A PAGEANT OF SIENA.

The old red, towered walls climb round the hills On which Siena stands in lonely state, Scanning the ridgy plain, where gleam no rills And loom no towns, but only endless lines Of livid furrowed hillocks which the great White, ploughing bullocks speck. From gate to gate A few tall cypresses and scattered pines Climb too, where, guarding streets that silence fills, The old red, towered walls climb round the hills. Silent and empty in the August glare The old depopulated city sleeps; Its dizzy belfry climbs the fiery air Into the sky’s inexorable blue; Across its great scooped shell-shaped square there creeps No living soul, nor up the high paved steeps That be its streets; perhaps some carts sway through Its dusty gates, behind a huge-horned pair, Creaking and empty in the August glare. O for the pageantry of olden days, Thou silent square—ye palaces that wind Up to the still cathedral, where the rays, Now gentler, kiss the marble and the gold! O for the throngs that Time has left behind, Ye buttressed lanes, ye lofty archways lined With faded saints; show those ye used to hold When the strong prosperous city loved displays And gaudy pageantry in olden days. I hear a hum of men, a tramp and tread; The city’s Districts muster. First appears The District of the Panther—white and red Its men-at-arms and pages, fifes and drums; And next the yellow-liveried troop that bears The Ghibelline standard of the Eagle nears; Then Tortoise, Hedgehog, Snail and Glowworm come; And the Guelf She-Wolf, with her arms ahead All black and silver, comes with tramp and tread. The Districts muster for the August race, And take their glossy racers to be blessed, Each in its own rich church, where, held in trace Of gold, the startled barb with hoof-steps loud Is led through flaunting banner, shield and crest To the high altar’s rail, where kneel close pressed The pages and the soldiers and the crowd, Who scan the gleaming limbs that shall efface Last year’s defeat and win the August race. The huge old square scooped like a palmer’s shell, Siena’s forum and its hippodrome, Echoes a roar that drowns the mighty bell From battlemented belfry in the sky; The ring of olden palaces, become Ablaze with crimson hangings, looks like some Enchanted Coliseum, in which vie Scutcheon and standard; so you scarce could tell The strange old square scooped like a palmer’s shell. In bright procession ere the race is run The rival Districts wind around the course, Each with its banner in the evening sun, Its clarions, and its Captain capped with steel, Its pages and its men that lead the horse Caparisoned and guarded by a force Of gaudy pikemen; while the clarions peal And the crowd cheers the Panther that has won Its fickle favour ere the race is run. And as the standard-bearers one and all March by in motley blazonry, they cast Their standards high in air, and as they fall Catch them above the throng with rapid hand And twirl and twist them dexterously and fast In one unceasing play, until at last The whole vast square is by the bright silk fanned, And they have marched before the great Town Hall Where stand the city’s rulers one and all. Then comes, drawn by six bullocks of huge size All white as milk, with many-coloured strings About their horns, broad brows and large black eyes, The old Republic’s standard-bearing wain, With its great Martinella bell that rings Oft o’er the battle’s roar, and whose sound brings Fear to the heart of her who plots in vain, Perfidious Florence. From its high mast flies Siena’s She-Wolf’s standard of huge size. And now the course is clear, and those who don The colours of the Panther feel no fear; A hundred thousand partizans look on With inborn urban rivalry, and hail The horses one by one as they appear, And hoot the Shell, or Wave, or wildly cheer The Hedgehog, or the Dragon, or the Snail, Or the great Eagle that so oft has won, Whose knaves and rider yellow colours don. At last they start, and at terrific pace In dreadful crush adown the slope they tear, The Tortoise leading for a little space; Then from the crowd the Panther shooting out, Maintains the lead thrice round the perilous square; Then suddenly a great shout rends the air: “The Snail! The Snail!” all cry; and in hushed doubt All watch the two. The Snail has won the race, And slowly slackens its terrific pace. And in the District of the Snail to-night Is revelry and feasting in the street; From great wrought-iron torch-holders the light Falls red and flaring on grim palace walls Decked with bright banners; boards where all may eat Who care, are crowded; while the old repeat Many an oft-told story that recalls What things the Snail had done in race and fight. Sleep shuns the District of the Snail to-night.