Linked with the Imperial line, and with Matilda,
Who gave the Church Saint Peter's Patrimony.
I, too, am proud to give unto the Church
The labor of these hands, and what of life
Remains to me. [My father Buonarotti
Was Podestà of Chiusi and Caprese.
I am not used to have men speak to me
As if I were a mason, hired to build
A garden wall, and paid on Saturdays
So much an hour.]

CARDINAL SALVIATI, aside.

No wonder that Pope Clement

Never sat down in presence of this man,

Lest he should do the same; and always bade him

Put on his hat, lest he unasked should do it!

MICHAEL ANGELO.

If any one could die of grief and shame,
I should. This labor was imposed upon me;
I did not seek it; and if I assumed it,

'T was not for love of fame or love of gain,
But for the love of God. Perhaps old age
Deceived me, or self-interest, or ambition;
I may be doing harm instead of good.
Therefore, I pray your Holiness, release me;
Take off from me the burden of this work ;
Let me go
back to Trence.

While I am living.

JULIUS.

Never, never,

[MICHAEL ANGELO.

Doth your Holiness

Remember what the Holy Scriptures say

Of the inevitable time, when those

Who look out of the windows shall be darkened, And the almond-tree shall flourish?

Ecclesiastes.

JULIUS.

That is in

MICHAEL ANGELO.

And the grasshopper

Shall be a burden, and desire shall fail,
Because man goeth unto his long home.
Vanity of Vanities, saith the Preacher; all
Is vanity.

JULIUS.]

Ah, were to do a thing

As easy as to dream of doing it,

We should not want for artists.

But the men

Who carry out in act their great designs

Are few in number; aye, they may be counted
Upon the fingers of this hand. Your place
Is at St. Peter's.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

I have had my dream,

And cannot carry out my great conception,
And put it into act.

JULIUS.

Then who can do it?

You would but leave it to some Baccio Bigio
To mangle and deface.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

Rather than that,

I will still bear the burden on my shoulders

A little longer. [If your Holiness

Will keep the world in order, and will leave

The building of the church to me, the work
Will go on better for it.] Holy Father,
If all the labors that I have endured,
And shall endure, advantage not my soul,
I am but losing time.

JULIUS, laying his hands on MICHAEL ANGELO's shoulders.
You will be gainer

Both for your soul and body.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

[Not events

Exasperate me, but the funest conclusions
I draw from these events; the sure decline
Of art, and all the meaning of that word;
All that embellishes and sweetens life,
And lifts it from the level of low cares
Into the purer atmosphere of beauty;
The faith in the Ideal; the inspiration
That made the canons of the church of Seville
Say, "Let us build, so that all men hereafter
Will say that we were madmen."] Holy Father,
I beg permission to retire from here.

My Cardinals, this Michael Angelo

Must not be dealt with as a common mason.

He comes of noble blood, and for his crest

Bears two bull's horns; and he has given us

proof

That he can toss with them. From this day forth Unto the end of time, let no man utter

The name of Baccio Bigio in my presence.
All great achievements are the natural fruits
Of a great character. As trees bear not
Their fruits of the same size and quality,
But each one in its kind with equal ease,
So are great deeds as natural to great men
As mean things are to small ones. By his work
We know the master. Let us not perplex him.
March 18, 1872.]

III.

BINDO ALTOVITI.

A street in Rome. BINDO ALTOVITI, standing at the door of his house. MICHAEL ANGELO, passing.

BINDO.

Good-morning, Messer Michael Angelo !

MICHAEL ANGELO.

Good-morning, Messer Bindo Altoviti!

BINDO.

What brings you forth so early?

MICHAEL ANGELO.

The same reason

That keeps you standing sentinel at your door,
The air of this delicious summer morning.
What news have you from Florence?

BINDO.

Nothing new;

The same old tale of violence and wrong.
Since the disastrous day at Monte Murlo,
When in procession, through San Gallo's gate,
Bareheaded, clothed in rags, on sorry steeds,
Philippo Strozzi and the good Valori
Amid the shouts of an ungrateful people,

Were led as prisoners down the streets of Flor

ence,

Hope is no more, and liberty no more.
Duke Cosimo, the tyrant, reigns supreme.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

Florence is dead: her houses are but tombs
Silence and solitude are in her streets.

BINDO.

Ah yes; and often I repeat the words
You wrote upon your statue of the Night,
There in the Sacristy of San Lorenzo :
"Grateful to me is sleep; to be of stone

More grateful, while the wrong and shame endure;

To see not, feel not, is a benediction ;
Therefore awake me not; oh, speak in whispers."

MICHAEL ANGELO.

Ah, Messer Bindo, the calamities,

The fallen fortunes, and the desolation
Of Florence are to me a tragedy

Deeper than words, and darker than despair.
I, who have worshipped freedom from my cradle,
Have loved her with the passion of a lover,
And clothed her with all lovely attributes
That the imagination can conceive,

Or the heart conjure up, now see her dead,
And trodden in the dust beneath the feet
Of an adventurer! It is a grief

Too great for me to bear in my old age.

BINDO.

I say no news from Florence: I am wrong,
For Benvenuto writes that he is coming
To be my guest in Rome.