Act 5 — SORDELLO (continued 2)

Meantime Ferrara lay in rueful case; The lady-city, for whose sole embrace Her pair of suitors struggled, felt their arms A brawny mischief to the fragile charms They tugged for—one discovering that to twist Her tresses twice or thrice about his wrist Secured a point of vantage—one, how best He 'd parry that by planting in her breast His elbow spike—each party too intent Men suffered much, For noticing, howe'er the battle went, The conqueror would but have a corpse to kiss. "May Boniface be duly damned for this!" —Howled some old Ghibellin, as up he turned, From the wet heap of rubbish where they burned His house, a little skull with dazzling teeth: "A boon, sweet Christ—let Salinguerra seethe In hell forever, Christ, and let myself Be there to laugh at him!"—moaned some young Guelf Stumbling upon a shrivelled hand nailed fast To the charred lintel of the doorway, last His father stood within to bid him speed. The thoroughfares were overrun with weed —Docks, quitchgrass, loathy mallows no man plants. The stranger, none of its inhabitants Whichever of the parties was victor. Crept out of doors to taste fresh air again, And ask the purpose of a splendid train Admitted on a morning; every town Of the East League was come by envoy down To treat for Richard's ransom: here you saw The Vicentine, here snowy oxen draw The Paduan carroch, its vermilion cross On its white field. A-tiptoe o'er the fosse Looked Legate Montelungo wistfully After the flock of steeples he might spy In Este's time, gone (doubts he) long ago To mend the ramparts: sure the laggards know The Pope 's as good as here! They paced the streets More soberly. At last, "Taurello greets The League," announced a pursuivant,—"will match Its courtesy, and labors to dispatch At earliest Tito, Friedrich's Pretor, sent On pressing matters from his post at Trent, With Mainard Count of Tyrol,—simply waits Their going to receive the delegates." "Tito!" Our delegates exchanged a glance, And, keeping the main way, admired askance The lazy engines of outlandish birth, Couched like a king each on its bank of earth— Arbalist, manganel and catapult; While stationed by, as waiting a result, Lean silent gangs of mercenaries ceased Working to watch the strangers. "This, at least, Were better spared; he scarce presumes gainsay The League's decision! Get our friend away And profit for the future: how else teach Fools 't is not safe to stray within claw's reach Ere Salinguerra's final gasp be blown? Those mere convulsive scratches find the bone. Who bade him bloody the spent osprey's nare?" The carrochs halted in the public square. Pennons of every blazon once a-flaunt, Men prattled, freelier that the crested gaunt How Guelfs criticise Ghibellin work White ostrich with a horse-shoe in her beak Was missing, and whoever chose might speak "Ecelin" boldly out: so,—"Ecelin Needed his wife to swallow half the sin And sickens by himself: the devil's whelp, He styles his son, dwindles away, no help From conserves, your fine triple-curded froth Of virgin's blood, your Venice viper-broth— Eh? Jubilate!"—"Peace! no little word You utter here that 's not distinctly heard Up at Oliero: he was absent sick When we besieged Bassano—who, i' the thick O' the work, perceived the progress Azzo made, Like Ecelin, through his witch Adelaide? She managed it so well that, night by night, At their bed-foot stood up a soldier-sprite, First fresh, pale by-and-by without a wound, And, when it came with eyes filmed as in swound, They knew the place was taken."—"Ominous That Ghibellins should get what cautelous Old Redbeard sought from Azzo's sire to wrench Vainly; Saint George contrived his town a trench O' the marshes, an impermeable bar." "—Young Ecelin is meant the tutelar Of Padua, rather; veins embrace upon His hand like Brenta and Bacchiglion." What now?—"The founts! God's bread, touch not a plank! A crawling hell of carrion—every tank As unusually energetic in this case. Choke full!