Not see? because of night perhaps?--why, day Came back again for that! before it left, The dying sunset kindled through a cleft; The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, 190 Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay-- "Now stab and end the creature--to the heft!"

Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears Of all the lost adventurers my peers-- 195 How such a one was strong, and such was bold, And such was fortunate, yet each of old Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.

There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met To view the last of me, a living frame 200 For one more picture! in a sheet of flame I saw them and I knew them all. And yet Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, And blew. "_Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came._"

HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY

I only knew one poet in my life: And this, or something like it, was his way.

You saw go up and down Valladolid, A man of mark, to know next time you saw.

His very serviceable suit of black 5 Was courtly once and conscientious still, And many might have worn it, though none did; The cloak, that somewhat shone and showed the threads, Had purpose, and the ruff, significance.

He walked and tapped the pavement with his cane, 10 Scenting the world, looking it full in face, An old dog, bald and blindish, at his heels.

They turned up, now, the alley by the church, That leads nowhither; now, they breathed themselves On the main promenade just at the wrong time; 15 You'd come upon his scrutinizing hat, Making a peaked shade blacker than itself Against the single window spared some house Intact yet with its moldered Moorish work-- Or else surprise the ferrel of his stick 20 Trying the mortar's temper 'tween the c.h.i.n.ks Of some new shop a-building, French and fine.

He stood and watched the cobbler at his trade, The man who slices lemons into drink, The coffee-roaster's brazier, and the boys 25 That volunteer to help him turn its winch.

He glanced o'er books on stalls with half an eye, And fly-leaf ballads on the vender's string, And broad-edge bold-print posters by the wall.

He took such cognizance of men and things, 30 If any beat a horse, you felt he saw; If any cursed a woman, he took note; Yet stared at n.o.body--you stared at him, And found, less to your pleasure than surprise, He seemed to know you and expect as much. 35 So, next time that a neighbor's tongue was loosed, It marked the shameful and notorious fact, We had among us, not so much a spy, As a recording chief-inquisitor, The town's true master if the town but knew! 40 We merely kept a governor for form, While this man walked about and took account Of all thought, said and acted, then went home, And wrote it fully to our Lord the King Who has an itch to know things, he knows why, 45 And reads them in his bedroom of a night.

Oh, you might smile! there wanted not a touch, A tang of ... well, it was not wholly ease As back into your mind the man's look came.

Stricken in years a little--such a brow 50 His eyes had to live under!--clear as flint On either side the formidable nose Curved, cut and colored like an eagle's claw.

Had he to do with A's surprising fate?

When altogether old B disappeared 55 And young C got his mistress--was't our friend, His letter to the King, that did it all?

What paid the bloodless man for so much pains?

Our Lord the King has favorites manifold, And shifts his ministry some once a month; 60 Our city gets new governors at whiles-- But never word or sign, that I could hear, Notified to this man about the streets The King's approval of those letters conned The last thing duly at the dead of night. 65 Did the man love his office? Frowned our Lord, Exhorting when none heard--"Beseech me not!

Too far above my people--beneath me!

I set the watch--how should the people know?

Forget them, keep me all the more in mind!" 70 Was some such understanding 'twixt the two?

I found no truth in one report at least-- That if you tracked him to his home, down lanes Beyond the Jewry, and as clean to pace, You found he ate his supper in a room 75 Blazing with lights, four t.i.tians on the walls, And twenty naked girls to change his plate!

Poor man, he lived another kind of life In that new stuccoed third house by the bridge, Fresh-painted, rather smart than otherwise! 80 The whole street might o'erlook him as he sat, Leg crossing leg, one foot on the dog's back, Playing a decent cribbage with his maid (Jacynth, you're sure her name was) o'er the cheese And fruit, three red halves of starved winter-pears, 85 Or treat of radishes in April. Nine, Ten, struck the church clock, straight to bed went he.

My father, like the man of sense he was, Would point him out to me a dozen times; "'St--'St," he'd whisper, "the Corregidor!" 90 I had been used to think that personage Was one with lacquered breeches, l.u.s.trous belt, And feathers like a forest in his hat, Who blew a trumpet and proclaimed the news, Announced the bull-fights, gave each church its turn, 95 And memorized the miracle in vogue!

