If old Margheritone trembled, swooned · And died despairing at the open sill

Of other men's achievements, (who achieved, By loving art beyond the master) he

Was old Margheritone, and conceived Never, at first youth and most ecstasy,

A Virgin like that dream of one, which heaved The death-sigh from his heart. If wistfully Margheritone sickened at the smell

Of Cimabue's laurel, let him go!

For Cimabue stood up very well In spite of Giotto's, and Angelico

The artist-saint kept smiling in his cell

The smile with which he welcomed the sweet slow
Inbreak of angels, (whitening through the dim
That he might paint them) while the sudden sense
Of Raffael's future was revealed to him
By force of his own fair works' competence.

The same blue waters where the dolphins swim
Suggest the tritons. Through the blue Immense
Strike out, all swimmers ! cling not in the way
Of one another, so to sink; but learn

The strong man's impulse, catch the freshening spray He throws up in his motions, and discern

By his clear westering eye, the time of day.

Thou, God, hast set us worthy gifts to earn

Besides Thy heaven and Thee! and when I say
There's room here for the weakest man alive
To live and die, there 's room too, I repeat,
For all the strongest to live well, and strive

Their own way, by their individual heat,—
Like some new bee-swarm leaving the old hive,
Despite the wax which tempts so violet-sweet.
Then let the living live, the dead retain

Their grave-cold flowers !—though honour 's best sup

plied

By bringing actions, to prove theirs not vain.

Cold graves, we say? it shall be testified That living men who burn in heart and brain, Without the dead were colder. If we tried To sink the past beneath our feet, be sure

The future would not stand. Precipitate This old roof from the shrine, and, insecure,

The nesting swallows fly off, mate from mate. How scant the gardens, if the graves were fewer! The tall green poplars grew no longer straight Whose tops not looked to Troy. Would any fight For Athens, and not swear by Marathon? Who dared build temples, without tombs in sight? Or live, without some dead man's benison ? Or seek truth, hope for good, and strive for right, If, looking up, he saw not in the sun

Some angel of the martyrs all day long

Standing and waiting? Your last rhythm will need
Your earliest key-note. Could I sing this song,
If my dead masters had not taken heed

To help the heavens and earth to make me strong,
As the wind ever will find out some reed

And touch it to such issues as belong

To such a frail thing? None may grudge the Dead, Libations from full cups. Unless we choose

To look back to the hills behind us spread,
The plains before us sadden and confuse;
If orphaned, we are disinherited.

I would but turn these lachrymals to use,
And pour fresh oil in from the olive-grove,
To furnish them as new lamps.
Shall I say

What made my heart beat with exulting love
A few weeks back?—

The day was such a day As Florence owes the sun. The sky above, Its weight upon the mountains seemed to lay,

And palpitate in glory, like a dove

Who has flown too fast, full-hearted-take away
The image for the heart of man beat higher
That day in Florence, flooding all her streets
And piazzas with a tumult and desire.
The people, with accumulated heats

And faces turned one way, as if one fire

Both drew and flushed them, left their ancient beats
And went up toward the palace-Pitti wall

To thank their Grand-duke who, not quite of course,
Had graciously permitted, at their call,

The citizens to use their civic force

To guard their civic homes. So, one and all,
The Tuscan cities streamed up to the source
Of this new good at Florence, taking it
As good so far, presageful of more good,—
The first torch of Italian freedom, lit
To toss in the next tiger's face who should
Approach too near them in a greedy fit,—

The first pulse of an even flow of blood
To prove the level of Italian veins

Towards rights perceived and granted. How we gazed
From Casa Guidi windows while, in trains
Of orderly procession-banners raised,

And intermittent bursts of martial strains
Which died upon the shout, as if amazed
By gladness beyond music-they passed on!
The Magistracy, with insignia, passed,—
And all the people shouted in the sun,
And all the thousand windows which had cast
A ripple of silks in blue and scarlet down,
(As if the houses overflowed at last,)

Seemed growing larger with fair heads and eyes.
The Lawyers passed,—and still arose the shout,
And hands broke from the windows to surprise
Those grave calm brows with bay-tree leaves thrown out.

The Priesthood passed,―the friars with worldly-wise Keen sidelong glances from their beards about The street to see who shouted; many a monk Who takes a long rope in the waist, was there : Whereat the popular exultation drunk

With indrawn "vivas" the whole sunny air,

While through the murmuring windows rose and sunk. A cloud of kerchiefed hands,—“ The church makes fair Her welcome in the new Pope's name." Ensued The black sign of the “Martyrs ”—(name no name, But count the graves in silence.) Next were viewed The Artists; next, the Trades; and after came The People,-flag and sign, and rights as goodAnd very loud the shout was for that same Motto, "Il popolo." IL POPOLO,The word means dukedom, empire, majesty, And kings in such an hour might read it so. And next, with banners, each in his degree, Deputed representatives a-row

Of every separate state of Tuscany :

Siena's she-wolf, bristling on the fold Of the first flag, preceded Pisa's hare,

And Massa's lion floated calm in gold, Pienza's following with his silver stare,

Arezzo's steed pranced clear from bridle-hold,— And well might shout our Florence, greeting there

These, and more brethren. Last, the world had sent

The various children of her teeming flanks

Greeks, English, French-as if to a parliament

Of lovers of her Italy in ranks,

Each bearing its land's symbol reverent ;

At which the stones seemed breaking into thanks
And rattling up the sky, such sounds in proof
Arose; the very house-walls seemed to bend ;
The very windows, up from door to roof,
Flashed out a rapture of bright heads, to mend

With passionate looks the gesture's whirling off A hurricane of leaves. Three hours did end

While all these passed; and ever in the crowd, Rude men, unconscious of the tears that kept

Their beards moist, shouted; some few laughed aloud, And none asked any why they laughed and wept : Friends kissed each other's cheeks, and foes long vowed

More warmly did it; two-months babies leapt

Right upward in their mothers' arms, whose black Wide glittering eyes looked elsewhere; lovers pressed Each before either, neither glancing back; And peasant maidens smoothly 'tired and tressed Forgot to finger on their throats the slack

Great pearl-strings; while old blind men would not rest,
But pattered with their staves and slid their shoes
Along the stones, and smiled as if they saw.

O heaven, I think that day had noble use
Among God's days! So near stood Right and Law,
Both mutually forborne! Law would not bruise,
Nor Right deny, and each in reverent awe
Honoured the other. And if, ne'ertheless,
That good day's sun delivered to the vines

No charta, and the liberal Duke's excess
Did scarce exceed a Guelf's or Ghibelline's
In any special actual righteousness
Of what that day he granted, still the signs

Are good and full of promise, we must say,
When multitudes approach their kings with prayers
And kings concede their people's right to pray
Both in one sunshine. Griefs are not despairs,
So uttered, nor can royal claims dismay
When men from humble homes and ducal chairs,
Hate wrong together. It was well to view
Those banners ruffled in a ruler's face

Inscribed, "Live freedom, union, and all true