It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city! Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still-ah, the Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow candles; One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles, And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals : Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife. Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life! PICTOR IGNOTUS. FLORENCE, 15—. I COULD have painted pictures like that youth's To outburst on your night, with all my gift Of fires from God: nor would my flesh have shrunk From seconding my soul, with eyes uplift And wide to heaven, or, straight like thunder, sunk To the centre, of an instant; or around Turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan And, like that youth ye praise so, all I saw, Each passion clear proclaimed without a tongue. Or Rapture drooped the eyes, as when her brood And locked the mouth fast, like a castle braved,— O human faces, hath it spilt, my cup? What did ye give me that I have not saved? Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how well!) Of going-I, in each new picture,—forth, As, making new hearts beat and bosoms swell, To Pope or Kaiser, East, West, South, or North, Bound for the calmly satisfied great State, Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went, Flowers cast upon the car which bore the freight, This world seemed not the world it was, before : Mixed with my loving trusting ones, there trooped .. Who summoned those cold faces that begun To press on me and judge me? Though I stooped Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun, They drew me forth, and spite of me . . enough! These buy and sell our pictures, take and give, Count them for garniture and household-stuff, And where they live needs must our pictures live And see their faces, listen to their prate, Pictor Ignotus. Partakers of their daily pettiness, Discussed of,-"This I love, or this I hate, "This likes me more, and this affects me less!" Wherefore I chose my portion. If at whiles My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint With the same series, Virgin, Babe, and Saint, Vain tongues from where my pictures stand apart : While, blackening in the daily candle-smoke, 195 O youth, men praise so,-holds their praise its worth? Blown harshly, keeps the trump its golden cry? Tastes sweet the water with such specks of earth? FRA LIPPO LIPPI. I AM poor brother Lippo, by your leave You need not clap your torches to my face. Zooks, what 's to blame? you think you see a monk ! Three streets off-he 's a certain . . . how d' ye call? I' the house that caps the corner. Boh! you were best! Remember and tell me, the day you 're hanged, How you affected such a gullet's-gripe! But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets |