Into the sky. Thy nobler destinies
Led thee away to justle in the crowd;
And there I found thee-trying once again,
What for thyself thou hadst prescribed so oft,
A change of air and diet-once again
Crossing the sea, and springing to the shore
As though thou knewest where to dine and sleep.
First in BOLOGNA didst thou plant thyself,
Serving behind a Cardinal's gouty chair,
Listening and oft replying, jest for jest ;
Then in FERRARA, every thing by turns,
So great thy genius and so Proteus-like!
Now serenading in a lover's train,
And measuring swords with his antagonist;
Now carving, cup-bearing in halls of state;
And now a guide to the lorn traveller,
A very Cicerone—yet, alas,
How unlike him who fulmined in old ROME!
Dealing out largely in exchange for pence
Thy scraps of Knowledge-thro' the grassy street
Leading, explaining-pointing to the bars
Of TASSO's dungeon, and the latin verse,
Graven in the stone, that yet denotes the door
Of ARIOSTO.
Since on the RHINE we parted; yet, methinks,
I can recall thee to the life, LUIGI,
In our long journey ever by my side;
Thy locks jet-black, and clustering round a face
Open as day and full of manly daring.
Thou hadst a hand, a heart for all that came,
Herdsman or pedlar, monk or muleteer;
And few there were, that met thee not with smiles.
Mishap passed o'er thee like a summer-cloud.
Cares thou hadst none; and they, that stood to hear thee,
Caught the infection and forgot their own.
Nature conceived thee in her merriest mood,
Her happiest-not a speck was in the sky;
And at thy birth the cricket chirped, LUIGI,
Thine a perpetual voice-at every turn
A larum to the echo. In a clime,
Where all were gay, none were so gay as thou;
Thou, like a babe, hushed only by thy slumbers;
Up hill and down hill, morning, noon and night,
Singing or talking; singing to thyself
When none gave ear, but to the listener talking.
OVER how many tracts, vast, measureless,
Ages on ages roll, and none appear
Save the wild hunter ranging for his prey;
While on this spot of earth, the work of man,
How much has been transacted! Emperors, Popes,
Warriors, from far and wide, laden with spoil,
Landing, have here performed their several parts,
Then left the stage to others. Not a stone
In the broad pavement, but to him who has
An eye, an ear for the Inanimate World,
Tells of Past Ages.
(The brass is gone, the porphyry remains,*)
They were placed in the floor as memorials. The brass was engraven with the words addressed by the Pope to the Emperor, 'Super aspidem et basiliscum ambulabis,' &c. Thou shalt tread upon the asp and the basilisk: the lion and the dragon shalt thou trample under foot.
Did BARBAROSSA fling his mantle off,
And, kneeling, on his neck receive the foot
Of the proud Pontiff *—thus at last consoled
For flight, disguise, and many an aguish shake
On his stone pillow.
Old as he was, so near his hundredth year,
And blind his eyes put out-did DANDOLO
Stand forth, displaying on his crown the cross.
There did he stand, erect, invincible,
Though wan his cheeks, and wet with many tears,
For in his prayers he had been weeping much;
And now the pilgrims and the people wept
With admiration, saying in their hearts,
Surely those aged limbs have need of rest!'+
There did he stand, with his old armour on,
Ere, gonfalon in hand, that streamed aloft,
As conscious of its glorious destiny,
* Alexander III. He fled in disguise to Venice, and is said to have passed the first night on the steps of San Salvatore. The entrance is from the Mercerìa, near the foot of the Rialto; and it is thus recorded, under his escutcheon, in a small tablet at the door. 'Alexandro III. Pont. Max. pernoctanti.'
+ See Geoffrey de Villehardouin, in Script. Byzant. t. xx.
So soon to float o'er mosque and minaret,
He sailed away, five hundred gallant ships,
Their lofty sides hung with emblazoned shields,
Following his track to fame. He went to die;
But of his trophies four arrived ere long,
Snatched from destruction—the four steeds divine,
That strike the ground, resounding with their feet,*
And from their nostrils snort ethereal flame
Over that very porch; and in the place
Where in an after-time, beside the Doge,
Sate one yet greater,† one whose verse shall live,
When the wave rolls o'er VENICE. High he sate,
High over all, close by the ducal chair,
At the right hand of his illustrious Host,
Amid the noblest daughters of the realm,
Their beauty shaded from the western ray
By many-coloured hangings; while, beneath,
Knights of all nations,‡ some of fair renown
* See Petrarch's description of them and of the tournament, Rer. Senil. 1. iv. ep. 2.
Not less splendid were the tournaments of Florence in the Place of Santa Croce. To those which were held there in February and June, 1468, we are indebted for two of the most celebrated poems of that age, the Giostra of Lorenzo de' Medici, by Luca Pulci, and the Giostra of Giuliano de' Medici, by Politian.
|