—found out just now to Cino's cost— The same who gave Taurello up for lost, And, making no account of fortune's freaks, Refused to budge from Padua then, but sneaks Back now with Concorezzi—'faith! they drag Their carroch to San Vitale, plant the flag On his own palace, so adroitly razed He knew it not; a sort of Guelf folk gazed And laughed apart; Cino disliked their air— Must pluck up spirit, show he does not care— Seats himself on the tank's edge—will begin To hum, za, za, Cavaler Ecelin— A silence; he gets warmer, clinks to chime, Now both feet plough the ground, deeper each time, At last, za, za, and up with a fierce kick Comes his own mother's face caught by the thick Gray hair about his spur!" Which means, they lift The covering, Salinguerra made a shift To stretch upon the truth; as well avoid Further disclosures; leave them thus employed. Our dropping Autumn morning clears apace, And poor Ferrara puts a softened face On her misfortunes. Let us scale this tall Huge foursquare line of red brick garden-wall How, passing through the rare garden, Bastioned within by trees of every sort On three sides, slender, spreading, long and short; Each grew as it contrived, the poplar ramped, The fig-tree reared itself,—but stark and cramped, Made fools of, like tamed lions: whence, on the edge, Running 'twixt trunk and trunk to smooth one ledge Of shade, were shrubs inserted, warp and woof, Which smothered up that variance. Scale the roof Of solid tops, and o'er the slope you slide Down to a grassy space level and wide, Here and there dotted with a tree, but trees Of rarer leaf, each foreigner at ease, Set by itself: and in the centre spreads, Borne upon three uneasy leopards' heads, A laver, broad and shallow, one bright spirt Of water bubbles in. The walls begirt With trees leave off on either hand; pursue Your path along a wondrous avenue Those walls abut on, heaped of gleamy stone, With aloes leering everywhere, gray-grown From many a Moorish summer: how they wind Out of the fissures! likelier to bind The building than those rusted cramps which drop Already in the eating sunshine. Stop, You fleeting shapes above there! Ah, the pride Or else despair of the whole country-side! A range of statues, swarming o'er with wasps, Salinguerra contrived for a purpose, God, goddess, woman, man, the Greek rough-rasps In crumbling Naples marble—meant to look Like those Messina marbles Constance took Delight in, or Taurello's self conveyed To Mantua for his mistress, Adelaide, A certain font with caryatides Since cloistered at Goito; only, these Are up and doing, not abashed, a troop Able to right themselves—who see you, stoop Their arms o' the instant after you! Unplucked By this or that, you pass; for they conduct To terrace raised on terrace, and, between, Creatures of brighter mould and braver mien Than any yet, the choicest of the Isle No doubt. Here, left a sullen breathing-while, Up-gathered on himself the Fighter stood For his last fight, and, wiping treacherous blood Out of the eyelids just held ope beneath Those shading fingers in their iron sheath, Steadied his strengths amid the buzz and stir Of the dusk hideous amphitheatre At the announcement of his over-match To wind the day's diversion up, dispatch The pertinacious Gaul: while, limbs one heap, The Slave, no breath in her round mouth, watched leap Dart after dart forth, as her hero's car Clove dizzily the solid of the war —Let coil about his knees for pride in him. We reach the farthest terrace, and the grim San Pietro Palace stops us. Such the state Of Salinguerra's plan to emulate Sicilian marvels, that his girlish wife Retrude still might lead her ancient life In her new home: whereat enlarged so much Neighbors upon the novel princely touch He took,—who here imprisons Boniface. Here must the Envoys come to sue for grace; And here, emerging from the labyrinth Below, Sordello paused beside the plinth Of the door-pillar. Sordello ponders all seen and heard, He had really left Verona for the cornfields (a poor theft From the morass) where Este's camp was made. The Envoys' march, the Legate's cavalcade— All had been seen by him, but scarce as when,— Eager for cause to stand aloof from men At every point save the fantastic tie Acknowledged in his boyish sophistry,— He made account of such. A crowd,—he meant To task the whole of it; each part's intent Concerned him therefore: and, the more he pried, The less became Sordello satisfied With his own figure at the moment. Sought He respite from his task? Descried he aught Novel in the anticipated sight Of all these livers upon all delight? This phalanx, as of myriad points combined, Whereby he still had imaged the mankind His youth was passed in dreams of rivalling, His age—in plans to prove at least such thing Had been so dreamed,—which now he must impress With his own will, effect a happiness By theirs,—supply a body to his soul Thence, and become eventually whole With them as he had hoped to be without— Finds in men no machine for his sake, Made these the mankind he once raved about? Because a few of them were notable, Should all be figured worthy note? As well Expect to find Taurello's triple line Of trees