And know that where we stand, stood oft and long,

The spectre knight, the hell-hounds and their Oft till the day was gone, Raphael himself,

*They wait for the traveller's carriage at the foot of The last, the greatest of the men of Florence, every hill. Breathe out his soul-lest in his agony,

When on the rack and call'd upon to answer,
He might accuse the guiltless.

That debt paid,

But with a sigh, a tear for human frailty,
We may return, and once more give a loose
To the delighted spirit--worshipping,
In her small temple of rich workmanship,*
Venus herself, who, when she left the skies,
Came hither.

XXI.

DON GARZIA.

AMONG the awful forms that stand assembled
In the great square of Florence, may be seen
That Cosmo, not the father of his country,
Not he so styled, but he who play'd the tyrant.
Clad in rich armour like a paladin,
But with his helmet off-in kingly state,
Aloft he sits upon his horse of brass;
And they, who read the legend underneath,
Go and pronounce him happy. Yet there is
A chamber at Grosseto, that, if walls
Could speak, and tell of what is done within,
Would turn your admiration into pity.

Half of what pass'd died with him; but the rest
All he discover'd when the fit was on,
All that, by those who listen'd, could be glean'd
From broken sentences and starts in sleep,
Is told, and by an honest chronicler.

Two of his sons, Giovanni and Garzia,
(The eldest had not seen his sixteenth summer,)
Went to the chase; but one of them, Giovanni,
His best beloved, the glory of his house,
Return'd not; and at close of day was found
Bathed in his innocent blood. Too well, alas!
The trembling Cosmo guess'd the deed, the doer;
And having caused the body to be borne
In secret to that chamber-at an hour
When all slept sound, save the disconsolate mother,†
Who little thought of what was yet to come,
And lived but to be told-he bade Garzia
Arise and follow him. Holding in one hand
A winking lamp, and in the other a key
Massive and dungeon-like, thither he led;
And having enter'd in and lock'd the door,
The father fix'd his eyes upon the son,

And closely questioned him. No change betray'd
Or guilt or fear. Then Cosmo lifted up

How can I spare myself, sparing none else.
Grant me the strength, the will-and O forgive
The sinful soul of a most wretched son.
'Tis a most wretched father who implores it."
Long on Garzia's neck he hung, and wept
Tenderly, long press'd him to his bosom ;
And then, but while he held him by the arm,
Thrusting him backward, turn'd away his face,
And stabb'd him to the heart.

Well might De Thou,
When in his youth he came to Cosmo's court,
Think on the past; and, as he wander'd through
The ancient palace-through those ample spaces
Silent, deserted-stop a while to dwell
Upon two portraits there, drawn on the wall
Together, as of two in bonds of love,
One in a cardinal's habit, one in black,
Those of the unhappy brothers, and infer
From the deep silence that his questions drew,
The terrible truth.

Well might he heave a sigh
For poor humanity, when he beheld
That very Cosmo shaking o'er his fire,
Drowsy and deaf and inarticulate,
Wrapt in his night-gown, o'er a sick man's mess,
In the last stage-death-struck and deadly pale;
His wife, another, not his Eleonora,

At once his nurse and his interpreter.

XXII.

THE CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE.

'Tis morning. Let us wander through the fields,
Where Cimabue found a shepherd boy*
Tracing his idle fancies on the ground;
And let us from the top of Fiesole,
Whence Galileo's glass by night observed
The phases of the moon, look round below
On Arno's vale, where the dove-colour'd oxen
Are ploughing up and down among the vines,
While many a careless note is sung aloud,
Filling the air with sweetness-and on thee,
Beautiful Florence, all within thy walls,
Thy groves and gardens, pinnacles and towers,
Drawn to our feet.

From that small spire, just caught
By the bright ray, that church among the rest
By one of old distinguish'd as the bride,
Let us pursue in thought (what can we better?)

