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Or their praise either. Somebody re- Had you, with these the same, but brought marks

a mind! Morello's outline there is wrongly traced, Some women do so. Had the mouth there His hue mistaken ; what of that? or else,

urged Rightly traced and well ordered; what of “God and the glory! never care for gain. that?

The present by the future, what is that? Speak as they please, what does the moun- Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! tain care?

Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three !" Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his I might have done it for you. So it grasp,

seems : Or what's a heaven for? All is silver-gray Perhaps not. All is as God overrules. Placid and perfect with my art: the worse! Beside, incentives come from the soul's I know both what I want and what might self; gain,

The rest avail not. Why do I need you? And yet how profitless to know, to sigh What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo?

Had I been two, another and myself, In this world, who can do a thing, will not; Our head would have o'erlooked the And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: world !” No doubt.

Yet the will's somewhat - somewhat, too, Yonder's a work now, of that famous


power youth

And thus we half-men struggle. At the The Urbinate who died five years ago.

end, ('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.) God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. Well, I can fancy how he did it all, 'Tis safer for me, if the award be strict, Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to That I am something underrated here, see,

Poor this long while, despised, to speak the Reaching, that heaven might so replenish

truth. him,

I dared not, do you know, leave home all Above and through his art — for it gives

day, way;

For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. That arm is wrongly put -- and there The best is when they pass and look aside; again

But they speak sometimes; I must bear it A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines,

all. Its body, so to speak : its soul is right, Well may they speak! That Francis, that He means right — that, child


first time,

And that long festal year at FontaineStill, what an arm ! and I could alter it:

bleau ! But all the play, the insight, and the I surely then could sometimes leave the stretch

ground, Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out? Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear, Had you enjoined them on me, given me In that humane great monarch's golden soul,

look, We might have risen to Rafael, I and you ! One finger in his beard or twisted curl Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I Over his mouth's good mark that made the think

smile, More than I merit, yes, by many times. One arm about my shoulder, round my oh, with the same perfect

neck, brow,

The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, And perfect eyes, and more than perfect I painting proudly with his breath on me, mouth,

All his court round him, seeing with his And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird

eyes, The fowler's pipe, and follows to the Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of snare



But had you

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Profuse, my hand kept plying by those Give the chalk here — quick, thus the line hearts, –

should go! And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond, Ay, but the soul ! he's Rafael ! rub it out! This in the background, waiting on my Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth, work,

(What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo? To crown the issue with a last reward! Do you forget already words like those?) A good time, was it not, my kingly days? If really there was such a chance, so lost, And had you not grown restless but Is, whether you're not grateful — but I know

more pleased. 'Tis done and past; 'twas right, my in- Well, let me think so. And


smile instinct said;

deed! Too live the life grew, golden and not This hour has been an hour! Another gray,

smile? And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should If you would sit thus by me every night tempt

I should work better, do you comprehend ? Out of the grange whose four walls make I mean that I should earn more, give you his world.

more. How could it end in

other way?

See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star; You called me, and I came home to your Morello's gone, the watch-lights show the heart.

wall, The triumph was — to reach and stay

to reach and stay The cue-owls speak the name we call them there; since

by. I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost? Come from the window, love, - come in, Let my hands frame your face in your

at last, hair's gold,

Inside the melancholy little house You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine! We built to be so gay with. God is just. "Rafael did this, Andrea painted that; King Francis may forgive me: oft at The Roman's is the better when you pray,

nights But still the other's Virgin was his wife” When I look up from painting, eyes tired Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge

out, Both pictures in your presence; clearer The walls become illumined, brick from grows

brick My better fortune, I resolve to think. Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives,

gold, Said one day Agnolo, his very self, That gold of his I did cement them with! To Rafael I have known it all these Let us but love each other. Must you go? years

That Cousin here again ? he waits outside ? (When the young man was flaming out his

Must see you

you, and not with me? thoughts

Those loans? Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see, More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for Too lifted up in heart because of it)

that? “Friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to Goes up and down our Florence, none cares spend ?

While hand and eye and something of a Who, were he set to plan and execute

heart As you are, pricked on by your popes and Are left me, work's my ware, and what's kings,

it worth? Would bring the sweat into that brow of I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit yours!”

The gray remainder of the evening out, To Rafael's ! And indeed the arm is Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly wrong.

How I could paint, were I but back in I hardly dare ... yet, only you to see,




One picture, just one more the Virgin's While I have mine! So still they over

face, Not yours this time! I want you at my Because there's still Lucrezia, - as I side

To hear them that is, Michel Agnolo Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love.
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, Grow old along with me!

The best is yet to be,
And throw him in another thing or two The last of life, for which the first was
If he demurs; the whole should prove

made: enough

Our times are in his hand To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Be- Who saith, “A whole I planned, side,

Youth shows but half; trust God: see What's better and what's all I care about,

all, nor be afraid !” Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff! Love, does that please you? Ah, but what

Not that, amassing flowers, does he,

Youth sighed, “Which rose make ours, The Cousin! what does he to please you Which lily leave and then as best recall ? " more?

Not that, admiring stars,

It yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars; I am grown peaceful as old age to-night.

Mine be some figured flame which blends, I regret little, I would change still less.

transcends them all!” 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, Annulling youth's brief years,

Not for such hopes and fears And built this house and sinned, and all is

Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark ! said.

