"Rafael did this, Andrea painted that; The Roman's is the better when you pray, But still the other's Virgin was his wife"— Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows My better fortune, I resolve to think. For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives, Said one day Agnolo, his very self,
I have known it all these years .
(When the young man was flaming out his thoughts Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see,
Too lifted up in heart because of it)
"Friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub
Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how, Who, were he set to plan and execute
As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings, Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!" To Rafael's!And indeed the arm is wrong. I hardly dare.
Give the chalk here quick, thus the line should go ! Ay, but the soul! he's Rafael! rub it out! Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth, (What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo? Do you forget already words like those?) If really there was such a chance, so lost,— Is, whether you're—not grateful—but more pleased. Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed! This hour has been an hour! Another smile? If you would sit thus by me every night I should work better, do yon comprehend? I mean that I should earn more, give you more. See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star; Morello 's gone, the watch-lights show the wall, The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. Come from the window, love, come in, at last, Inside the melancholy little house
We built to be so gay with. God is just. King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights When I look up from painting, eyes tired out, The walls become illumined, brick from brick
Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold, That gold of his I did cement them with! Let us but love each other. Must you go? That Cousin here again? he waits outside? Must see you—you, and not with me? Those loans? More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that? Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend? While hand and eye and something of a heart Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth? I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit
The gray remainder of the evening out, Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly
How I could paint, were I but back in France, One picture, just one more—the Virgin's face. Not yours this time! I want you at my side To hear them—that is, Michel Agnolo— Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend. I take the subjects for his corridor, Finish the portrait out of hand—there, there, And throw him in another thing or two If he demurs; the whole should prove enough To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside, What's better and what's all I care about, Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff!
Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he, The Cousin, what does he to please you more?
I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. I regret little, I would change still less. Since there my past life lies, why alter it? The very wrong to Francis!—it is true
I took his coin, was tempted and complied, And built this house and sinned, and all is said. My father and my mother died of want. Well, had I riches my own? you see
How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot. They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died;
And I have labored somewhat in my time
And not been paid profusely. Some good son
Paint my two hundred pictures—let him try!
No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. Yes. You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night. This must suffice me here. What would one have? In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance— Four great walls in the New Jerusalem,
Meted on each side by the angels reed, For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me To cover—the three first without a wife, While I have mine! So—still they overcome Because there's still Lucrezia,—as I choose.
Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love.
There they are, my fifty men and women Naming me the fifty poems finished!
Take them, Love, the book and me together: Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also.
Rafael made a century of sonnets,
Made and wrote them in a certain volume Dinted with the silver-pointed pencil
Else he only used to draw Madonnas:
These, the world might view—but one, the volume. Who that one, you ask? Your heart instructs you.
Did she live and love it all her lifetime? Did she drop, his lady of the sonnets, Die, and let it drop beside her pillow Where it lay in place of Rafael's glory,
Rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving, Cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's, Rafael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's?
You and I would rather read that volume, (Taken to his beating bosom by it) Lean and list the bosom-beats of Rafael, Would we not? than wonder at Madonnas— Her, San Sisto names, and Her, Foligno, Her, that visits Florence in a vision, Her, that's left with lilies in the Louvre— Seen by us and all the world in circle.
You and I will never read that volume.
Guido Reni, like his own eye's apple
Guarded long the treasure-book and loved it.
Guido Reni dying, all Bologna
Cried, and the world cried too, "Ours, the treasure!" Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.
Dante once prepared to paint an angel: Whom to please? You whisper "Beatrice." While he mused and traced it and retraced it, (Peradventure with a pen corroded
Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for, When, his left-hand i' the hair o' the wicked, Back he held the brow and pricked its stigma, Bit into the live man's flesh for parchment, Loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle, Let the wretch go festering through Florence)— Dante, who loved well because he hated, Hated wickedness that hinders loving, Dante standing, studying his angel,— In there broke the folk of his Inferno.
Says he "Certain people of importance (Such he gave his daily dreadful line to) "Entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet." Says the poet—" Then I stopped my painting."
You and I would rather see that angel, Painted by the tenderness of Dante,
Would we not?—than read a fresh Inferno.
You and I will never see that picture. While he mused on love and Beatrice, While he softened o'er his outlined angel, In they broke, those "people of importance:" We and Bice bear the loss forever.
What of Rafael's sonnets, Dante's picture? This no artist lives and loves, that longs not Once, and only once, and for one only,
(Ah, the prize!) to find his love a language Fit and fair and simple and sufficient— Using nature that's an art to others,
Not, this one time, art that's turned his nature, Ay, of all the artists living, loving,
None but would forego his proper dowry,— Does he paint? he fain would write a poem,— Does he write? he fain would paint a picture,
Put to proof art alien to the artist's,
Once, and only once, and for one only,
So to be the man and leave the artist,
Gain the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow.
Wherefore? Heaven's gift takes earth's abatement! He who smites the rock and spreads the water, Bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him, Even he, the minute makes immortal,
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