The bloody sheet, "Look there! Look there!" he Those who assembled there at matin prayers ;†

cried,

"Blood calls for blood-and from a father's hand!
-Unless thyself wilt save him that sad office.
What!" he exclaim'd, when, shuddering at the sight,
The boy breathed out, "I stood but on my guard."
"Darest thou then blacken one who never wrong'd
thee,

Who would not set his foot upon a worm ?-
Yes, thou must die, lest others fall by thee,
And thou shouldst be the slayer of us all."
Then from Garzia's side he took the dagger,
That fatal one which spilt his brother's blood;
And, kneeling on the ground, "Great God !" he cried,
"Grant me the strength to do an act of justice.
Thou knowest what it costs me; but, alas!

Who, when vice revell'd, and along the street
Tables were set, what time the bearer's bell
Rang to demand the dead at every door,
Came out into the meadows; and, a while
Wandering in idleness, but not in folly,
Sate down in the high grass and in the shade
Of many a tree sun proof-day after day,
When all was still and nothing to be heard
But the Cicala's voice among the olives,
Relating in a ring, to banish care,
Their hundred novels.

Round the hill they wen
Round underneath-first to a splendid house,
Gherardi, as an old tradition runs,
That on the left, just rising from the vale ;

A place for luxury-the painted rooms,
The open galleries and middle court

Not unprepared, fragrant and gay with flowers.
Then westward to another, nobler yet;
That on the right, now known as the Palmieri,
Where art with nature vied-a paradise,
With verdurous walls, and many a trellis'd walk
All rose and jasmine, many a forest vista
Cross'd by the deer. Then to the Ladies' Valley;
And the clear lake, that seem'd as by enchantment
To lift up to the surface every stone
Of lustre there, and the diminutive fish
Innumerable, dropt with crimson and gold,
Now motionless, now glancing to the sun.

Who has not dwelt on their voluptuous day?
The morning banquet by the fountain side,
The dance that follow'd, and the noontide slumber;
Then the tales told in turn, as round they lay
On carpets, the fresh waters murmuring;
And the short interval fill'd up with games
Of chess, and talk, and reading old romances,
Till supper time, when many a siren voice
Sung down the stars, and in the grass the torches
Burnt brighter for their absence.

He* whose dream
It was (it was no more) sleeps in Val d'Elsa,
Sleeps in the church, where (in his ear I ween)
The friar pour'd out his catalogue of treasures ;
A ray, imprimis, of the star that shone

To the wise men; a phial full of sounds,
The musical chimes of the great bells that hung
In Solomon's temple; and, though last not least
A feather from the angel Gabriel's wing
Dropt in the virgin's chamber.

That dark ridge
Stretching away in the south-east, conceals it;
Not so his lowly roof and scanty farm,
His copse and rill, if yet a trace be left,
Who lived in Val di Pesa, suffering long
Exile and want, and the keen shafts of malice,
With an unclouded mind.† The glimmering tower
On the gray rock beneath, his landmark once,
Now serves for ours, and points out where he ate
His bread with cheerfulness.

Who sees him not
("Tis his own sketch-he drew it from himself)
Playing the bird-catcher, and sallying forth
In an autumnal morn, laden with cages,
To catch a thrush on every lime-twig there;
Or in the wood among his woodcutters ;
Or in the tavern by the highway side
At tric-trac with the miller; or at night.
Doffing his rustic suit, and, duly clad,
Entering his closet, and, among his books,
Among the great of every age and clime,
A numerous court, turning to whom he pleased,
Questioning each why he did this or that,
And learning how to overcome the fear
Of poverty and death?