a single and prodigious pine. Real pines rose here and there; but, close among, Thrust into and mixed up with pines, a throng Of shrubs, he saw,—a nameless common sort O'erpast in dreams, left out of the report And hurried into corners, or at best Admitted to be fancied like the rest. Reckon that morning's proper chiefs—how few! And yet the people grew, the people grew, Grew ever, as if the many there indeed, More left behind and most who should succeed,— Simply in virtue of their mouths and eyes, Petty enjoyments and huge miseries,— Mingled with, and made veritably great Those chiefs: he overlooked not Mainard's state Nor Concorezzi's station, but instead Of stopping there, each dwindled to be head Of infinite and absent Tyrolese Or Paduans; startling all the more, that these Seemed passive and disposed of, uncared for, Yet doubtless on the whole (like Eglamor) Smiling; for if a wealthy man decays And out of store of robes must wear, all days, One tattered suit, alike in sun and shade, 'Tis commonly some tarnished gay brocade Fit for a feast-night's flourish and no more: Nor otherwise poor Misery from her store Of looks is fain upgather, keep unfurled For common wear as she goes through the world, The faint remainder of some worn-out smile Meant for a feast-night's service merely. While Crowd upon crowd rose on Sordello thus,— (Crowds no way interfering to discuss, Much less dispute, life's joys with one employed In envying them,—or, if they aught enjoyed, Where lingered something indefinable In every look and tone, the mirth as well As woe, that fixed at once his estimate Of the result, their good or bad estate)— But a thing with life of its own, Old memories returned with new effect: And the new body, ere he could suspect, Cohered, mankind and he were really fused, The new self seemed impatient to be used By him, but utterly another way Than that anticipated: strange to say, They were too much below him, more in thrall Than he, the adjunct than the principal. What booted scattered units?—here a mind And there, which might repay his own to find, And stamp, and use?—a few, howe'er august, If all the rest were grovelling in the dust? No: first a mighty equilibrium, sure, Should he establish, privilege procure For all, the few had long possessed! He felt An error, an exceeding error melt— While he was occupied with Mantuan chants, Behoved him think of men, and take their wants, Such as he now distinguished every side, As his own want which might be satisfied,— And, after that, think of rare qualities Of his own soul demanding exercise. It followed naturally, through no claim On their part, which made virtue of the aim At serving them, on his,—that, past retrieve, He felt now in their toils, theirs,—nor could leave Wonder how, in the eagerness to rule, Impress his will on mankind, he (the fool!) Had never even entertained the thought That this his last arrangement might be fraught With incidental good to them as well, And rights hitherto ignored by him, And that mankind's delight would help to swell His own. So, if he sighed, as formerly Because the merry time of life must fleet, 'T was deeplier now,—for could the crowds repeat Their poor experiences? His hand that shook Was twice to be deplored. "The Legate, look! With eyes, like fresh-blown thrush-eggs on a thread, Faint-blue and loosely floating in his head, Large tongue, moist open mouth; and this long while That owner of the idiotic smile A fault he is now anxious to repair, Serves them!" He fortunately saw in time His fault however, and since the office prime Includes the secondary—best accept Both offices; Taurello, its adept, Could teach him the preparatory one, And how to do what he had fancied done Long previously, ere take the greater task, How render first these people happy? Ask The people's friends: for there must be one good, One way to it—the Cause!—he understood The meaning now of Palma; why the jar Else, the ado, the trouble wide and far Of Guelfs and Ghibellins, the Lombard hope And Rome's despair?—'twixt Emperor and Pope The confused shifting sort of Eden tale— Hardihood still recurring, still to fail— That foreign interloping fiend, this free And native overbrooding deity— Yet a dire fascination o'er the palms The Kaiser ruined, troubling even the calms Of paradise—or, on the other hand, Since he apprehends its full extent, The Pontiff, as the Kaisers understand, One snake-like cursed of God to love the ground, Whose heavy length breaks in the noon profound Some saving tree—which needs the Kaiser, dressed As the dislodging angel of that pest, Yet flames that pest bedropped, flat head, full fold, With coruscating dower of dyes. "Behold The secret, so to speak, and master-spring O' the contest!