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To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse!

And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes
Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work,

The heads shake still-" It 's art's decline, my son !
"You 're not of the true painters, great and old ;
"Brother Angelico 's the man, you'll find ;
"Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer :

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Fag on at flesh, you'll never make the third!"

Flower o' the pine,

You keep your mistr . . . manners, and I'll stick to mine!
I'm not the third, then: bless us, they must know!
Don't you think they 're the likeliest to know,
They with their Latin? So, I swallow my rage,
Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint
To please them-sometimes do, and sometimes don't;
For, doing most, there 's pretty sure to come
A turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints-
A laugh, a cry, the business of the world-

(Flower o' the peach,

Death for us all, and his own life for each !)
And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over,
The world and life 's too big to pass for a dream,
And I do these wild things in sheer despite,
And play the fooleries you catch me at,
In pure rage! The old mill-horse, out at grass
After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so,
Although the miller does not preach to him
The only good of grass is to make chaff.

What would men have? Do they like grass or no-
May they or may n't they? all I want 's the thing
Settled for ever one way. As it is,

You tell too many lies and hurt yourself:
Yon don't like what you only like too much,
You do like what, if given you at your word,
You find abundantly detestable.

For me, I think I speak as I was taught :

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I always see the garden, and God there
A-making man's wife: and, my lesson learned,
The value and significance of flesh,

I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards.

You understand me: I'm a beast, I know. But see, now-why, I see as certainly As that the morning-star 's about to shine, What will hap some day. We 've a youngster here Comes to our convent, studies what I do, Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop: His name is Guidi-he 'll not mind the monksThey call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk— He picks my practice up-he 'll paint apace,

I hope so-though I never live so long,

I know what's sure to follow. You be judge!
You speak no Latin more than I, belike;
However, you 're my man, yon 've seen the world
-The beauty and the wonder and the power,
The shapes of things, their colours, lights and shades,
Changes, surprises, and God made it all!
-For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no,
For this fair town's face, yonder river's line,
The mountain round it and the sky above,
Much more the figures of man, woman, child,
These are the frame to? What 's it all about?
To be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon,
Wondered at? oh, this last of course!-you say.
But why not do as well as say,-paint these

Just as they are, careless what comes of it?

God's works-paint any one, and count it crime

To let a truth slip. Don't object, "His works "Are here already; nature is complete : "Suppose you reproduce her-(which you can't) "There's no advantage! you must beat her, then.” For, don't you mark? we 're made so that we love

First when we see them painted, things we have passed Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see ;

And so they are better, painted—better to us,

Which is the same thing. Art was given for that ;
God uses us to help each other so,

Lending our minds out.

Have you noticed, now,

Your cullion's hanging face? A bit of chalk,
And trust me but you should, though!

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If I drew higher things with the same truth!
That were to take the Prior's pulpit-place,
Interpret God to all of you! Oh, oh,

How much

It makes me mad to see what men shall do
And we in our graves! This world 's no blot for us
Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good :
To find its meaning is my meat and drink.

แ "Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer!"
Strikes in the Prior: "when your meaning 's plain
"It does not say to folks-remember matins,
"Or, mind you fast next Friday!" Why, for this
What need of art at all? A skull and bones,
Two bits of stick nailed cross-wise, or, what 's best,
A bell to chime the hour with, does as well.
I painted a St. Laurence six months since
At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style :

"How looks my painting, now the scaffold 's down?”
I ask a brother: "Hugely," he returns-
"Already not one phiz of your three slaves
"Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side,

"But 's scratched and prodded to our heart's content,

"The pious people have so eased their own

"With coming to say prayers there in a rage:
"We get on fast to see the bricks beneath.
"Expect another job this time next year,
"For pity and religion grow i' the crowd-

"Your painting serves its purpose!" Hang the fools!

—That is—you 'll not mistake an idle word
Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, Got wot,
Tasting the air this spicy night which turns
The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine!
Oh, the church knows! don't misreport me, now!
It 's natural a poor monk out of bounds
Should have his apt word to excuse himself:

And hearken how I plot to make amends.

I have bethought me: I shall paint a piece

. . There's for you! Give me six months, then go, see
Something in Sant' Ambrogio's! Bless the nuns !
They want a cast o' my office. I shall paint
God in the midst, Madonna and her babe,
Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel-brood,
Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet
As puff on puff of grated orris-root

When ladies crowd to church at midsummer.
And then i' the front, of course a saint or two-
St. John, because he saves the Florentines,
St. Ambrose, who puts down in black and white
The convent's friends and gives them a long day,
And Job, I must have him there past mistake,
The man of Uz, (and Us without the z,

Painters who need his patience.) Well, all these
Secured at their devotion, up shall come
Out of a corner when you least expect,
As one by a dark stair into a great light,
Music and talking, who but Lippo! I!-
Mazed, motionless and moon-struck-I 'm the man!
Back I shrink-what is this I see and hear?

I, caught up with my monk's things by mistake,
My old serge gown and rope that goes all round,
I, in this presence, this pure company!
Where's a hole, where 's a corner for escape?
Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing
Forward, puts out a soft palm-"Not so fast!

-Addresses the celestial presence, “nay"He made you and devised you, after all,

"Though he's none of you! Could Saint John there, draw

"His camel-hair make up a painting-brush?

"We come to brother Lippo for all that,
"Iste perfecit opus!" So, all smile-
I shuffle sideways with my blushing face
Under the cover of a hundred wings

Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you 're gay
And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut,
Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops

The hothead husband! Thus I scuttle off
To some safe bench behind, not letting go

The palm of her, the little lily thing

That spoke the good word for me in the nick,
Like the Prior's niece. . . Saint Lucy, I would say.
And so all 's saved for me, and for the church
A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence!
Your hand, sir, and good bye: no lights, no lights!
The street 's hushed, and I know my own way back,
Don't fear me ! There's the grey beginning. Zooks!

ANDREA DEL SARTO.

(CALLED "THE FAULTLESS PAINTER.”)

BUT do not let us quarrel any more,
No, my Lucrezia! bear with me for once :
Sit down and all shall happen as you wish.

You turn your face, but does it bring your heart?
I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear,
Treat his own subject after his own way,
Fix his own time, accept too his own price,
And shut the money into this small hand

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