"Not as a flame that by some force is spent,
But one that of itself consumeth quite,
Departed hence in peace the soul content,
In fashion of a soft and lucent light
Whose nutriment by slow gradation goes,
Keeping until the end its lustre bright.
Not pale, but whiter than the sheet of snows
That without wind on some fair hill-top lies,
Her weary body seemed to find repose.
Like a sweet slumber in her lovely eyes,
When now the spirit was no longer there,
Was what is dying called by the unwise.
E'en Death itself in her fair face seemed fair."
Is it of Laura that he here is speaking?·
She doth not answer, yet is not asleep;
Her eyes are full of light and fixed on some-
Above her in the air. I can see naught
Except the painted angels on the ceiling. Vittoria! speak! What is it? Answer me! She only smiles, and stretches out her hands.
Not disobedient to the heavenly vision!
Pescara! my Pescara!
Holy Virgin!
she is dead!
[Kneels, and hides her face in Vittoria's lap
SCENE II. – JULIA GONZAGA, MICHAEL ANGELO.
Alas! yes, she is dead!
Even death itself in her fair face seems fair.
How wonderful! The light upon her face
Shines from the windows of another world.
Saints only have such faces. Holy Angels!
Bear her like sainted Catherine to her rest! 1
[Kisses Vittoria's hand.]
1 I dare not linger more; I am ashamed
To stand thus gazing here upon her face,
She being all unconscious of my presence.
Farewell, Vittoria, wonder of the world!
Thou pattern of all perfect womanhood,
Farewell forever! I am girt about
With death, from whom there can be no escape,
Nor hiding-place! Inexorable Death!
[Raises Vittoria's hand and kisses it.
Macello de' Corvi. A room in MICHAEL ANGELO's house.
MICHAEL ANGELO, standing before a model of St. Peter's
BETTER than thou I cannot, Brunelleschi,
And less than thou I will not! If the thought
Could, like a windlass, lift the ponderous stones
And swing them to their places; if a breath
Could blow this rounded dome into the air,
As if it were a bubble, and these statues
Spring at a signal to their sacred stations,
As sentinels mount guard upon a wall,
Then were my task completed. Now, alas!
Naught am I but a Saint Sebaldus, holding
Upon his hand the model of a church,
As German artists paint him; and what years,
What weary years, must drag themselves along,
Ere this be turned to stone! What hindrances
Must block the way; what idle interferences
Of Cardinals and Canons of St. Peter's,
Who nothing know of art beyond the color
Of cloaks and stockings, nor of any building
Save that of their own fortunes! And what then?
I must then the short-coming of my means
Piece out by stepping forward, as the Spartan
Was told to add a step to his short sword.
And is Fra Bastian dead? Is all that light
Gone out? that sunshine darkened? all that music
And merriment, that used to make our lives
Less melancholy, swallowed up in silence
Like madrigals sung in the street at night
By passing revellers? [It is strange indeed
That he should die before me. 'Tis against
The laws of nature that the young should die,
And the old live; unless it be that some
Have long been dead who think themselves alive,
Because not buried.] Well, what matters it,
Since now that greater light, that was my sun,
Is set, and all is darkness, all is darkness!
Death's lightnings strike to right and left of me,
And, like a ruined wall, the world around me
Crumbles away, and I am left alone.
I have no friends, and want none. My own thoughts
Are now my sole companions, thoughts of her, That like a benediction from the skies
Come to me in my solitude and soothe me.
When men are old, the incessant thought of Death
Follows them like their shadow; sits with them
At every meal; sleeps with them when they sleep;
And when they wake already is awake,
And standing by their bedside. Then, what folly
It is in us to make an enemy
Of this importunate follower, not a friend!
To me a friend, and not an enemy,
Has he become since all my
SCENE I.- POPE JULIUS III. seated by the Fountain of Acqua Vergine, surrounded by Cardinals.
Tell me, why is it ye are discontent,
You, Cardinals Salviati and Marcello,
With Michael Angelo? What has he done,
Or left undone, that ye are set against him?
When one Pope dies, another is soon made;
And I can make a dozen Cardinals,
But cannot make one Michael Angelo.
Your Holiness, we are not set against him;
We but deplore his incapacity.
You, Cardinal Salviati,
Are you incapable?
'Tis the old ox that draws the straightest furrow.
Your Holiness remembers he was charged
With the repairs upon St. Mary's bridge;
Made cofferdams, and heaped up load on load
Of timber and travertine; and yet for years
The bridge remained unfinished, till we gave it
To Baccio Bigio.
Always Baccio Bigio!
Is there no other architect on earth?
Was it not he that sometime had in charge
The harbor of Ancona?
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