He had a great observance from us boys; We were in error; that was not the man.

I'd like now, yet had haply been afraid, To have just looked, when this man came to die, 100 And seen who lined the clean gay garret-sides And stood about the neat low truckle-bed, With the heavenly manner of relieving guard.

Here had been, mark, the general-in-chief, Through a whole campaign of the world's life and death, 105 Doing the King's work all the dim day long, In his old coat and up to knees in mud, Smoked like a herring, dining on a crust-- And, now the day was won, relieved at once!

No further show or need for that old coat, 110 You are sure, for one thing! Bless us, all the while How sprucely we are dressed out, you and I!

A second, and the angels alter that.

Well, I could never write a verse--could you?

Let's to the Prado and make the most of time. 115

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!

What, 'tis past midnight, and you go the rounds, And here you catch me at an alley's end 5 Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar?

The Carmine's my cloister: hunt it up, Do--harry out, if you must show your zeal, Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole, And nip each softling of a wee white mouse, 10 _Weke, weke_, that's crept to keep him company!

Aha, you know your betters! Then, you'll take Your hand away that's fiddling on my throat, And please to know me likewise. Who am I?

Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend 15 Three streets off--he's a certain ... how d'ye call?

Master--a ... Cosimo of the Medici, 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! 20 But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves Pick up a manner nor discredit you: Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets And count fair prize what comes into their net?

He's Judas to a t.i.ttle, that man is! 25 Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends.

Lord, I'm not angry! Bid your hangdogs go Drink out this quarter-florin to the health Of the munificent House that harbors me (And many more beside, lads! more beside!) 30 And all's come square again. I'd like his face-- His, elbowing on his comrade in the door With the pike and lantern--for the slave that holds John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair With one hand ("Look you, now," as who should say) 35 And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped!

It's not your chance to have a bit of chalk, A wood-coal, or the like? or you should see!

Yes, I'm the painter, since you style me so.

What, brother Lippo's doings, up and down, 40 You know them and they take you? like enough!

I saw the proper twinkle in your eye-- 'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first.

Let's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch.

Here's spring come, and the nights one makes up bands 45 To roam the town and sing out carnival, And I've been three weeks shut within my mew, A-painting for the great man, saints and saints And saints again. I could not paint all night-- Ouf! I leaned out of window for fresh air. 50 There came a hurry of feet and little feet, A sweep of lute-strings, laughs, and whifts of song-- _Flower o' the broom,_ _Take away love, and our earth is a tomb!_ _Flower o' the quince,_ 55 _I let Lisa go, and what good in life since?_ _Flower o' the thyme_--and so on. Round they went.

Scarce had they turned the corner when a t.i.tter Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight--three slim shapes, And a face that looked up ... zooks, sir, flesh and blood, 60 That's all I'm made of! Into shreds it went, Curtain and counterpane and coverlet, All the bed-furniture--a dozen knots, There was a ladder! Down I let myself, Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped, 65 And after them. I came up with the fun Hard by Saint Laurence, hail fellow, well met-- _Flower o' the rose,_ _If I've been merry, what matter who knows?_ And so I was stealing back again 70 To get to bed and have a bit of sleep Ere I rise up tomorrow and go work On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast With his great round stone to subdue the flesh, You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see! 75 Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head-- Mine's shaved--a monk, you say--the sting's in that!

If Master Cosimo announced himself, Mum's the word naturally; but a monk!

Come, what am I a beast for? tell us, now! 80 I was a baby when my mother died And father died and left me in the street.

I starved there, G.o.d knows how, a year or two On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks, Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day, 85 My stomach being empty as your hat, The wind doubled me up and down I went.

Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand (Its fellow was a stinger as I knew), And so along the wall, over the bridge, 90 By the straight cut to the convent. Six words there, While I stood munching my first bread that month: "So, boy, you've minded," quoth the good fat father, Wiping his own mouth--'twas refection-time-- "To quit this very miserable world? 95 Will you renounce" ... "the mouthful of bread?" thought I; By no means! Brief, they made a monk of me; I did renounce the world, its pride and greed, Palace, farm, villa, shop, and banking-house, Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici 100 Have given their hearts to--all at eight years old.

Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure, 'Twas not for nothing--the good bellyful, The warm serge and the rope that goes all round, And day-long blessed idleness beside! 105 "Let's see what the urchin's fit for"--that came next.

Not overmuch their way, I must confess.

Such a to-do! They tried me with their books; Lord, they'd have taught me Latin in pure waste!

_Flower o' the clove,_ 110 _All the Latin I construe is "amo," I love!_ But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets Eight years together, as my fortune was, Watching folk's faces to know who will fling The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires, 115 And who will curse or kick him for his pains-- Which gentleman processional and fine, Holding a candle to the Sacrament, Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch The droppings of the wax to sell again, 120 Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped-- How say I?--nay, which dog bites, which lets drop His bone from the heap of offal in the street-- Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike, He learns the look of things, and none the less 125 For admonition from the hunger-pinch.

I had a store of such remarks, be sure, Which, after I found leisure, turned to use.

I drew men's faces on my copy books, Scrawled them within the antiphonary's marge, 130 Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes, Found eyes and nose and chin for A's and B's, And made a string of pictures of the world Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun, On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks looked black. 135 "Nay," quoth the Prior, "turn him out, d'ye say?

In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark.

What if at last we get our man of parts, We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese And Preaching Friars, to do our church up fine 140 And put the front on it that ought to be!"

And hereupon he bade me daub away.

Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank, Never was such prompt disemburdening.

First, every sort of monk, the black and white, 145 I drew them, fat and lean: then, folk at church, From good old gossips waiting to confess Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle-ends-- To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot, Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there 150 With the little children round him in a row Of admiration, half for his beard and half For that white anger of his victim's son Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm, Signing himself with the other because of Christ 155 (Whose sad face on the cross sees only this After the pa.s.sion of a thousand years) Till some poor girl, her ap.r.o.n o'er her head, (Which the intense eyes looked through) came at eve On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf, 160 Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers (The brute took growling), prayed, and so was gone.

I painted all, then cried, "'Tis ask and have; Choose, for more's ready!"--laid the ladder flat, And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall. 165 The monks closed in a circle and praised loud Till checked, taught what to see and not to see, Being simple bodies--"That's the very man!

Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog!

That woman's like the Prior's niece who comes 170 To care about his asthma: it's the life!"

But there my triumph's straw-fire flared and funked; Their betters took their turn to see and say: The Prior and the learned pulled a face And stopped all that in no time. "How? what's here? 175 Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all!

Faces, arms, legs, and bodies like the true As much as pea and pea! It's devil's-game!

Your business is not to catch men with show, With homage to the perishable clay, 180 But lift them over it, ignore it all, Make them forget there's such a thing as flesh.

Your business is to paint the souls of men--- Man's soul, and it's a fire, smoke ... no, it's not ...

It's vapor done up like a new-born babe-- 185 (In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth) It's ... well, what matters talking, it's the soul!

Give us no more of body than shows soul!

Here's Giotto, with his Saint a-praising G.o.d, That sets us praising--why not stop with him? 190 Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head With wonder at lines, colors, and what not?

Paint the soul; never mind the legs and arms!

Rub all out; try at it a second time.

Oh, that white smallish female with the b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 195 She's just my niece ... Herodias, I would say-- Who went and danced and got men's heads cut off!

Have it all out!" Now, is this sense, I ask?

A fine way to paint soul, by painting body So ill the eye can't stop there, must go further, 200 And can't fare worse! Thus, yellow does for white When what you put for yellow's simply black, And any sort of meaning looks intense When all beside itself means and looks naught.

Why can't a painter lift each foot in turn, 205 Left foot and right foot, go a double step, Make his flesh liker and his soul more like, Both in their order? Take the prettiest face, The Prior's niece ... patron-saint--is it so pretty You can't discover if it means hope, fear, 210 Sorrow, or joy? Won't beauty go with these?

Suppose I've made her eyes all right and blue, Can't I take breath and try to add life's flash, And then add soul and heighten them three-fold?