Nearer we hail
Thy sunny slope, Arcetri, sung of old
For its green wine-dearer to me, to most,
As dwelt on by that great astronomer,
Seven years a prisoner at the city gate,

Let in but in his grave clothes. Sacred be
His cottage, (justly was it call'd the Jewel!),
Sacred the vineyard, where, while yet his sight
Glimmer'd, at blush of dawn he dress'd his vines,
Chanting aloud in gayety of heart

Some verse of Ariosto. There, unseen,

In manly beauty Milton stood before him,
Gazing with reverent awe-Milton, his guest,
Just then come forth, all life and enterprise;
He in his old age and extremity,

Blind, at noonday exploring with his staff;
His eyes upturn'd as to the golden sun,
His eyeballs idly rolling. Little then
Did Galileo think whom he bade welcome;
That in his hand he held the hand of one
Who could requite him-who would spread his name
O'er lands and seas-great as himself, nay greater;
Milton as little that in him he saw,

As in a glass, what he himself should be,
Destined so soon to fall on evil days
And evil tongues-so soon, alas! to live
In darkness, and with dangers compass'd round,
And solitude.

Well pleased, could we pursue
The Arno, from his birthplace in the clouds,
So near the yellow Tiber's-springing up
From his four fountains on the Apennine,
That mountain ridge a sea-mark to the ships
Sailing on either sea. Downward he runs,
Scattering fresh verdure through the desolate wild,
Down by the City of Hermits, and, ere long,
The venerable woods of Vallombrosa;

Then through these gardens to the Tuscan sea,
Reflecting casties, convents, villages,
And those great rivals in an elder day,
Florence and Pisa-who have given him fame,
Fame everlasting, but who stain'd so oft
His troubled waters. Oft, alas! were seen,
When flight, pursuit, and hideous rout were there
Hands, clad in gloves of steel, held up imploring;
The man, the hero, on his foaming steed,
Borne underneath--already in the realms
Of darkness.

Nor did night or burning noon
Bring respite. Oft, as that great artist saw,*
Whose pencil had a voice, the cry "To arms!"
And the shrill trumpet, hurried up the bank
Those who had stolen an hour to breast the tide,
And wash from their unharness'd limbs the blood
And sweat of battle. Sudden was the rush,
Violent the tumult; for, already in sight,
Nearer and nearer yet the danger drew;
Each every sinew straining, every feature,
Each snatching up, and girding, buckling on,
Morion, and greave, and shirt of twisted mail,
As for his life-no more, perchance, to taste,
Arno, the grateful freshness of thy glades,
Thy waters-where, exulting, he had felt
A swimmer's transport, there, alas! to float
And welter. Nor between the gusts of war,
When flocks were feeding, and the shepherd's pipe
Gladden'd the valley, when, but not unarm'd,
The sower came forth, and, following him who
plough'd,

* Michael Angelo.

260

Threw in the seed-did thy indignant waves
Escape pollution. Sullen was the splash,
Heavy and swift the plunge, when they received
The key that just had grated on the ear
Of Ugolino-closing up for ever

That dismal dungeon henceforth to be named
The Tower of Famine.

Sits over all, at once chastising, healing,
Himself th' avenger, went; and every street
Ran red with mutual slaughter-though sometimes
The young forgot the lessons they had learnt,
And loved when they should hate-like thee, Imelca,
Thee and thy Paolo. When last ye met

In that still hour-(the heat, the glare was gone,

Once indeed 'twas thine, Not so the splendour-through the cedar grove
A radiance stream'd like a consuming fire,
As though the glorious orb, in its descent,
Had come and rested there)-when last ye met,
And those relentless brothers dragg'd him forth,
It had been well hadst thou slept on, Imelda,
Nor from thy trance of fear awaked, as night
Fell on that fatal spot, to wish thee dead,
To track him by his blood, to search, to find,
Then fling thee down to catch a word, a look,
A sigh, if yet thou couldst, (alas! thou couldst not,)
And die, unseen, unthought of-from the wound
Sucking the poison.