Rather I prize the doubt My father and my mother died of want.

Low kinds exist without, Well, had I riches of my own? you see

Finished and finite clods, untroubled by How one gets rich! Let each one bear his

a spark. lot. They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died:

Poor vaunt of life indeed,

Were man but formed to feed
And I have laboured somewhat in my time
And not been paid profusely. Some good

On joy, to solely seek and find a feast:
Such feasting ended, then

As sure an end to men;
Paint my two hundred pictures - let him

Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt No doubt, there's something strikes a bal

the maw-crammed beast? Yes, You loved me quite enough, it seems to

Rejoice we are allied night.

To that which doth provide This must suffice me here. What would And not partake, effect and not receive! one have?

A spark disturbs our clod; In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more

Nearer we hold of God chance —

Who gives, than of his tribes that take, Four great walls in the New Jerusalem,

I must believe. Meted on each side by the angel's reed, For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo, and me Then, welcome each rebuff To cover the three first without a wife, That turns earth's smoothness rough,


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Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand I strove, made head, gained ground upon but go!

the whole!” Be our joys three-parts pain!

As the bird wings and sings, Strive, and hold cheap the strain;

Let us cry, "All good things Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, grudge the throe!

than flesh helps soul!”

new :

For thence, - a paradox

Therefore I summon age Which comforts while it mocks,

To grant youth's heritage, Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail : Life's struggle having so far reached its What I aspired to be,

term : And was not, comforts me:

Thence shall I pass, approved A brute I might have been, but would

A man, for

aye removed not sink i' the scale.

From the developed brute; a God though

in the germ. What is he but a brute Whose flesh has soul to suit,

And I shall thereupon Whose spirit works lest arms and legs Take rest, ere I be gone want play?

Once more on my adventure brave and To man, propose this test Thy body at its best,

Fearless and unperplexed, How far can that project thy soul on its When I


battle next, lone way?

What weapons to select, what armour to

indue. Yet gifts should prove their use : I own the Past profuse

Youth ended, I shall try Of power each side, perfection every turn: My gain or loss thereby; Eyes, ears took in their dole,

Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold: Brain treasured up the whole ;

And I shall weigh the same, Should not the heart beat once “How Give life its praise or blame: good to live and learn”?

Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know,

being old. Not once beat “Praise be thine ! I see the whole design,

For note, when evening shuts, I, who saw power, see now Love perfect A certain moment cuts too:

The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: Perfect I call thy plan:

A whisper from the west Thanks that I was a man!

Shoots —“Add this to the rest, Maker, remake, complete, - I trust what Take it and try its worth: here dies anthou shalt do!”

other day.”

For pleasant is this flesh;
Our soul, in its rose-mesh
Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for

rest :
Would we some prize might hold
To match those manifold
Possessions of the brute, - gain most, as

we did best!

So, still within this life,
Though lifted o'er its strife,
Let me discern, compare, pronounce at

“This rage was right i' the main,
That acquiescence vain;
The Future I may face now I have proved

the Past.”

Let us not always say,
“Spite of this flesh to-day

For more is not reserved
To man, with soul just nerved

To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: So passed in making up the main account; Here, work enough to watch

All instincts immature, The Master work, and catch

All purposes unsure, Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the That weighed not as his work, yet swelled tool's true play.

the man's amount: As it was better, youth

Thoughts hardly to be packed Should strive, through acts uncouth, Into a narrow act, Toward making, than repose on aught Fancies that broke through language and found made:

escaped ; So, better, age, exempt

All I could never be, From strife, should know, than tempt All, men ignored in me, Further. Thou waitedst age: wait death This, I was worth to God, whose wheel nor be afraid !

the pitcher shaped. Enough now, if the Right

Ay, note that Potter's wheel, And Good and Infinite

That metaphor ! and feel Be named here, as thou callest thy hand Why time spins fast, why passive lies our

clay, — With knowledge absolute,

Thou, to whom fools propound, Subject to no dispute

When the wine makes its round, From fools that crowded youth, nor let "Since life fleets, all is change; the Past thee feel alone.

gone, seize to-day !"

thine own,

Be there, for once and all,
Severed great minds from small,
Announced to each his station in the

Was I, the world arraigned,
Were they, my soul disdained,
Right? Let age speak the truth and

give us peace at last!

Fool! All that is, at all,
Lasts ever, past recall;
Earth changes, but thy soul and God

stand sure:
What entered into thee,
That was, is, and shall be:
Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter

and clay endure.

Now, who shall arbitrate?

He fixed thee 'mid this dance Ten men love what I hate,

Of plastic circumstance, Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; This Present, thou, forsooth, would fain Ten, who in ears and eyes

arrest: Match me; we all surmise,

Machinery just meant They this thing, and I that: whom shall To give thy soul its bent, my soul believe?

Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently

impressed Not on the vulgar mass Called “work,” must sentence pass,

What though the earlier grooves, Things done, that took the eye and had Which ran the laughing loves the price;

Around thy base, no longer pause and press? O'er which, from level stand,

What though, about thy rim, The low world laid its hand,

Skull-things in order grim Found straightway to its mind, could Grow out, in graver mood, obey the value in a trice:

sterner stress?

But all, the world's coarse thumb
And finger failed to plumb,

Look not thou down but up!
To uses of a cup,

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