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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
pity, the pity! Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with
cowls and sạndals, 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
I could have painted pictures like that youth's
Ye praise so. How my soul springs up! No bar Stayed me—ah, thought which saddens while it soothes !!
- Never did fate forbid me, star by star, 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
Turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan
Allowed to truth made visible in man.
Over the canvas could my hand have flung, Each face obedient to its passion's law,
Each passion clear proclaimed without a tongue
A-tiptoe for the blessing of embrace,
Pull down the nesting dove's heart to its place ;
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,
Through old streets named afresh from the event, Till it reached home, where learned age should greet
Above his hair, lie learning at my feet !
Oh, thus to live, I and my picture, linked With love about, and praise, till life should end,
And then not go to heaven, but linger here, Here on my earth, earth's every man my friend,
The thought grew frightful, 't was so wildly dear! But a voice changed it. Glimpses of such sights
Have scared me, like the revels through a door Of some strange house of idols at its rites !
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,
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 These endless cloisters and eternal aisles
With the same series, Virgin, Babe, and Saint, With the same cold calm beautiful regard,
At least no merchant traffics in my heart; The sanctuary's gloom at least shall ward
Vain tongues from where my pictures stand apart: Only prayer breaks the silence of the shrine
While, blackening in the daily candle-smoke, They moulder on the damp wall's travertine,
'Mid echoes the light footstep never woke. So, die my pictures ! surely, gently die !
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