on an eminence
called Bellosguardo.
PART II.
I wrote a meditation and a dream,
Hearing a little child sing in the street:
I leant upon his music as a theme,
Till it gave way beneath my heart's full beat
Which tried at an exultant prophecy
But dropped before the measure was complete--
Alas, for songs and hearts! O Tuscany,
O Dante's Florence, is the type too plain?
Didst thou, too, only sing of liberty
As little children take up a high strain
With unintentioned voices, and break off
To sleep upon their mothers' knees again?
Couldst thou not watch one hour?
