Near and yet nearer to the sacred font,
Slipped and fell in, he flew and rescued him,
Flew with an energy, a violence,
That broke the marble-a mishap ascribed
To evil motives; his, alas, to lead
A life of trouble, and ere long to leave
All things most dear to him, ere long to know
How salt another's bread is, and the toil
Of going up and down another's stairs.*
Nor then forget that Chamber of the Dead, Where the gigantic shapes of Night and Day, Turned into stone, rest everlastingly;
Yet still are breathing, and shed round at noon. A two-fold influence only to be felt
A light, a darkness, mingling each with each;
Both and yet neither. There, from age to age,
Two Ghosts are sitting on their sepulchres.
That is the Duke LORENZO. Mark him well.
He meditates, his head upon his hand.
What from beneath his helm-like bonnet scowls?
Is it a face, or but an eyeless skull?
'Tis hid in shade; yet, like the basilisk,
It fascinates, and is intolerable.
His mien is noble, most majestical!
Then most so, when the distant choir is heard,
At morn or eve- nor fail thou to attend
On that thrice-hallowed day, when all are there;
When all, propitiating with solemn songs,
With light, and frankincense, and holy water,
Visit the Dead. Then wilt thou feel his power!
But let not Sculpture, Painting, Poesy, Or they, the masters of these mighty spells, Detain us. Our first homage is to Virtue. Where, in what dungeon of the Citadel (It must be known-the writing on the wall Cannot be gone-'twas cut in with his dagger, Ere, on his knees to God, he slew himself,) Where, in what dungeon, did FILIPPO STROZZI, The last, the greatest of the men of FLORENCE, Breathe out his soul- lest in his agony, When on the rack and called upon to answer, He might accuse the guiltless.
But with a sigh, a tear for human frailty,
We may return, and once more give a loose
To the delighted spirit-worshipping,
In her small temple of rich workmanship,*
Venus herself, who, when she left the skies,
Came hither.
AMONG those awful forms, in elder time.
Assembled, and through many an after-age
Destined to stand as Genii of the Place
Where men most meet in FLORENCE, may be seen
His who first played the Tyrant. Clad in mail,
But with his helmet off-in kingly state,
Aloft he sits upon his horse of brass; †
† Cosмo, the first Grand Duke.
And they, who read the legend underneath,
Go and pronounce him happy. Yet, methinks,
There is a Chamber that, if walls could speak,
Would turn their admiration into pity.
Half of what passed, died with him; but the rest
All he discovered when the fit was on,
All that, by those who listened, could be gleaned
From broken sentences and starts in sleep,
Is told, and by an honest Chronicler.*
Two of his sons, GIOVANNI and GARZIA,
(The eldest had not seen his nineteenth summer)
Went to the chase; but only one returned.
GIOVANNI, when the huntsman blew his horn
O'er the last stag had started from the brake,
And in the heather turned to stand at bay,
Appeared not; and at close of day was found
Bathed in his innocent blood. Too well, alas,
The trembling COSMO guessed the deed, the doer;
And, having caused the body to be borne.
In secret to that Chamber at an hour
When all slept sound, save she who bore them both,†
Who little thought of what was yet to come,
And lived but to be told-he bade GARZIA
Arise and follow him. Holding in one hand
A winking lamp, and in the other a key
Massive and dungeon-like, thither he led:
And, having entered in and locked the door,
The father fixed his eyes upon the son,
And closely questioned him. No change betrayed
Or guilt or fear. Then COSMO lifted up
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