—which of the two Powers shall bring Men good—perchance the most good—ay, it may Be that!—the question, which best knows the way." And hereupon Count Mainard strutted past Out of San Pietro; never seemed the last Of archers, slingers: and our friend began To recollect strange modes of serving man, Arbalist, catapult, brake, manganel, And more. "This way of theirs may,—who can tell?— Need perfecting," said he: "let all be solved At once! Taurello 't is, the task devolved On late—confront Taurello!" And at last He did confront him. Scarce an hour had past When forth Sordello came, older by years Than at his entry. Unexampled fears Oppressed him, and he staggered off, blind, mute And deaf, like some fresh-mutilated brute, Into Ferrara—not the empty town That morning witnessed: he went up and down Streets whence the veil had been stripped shred by shred, So that, in place of huddling with their dead Indoors, to answer Salinguerra's ends, Townsfolk make shift to crawl forth, sit like friends With any one. A woman gave him choice Of her two daughters, the infantile voice Or the dimpled knee, for half a chain, his throat Was clasped with; but an archer knew the coat— Its blue cross and eight lilies,—bade beware One dogging him in concert with the pair Though thrumming on the sleeve that hid his knife. Night set in early, autumn dews were rife, They kindled great fires while the Leaguers' mass Began at every carroch—he must pass Between the kneeling people. Presently The carroch of Verona caught his eye With purple trappings; silently he bent Over its fire, when voices violent Began, "Affirm not whom the youth was like That struck me from the porch, I did not strike Again: I too have chestnut hair; my kin And would fain have helped some way, Hate Azzo and stand up for Ecelin. Here, minstrel, drive bad thoughts away! Sing! Take My glove for guerdon!" And for that man's sake He turned: "A song of Eglamor's!"—scarce named, When, "Our Sordello's rather!"—all exclaimed; "Is not Sordello famousest for rhyme?" He had been happy to deny, this time,— Profess as heretofore the aching head And failing heart,—suspect that in his stead Some true Apollo had the charge of them, Was champion to reward or to condemn, So his intolerable risk might shift Or share itself; but Naddo's precious gift Of gifts, he owned, be certain! At the close— "I made that," said he to a youth who rose As if to hear: 't was Palma through the band Conducted him in silence by her hand. Back now for Salinguerra. Tito of Trent Gave place to Palma and her friend; who went In turn at Montelungo's visit—one After the other were they come and gone,— These spokesmen for the Kaiser and the Pope, This incarnation of the People's hope, Sordello,—all the say of each was said; And Salinguerra sat, himself instead Of these to talk with, lingered musing yet. 'T was a drear vast presence-chamber roughly set In order for the morning's use; full face, The Kaiser's ominous sign-mark had first place, The crowned grim twy-necked eagle, coarsely-blacked With ochre on the naked wall; nor lacked Romano's green and yellow either side; But the new token Tito brought had tried The Legate's patience—nay, if Palma knew What Salinguerra almost meant to do Until the sight of her restored his lip A certain half-smile, three months' chieftainship Had banished! Afterward, the Legate found No change in him, nor asked what badge he wound And unwound carelessly. Now sat the Chief But Salinguerra is also preoccupied; Silent as when our couple left, whose brief Encounter wrought so opportune effect In thoughts he summoned not, nor would reject, Though time 't was now if ever, to pause—fix On any sort of ending; wiles and tricks Exhausted, judge! his charge, the crazy town, Just managed to be hindered crashing down— His last sound troops ranged—care observed to post His best of the maimed soldiers innermost— So much was plain enough, but somehow struck Him not before. And now with this strange luck Of Tito's news, rewarding his address So well, what thought he of?—how the success With Friedrich's rescript there would either hush Old Ecelin's scruples, bring the manly flush To his young son's white cheek, or, last, exempt Himself from telling what there was to tempt? Resembling Sordello in nothing else. No: that this minstrel was Romano's last Servant—himself the first! Could he contrast The whole!