When many a winter flood, thy tributary,
Was through its rocky glen rushing, resounding,
And thou wert in thy might, to save, restore
A charge most precious. To the nearest ford,
Hastening, a horseman from Arezzo came,
Careless, impatient of delay, a babe
Slung in a basket to the knotty staff
That lay athwart his saddle-bow. He spurs,
He enters; and his horse, alarm'd, perplex'd,
Halts in the midst. Great is the stir, the strife;
And lo, an atom on that dangerous sea,
The babe is floating! Fast and far he flies;
Now tempest rock'd, now whirling round and round,
But not to perish. By thy willing waves
Borne to the shore, among the bulrushes
The ark has rested; and unhurt, secure
As on his mother's breast he sleeps within,
All peace! or never had the nations heard
That voice so sweet, which still enchants, inspires;
That voice, which sung of love, of liberty.
Petrarch lay there!And such the images
That cluster'd round our Milton, when at eve
Reclined beside thee, Arno; when at eve,
Led on by thee, he wander'd with delight,
Framing Ovidian verse, and through thy groves
Gathering wild myrtle. Such the poet's dreams;
Yet not such only. For look round and say,
Where is the ground that did not drink warm blood,
The echo that had learnt not to articulate
The cry of murder?-Fatal was the day
To Florence, when-('twas in a street behind
The church and convent of the Holy Cross-
There is the house-that house of the Donati,
Towerless, and left long since, but to the last
Braving assault-all rugged, all emboss'd
Below, and still distinguished by the rings
Of brass, that held in war and festival time
Their family standards)-fatal was the day
To Florence, when, at morn, at the ninth hour,
A noble dame in weeds of widowhood,
Weeds to be worn hereafter by so many,
Stood at her door; and, like a sorceress, flung
Her dazzling spell. Subtle she was, and rich,
Rich in a hidden pearl of heavenly light,
Her daughter's beauty; and too well she knew
Its virtue! Patiently she stood and watch'd;
Nor stood alone-but spoke not.-In her breast
Her purpose lay; and, as a youth pass'd by,
Clad for the nuptial rite, she smiled and said,
Lifting a corner of the maiden's veil,
"This had I treasured up in secret for thee.
This hast thou lost!" He gazed, and was undone!
Forgetting-not forgot-he broke the bond,
And paid the penalty, losing his life

At the bridge foot; and hence a world of wo!
Vengeance for vengeance crying, blood for blood;
No intermission! Law, that slumbers not,
And, like the angel with the flaming sword,

Yet, when slavery came,
Worse follow'd. Genius, valour left the land,
Indignant-all that had from age to age
Adorn'd, ennobled; and headlong they fell,
For deeds of violence,
Tyrant and slave.

Done in broad day and more than half redeem'd
By many a great and generous sacrifice
Of self to others, came the unpledged bowl,
The stab of the stiletto. Gliding by
Unnoticed, in slouch'd hat and muffling cloak,
That just discover'd, Caravaggio-like,

A swarthy cheek, black brow, and eye of flame.
The bravo took his stand, and o'er the shoulder
Plunged to the hilt, or from beneath the rib
Slanting (a surer path, as some averr'd)
Struck upward-then slunk off, or, if pursued,
Made for the sanctuary, and there along
The glimmering aisle, among the worshippers,
Wander'd with restless step and jealous look,
Dropping thick gore.

Misnamed to lull suspicion,
In every palace was the laboratory,
Where he within brew'd poisons swift and slow,
That scatter'd terror till all things seem'd poisonous,
And brave men trembled if a hand held out

A nosegay or a letter; while the great
Drank from the Venice-glass, that broke, that

shiver'd,

If aught malignant, aught of thine was there,
Cruel Tophana; and pawn'd provinces
For the miraculous gem that to the wearer
Gave signs infallible of coming ill,
That clouded though the vehicle of death
Were an invisible perfume.

Happy then

The guest to whom at sleeping time 'twas said,
But in an under voice, (a lady's page
That door
Speaks in no louder,) "Pass not on.
Leads to another which awaits your coming,
One in the floor-now left, alas! unbolted,
No eye detects it-lying under foot,
Just as you enter, at the threshold-stone;
Ready to fall and plunge you into darkness,
Darkness and long oblivion!"

Then, indeed,
Where lurk'd not danger? Through the fairy land