—that minstrel's thirty years just spent In doing naught, their notablest event This morning's journey hither, as I told— Who yet was lean, outworn and really old, A stammering awkward man that scarce dared raise His eye before the magisterial gaze— And Salinguerra with his fears and hopes Of sixty years, his Emperors and Popes, Cares and contrivances, yet, you would say, 'T was a youth nonchalantly looked away Through the embrasure northward o'er the sick Expostulating trees—so agile, quick How he was made in body and spirit, And graceful turned the head on the broad chest Encased in pliant steel, his constant vest, Whence split the sun off in a spray of fire Across the room; and, loosened of its tire Of steel, that head let breathe the comely brown Large massive locks discolored as if a crown Encircled them, so frayed the basnet where A sharp white line divided clean the hair; Glossy above, glossy below, it swept Curling and fine about a brow thus kept Calm, laid coat upon coat, marble and sound: This was the mystic mark the Tuscan found, Mused of, turned over books about. Square-faced, No lion more; two vivid eyes, enchased In hollows filled with many a shade and streak Settling from the bold nose and bearded cheek. Nor might the half-smile reach them that deformed A lip supremely perfect else—unwarmed, Unwidened, less or more; indifferent Whether on trees or men his thoughts were bent, Thoughts rarely, after all, in trim and train As now a period was fulfilled again: Of such, a series made his life, compressed In each, one story serving for the rest— And what had been his career of old. How his life-streams rolling arrived at last At the barrier, whence, were it once overpast, They would emerge, a river to the end,— Gathered themselves up, paused, bade fate befriend, Took the leap, hung a minute at the height, Then fell back to oblivion infinite: Therefore he smiled. Beyond stretched garden-grounds Where late the adversary, breaking bounds, Had gained him an occasion, That above, That eagle, testified he could improve Effectually. The Kaiser's symbol lay Beside his rescript, a new badge by way Of baldric; while,—another thing that marred Alike emprise, achievement and reward,— Ecelin's missive was conspicuous too. What past life did those flying thoughts pursue? As his, few names in Mantua half so old; But at Ferrara, where his sires enrolled It latterly, the Adelardi spared No pains to rival them: both factions shared Ferrara, so that, counted out, 't would yield A product very like the city's shield, Half black and white, or Ghibellin and Guelf As after Salinguerra styled himself And Este, who, till Marchesalla died, (Last of the Adelardi)—never tried His fortune there: with Marchesalla's child Would pass—could Blacks and Whites be reconciled, And young Taurello wed Linguetta—wealth And sway to a sole grasp. Each treats by stealth Already: when the Guelfs, the Ravennese Arrive, assault the Pietro quarter, seize Linguetta, and are gone! Men's first dismay Abated somewhat, hurries down, to lay The after indignation, Boniface, This Richard's father. "Learn the full disgrace Averted, ere you blame us Guelfs, who rate Your Salinguerra, your sole potentate That might have been, 'mongst Este's valvassors— Ay, Azzo's—who, not privy to, abhors Our step; but we were zealous." Azzo 's then To do with! Straight a meeting of old men: "Old Salinguerra dead, his heir a boy, What if we change our ruler and decoy The Lombard Eagle of the azure sphere With Italy to build in, fix him here, Settle the city's troubles in a trice? For private wrong, let public good suffice!" The original check to his fortunes, In fine, young Salinguerra's stanchest friends Talked of the townsmen making him amends, Gave him a goshawk, and affirmed there was Rare sport, one morning, over the green grass A mile or so. He sauntered through the plain, Was restless, fell to thinking, turned again In time for Azzo's entry with the bride; Count Boniface rode smirking at their side; "She brings him half Ferrara," whispers flew, "And all Ancona! If the stripling knew!" Anon the stripling was in Sicily Where Heinrich ruled in right of Constance; he Was gracious nor his guest incapable; Each understood the other. So it fell, One Spring, when Azzo, thoroughly at ease, Had near forgotten by what precise degrees He crept at first to such a downy seat, The Count trudged over in a special heat To bid him of God's love dislodge from each Of Salinguerra's palaces,—a breach Might yawn else, not so readily to shut, For who was just arrived at Mantua but The youngster, sword on thigh and tuft on chin, Which he was in the way to retrieve, With tokens for Celano, Ecelin, Pistore, and the like! Next news,—no whit Do any of Ferrara's domes befit His wife of Heinrich's very blood: a band Of foreigners assemble, understand Garden-constructing, level and surround, Build up and bury in. A last news crowned The consternation: since his infant's birth, He only waits they end his wondrous girth Of trees that link San Pietro with Tomà, To visit Mantua. When the Podestà Ecelin, at Vicenza, called his friend Taurello thither, what could be their end But to restore the Ghibellins' late Head, The Kaiser helping? He with most to dread From vengeance and reprisal, Azzo, there With Boniface beforehand, as aware Of plots in progress, gave alarm, expelled Both plotters: but the Guelfs in triumph yelled Too hastily. The burning and the flight, And how Taurello, occupied that night With Ecelin, lost wife and son, I told: When a fresh calamity destroyed all: —Not how he bore the blow, retained his hold, Got friends safe through, left enemies the worst O' the fray, and hardly seemed to care at first: But afterward men heard not constantly Of Salinguerra's House so sure to be! Though Azzo simply gained by the event A shifting of his plagues—the first, content To fall behind the second and estrange So far his nature, suffer such a change That in Romano sought he wife and child And for Romano's sake seemed reconciled To losing individual life, which shrunk As the other prospered—mortised in his trunk, Like a dwarf palm which wanton Arabs foil Of bearing its own proper wine and oil, By grafting into it the stranger-vine, Which sucks its heart out, sly and serpentine, Till forth one vine-palm feathers to the root, And red drops moisten the insipid fruit. Once Adelaide set on,—the subtle mate Of the weak soldier, urged to emulate The Church's valiant women deed for deed, And paragon her namesake, win the meed O' the great Matilda,—soon they overbore The rest of Lombardy,—not as before By an instinctive truculence, but patched The Kaiser's strategy until it matched The Pontiff's, sought old ends by novel means. "Only, why is it Salinguerra screens Himself behind Romano?—him we bade Enjoy our shine i' the front, not seek the shade!" —Asked Heinrich, somewhat of the tardiest To comprehend. Nor Philip acquiesced At once in the arrangement; reasoned, plied His friend with offers of another bride, A statelier function—fruitlessly: 't was plain He sank into a secondary personage, Taurello through some weakness must remain Obscure. And Otho, free to judge of both, —Ecelin the unready, harsh and loth, And this more plausible and facile wight With every point a-sparkle—chose the right, Admiring how his predecessors harped On the wrong man: "thus," quoth he, "wits are warped By outsides!" Carelessly, meanwhile, his life Suffered its many turns of peace and strife In many lands—you hardly could surprise The man; who shamed Sordello (recognize!) In this as much beside, that, unconcerned What qualities were natural or earned, With no ideal of graces, as they came He took them, singularly well the same— Speaking the Greek's own language, just because Your Greek eludes you, leave the least of flaws In contracts with him; while, since Arab lore Holds the stars' secret—take one trouble more And master it! 'Tis done, and now deter Who may the Tuscan, once Jove trined for her, From Friedrich's path!—Friedrich, whose pilgrimage The same man puts aside, whom he'll engage To leave next year John Brienne in the lurch, Come to Bassano, see Saint Francis' church And judge of Guido the Bolognian's piece Which, lend Taurello credit, rivals Greece— Angels, with aureoles like golden quoits Pitched home, applauding Ecelin's exploits. For elegance, he strung the angelot, With the appropriate graces of such. Made rhymes thereto; for prowess, clove he not Tiso, last siege, from crest to crupper? Why Detail you thus a varied mastery But to show how Taurello, on the watch For men, to read their hearts and thereby catch Their capabilities and purposes, Displayed himself so far as displayed these: While our Sordello only cared to know About men as a means whereby he'd show Himself, and men had much or little worth According as they kept in or drew forth That self; the other's choicest instruments Surmised him shallow. Meantime, malcontents Dropped off, town after town grew wiser. "How Change the world's face?" asked people; "as 't is now It has been, will be ever: very fine Subjecting things profane to things divine, In talk! This contumacy will fatigue The vigilance of Este and the League! The Ghibellins gain on us!"—as it happed. Old Azzo and old Boniface, entrapped By Ponte Alto, both in one month's space Slept at Verona: either left a brace Of sons—but, three years after, either's pair Lost Guglielm and Aldobrand its heir: Azzo remained and Richard—all the stay Of Este and Saint Boniface, at bay But Ecelin, he set in front, falling, As 't were. Then, either Ecelin grew old Or his brain altered—not o' the proper mould For new appliances—his old palm-stock Endured no influx of strange strengths. He'd rock As in a drunkenness, or chuckle low As proud of the completeness of his woe, Then weep real tears;—now make some mad onslaught On Este, heedless of the lesson taught So painfully,—now cringe for peace, sue peace At price of past gain, bar of fresh increase To the fortunes of Romano. Up at last Rose Este, down Romano sank as fast. And men remarked these freaks of peace and war Happened while Salinguerra was afar: Whence every friend besought him, all in vain, To use his old adherent's wits again. Not he!—"who had advisers in his sons, Could plot himself, nor needed any one's Advice." 'T was Adelaide's remaining stanch Prevented his destruction root and branch Forthwith; but when she died, doom fell, for gay He made alliances, gave lands away To whom it pleased accept them, and withdrew Forever from the world. Taurello, who Was summoned to the convent, then refused A word at the wicket, patience thus abused, Promptly threw off alike his imbecile Ally's yoke, and his own frank, foolish smile. Soon a few movements of the happier sort Changed matters, put himself in men's report As heretofore; he had to fight, beside, And that became him ever. So, in pride Salinguerra must again come forward, And flushing of this kind of second youth, He dealt a good-will blow. Este in truth Lay prone—and men remembered, somewhat late, A laughing old outrageous stifled hate He bore to Este—how it would outbreak At times spite of disguise, like an earthquake In sunny weather—as that noted day When with his hundred friends he tried to slay Azzo before the Kaiser's face: and how, On Azzo's calm refusal to allow A liegeman's challenge, straight he too was calmed: As if his hate could bear to lie embalmed, Bricked up, the moody Pharaoh, and survive All intermediate crumblings, to arrive At earth's catastrophe—'t was Este's crash, Not Azzo's he demanded, so, no rash Procedure! Este's true antagonist Rose out of Ecelin: all voices whist, All eyes were sharpened, wits predicted. He 'T was, leaned in the embrasure absently, Why and how, is let out in soliloquy. Amused with his own efforts, now, to trace With his steel-sheathed forefinger Friedrich's face I' the dust: but as the trees waved sere, his smile Deepened, and words expressed its thought erewhile. "Ay, fairly housed at last, my old compeer? That we should stick together, all the year I kept Vicenza!—How old Boniface, Old Azzo caught us in its market-place, He by that pillar, I at this,—caught each In mid swing, more than fury of his speech, Egging the rabble on to disavow Allegiance to their Marquis—Bacchus, how They boasted! Ecelin must turn their drudge, Nor, if released, will Salinguerra grudge Paying arrears of tribute due long since— Bacchus! My man could promise then, nor wince, The bones-and-muscles! Sound of wind and limb, Spoke he the set excuse I framed for him: And now he sits me, slavering and mute, Intent on chafing each starved purple foot Benumbed past aching with the altar slab— Will no vein throb there when some monk shall blab Spitefully to the circle of bald scalps, Ecelin, he did all for, is a monk now, 'Friedrich's affirmed to be our side the Alps' —Eh, brother Lactance, brother Anaclet? Sworn to abjure the world, its fume and fret, God's own now? Drop the dormitory bar, Enfold the scanty gray serge scapular Twice o'er the cowl to muffle memories out! So! But the midnight whisper turns a shout, Eyes wink, mouths open, pulses circulate In the stone walls: the past, the world you hate Is with you, ambush, open field—or see The surging flame—we fire Vicenza—glee! Follow, let Pilio and Bernardo chafe! Bring up the Mantuans—through San Biagio—safe! Ah, the mad people waken? Ah, they writhe And reach us? If they block the gate? No tithe Can pass—keep back, you Bassanese! The edge, Use the edge—shear, thrust, hew, melt down the wedge, Let out the black of those black upturned eyes! Hell—are they sprinkling fire too? The blood fries And hisses on your brass gloves as they tear Those upturned faces choking with despair. Brave! Slidder through the reeking gate! 'How now? You six had charge of her?' And then the vow Comes, and the foam spirts, hair's plucked, till one shriek (I hear it) and you fling—you cannot speak— Your gold-flowered basnet to a man who haled The Adelaide he dared scarce view unveiled This morn, naked across the fire: how crown The archer that exhausted lays you down Your infant, smiling at the flame, and dies? While one, while mine ... "Bacchus! I think there lies More than one corpse there" (and he paced the room) "—Another cinder somewhere: 't was my doom Beside, my doom! If Adelaide is dead, I live the same, this Azzo lives instead Of that to me, and we pull, any how, Este into a heap: the matter's now Just when the prize awaits somebody; At the true juncture slipping us so oft. Ay, Heinrich died and Otho, please you doffed His crown at such a juncture! Still, if holds Our Friedrich's purpose, if this chain enfolds The neck of ... who but this same Ecelin That must recoil when the best days begin! Recoil? that's naught; if the recoiler leaves His name for me to fight with, no one grieves: But he must interfere, forsooth, unlock His cloister to become my stumbling-block Just as of old! Ay, ay, there 't is again— The land's inevitable Head—explain The reverences that subject us! Count These Ecelins now! Not to say as fount, Originating power of thought,—from twelve That drop i' the trenches they joined hands to delve, Six shall surpass him, but ... why, men must twine Somehow with something! Ecelin's a fine Himself, if it were only worth while, Clear name! 'T were simpler, doubtless, twine with me At once our cloistered friend's capacity Was of a sort! I had to share myself In fifty portions, like an o'ertasked elf That's forced illume in fifty points the vast Rare vapor he's environed by. At last My strengths, though sorely frittered, e'en converge And crown ... no, Bacchus, they have yet to urge The man be crowned! "That aloe, an he durst, Would climb! Just such a bloated sprawler first I noted in Messina's castle-court The day I came, when Heinrich asked in sport If I would pledge my faith to win him back His right in Lombardy: 'for, once bid pack Marauders,' he continued, 'in my stead You rule, Taurello!' and upon this head Laid the silk glove of Constance—I see her Too, mantled head to foot in miniver, Retrude following! "I am absolved From further toil: the empery devolved On me, 't was Tito's word: I have to lay For once my plan, pursue my plan my way, Prompt nobody, and render an account Taurello to Taurello! Nay, I mount To Friedrich: he conceives the post I kept, —Who did true service, able or inept, Who's worthy guerdon, Ecelin or I. Me guerdoned, counsel follows: would he vie With the Pope really? Azzo, Boniface Compose a right-arm Hohenstauffen's race Must break ere govern Lombardy. I point How easy 't were to twist, once out of joint, The socket from the bone: my Azzo's stare Meanwhile! for I, this idle strap to wear, Shall—fret myself abundantly, what end To serve? There's left me twenty years to spend As it may be—but also, as it may not be— —How better than my old way? Had I one Who labored to o'erthrow my work—a son Hatching with Azzo superb treachery, To root my pines up and then poison me, Suppose—'t were worth while frustrate that! Beside, Another life's ordained me: the world's tide Rolls, and what hope of parting from the press Of waves, a single wave through weariness Gently lifted aside, laid upon shore? My life must be lived out in foam and roar, No question. Fifty years the province held Taurello; troubles raised, and troubles quelled, He in the midst—who leaves this quaint stone place, These trees a year or two, then not a trace Of him! How obtain hold, fetter men's tongues Like this poor minstrel with the foolish songs— To which, despite our bustle, he is linked? —Flowers one may tease, that never grow extinct. Ay, that patch, surely, green as ever, where I set Her Moorish lentisk, by the stair, To overawe the aloes; and we trod Those flowers, how call you such?—into the sod; A stately foreigner—a world of pain To make it thrive, arrest rough winds—all vain! It would decline; these would not he destroyed: And now, where is it? where can you avoid The flowers? I frighten children twenty years Longer!—which way, too, Ecelin appears To thwart me, for his son's besotted youth Gives promise of the proper tiger-tooth: They feel it at Vicenza! Fate, fate, fate, My fine Taurello! Go you, promulgate Friedrich's decree, and here 's shall aggrandize Young Ecelin—your Prefect's badge! a prize The supposition he most inclines to; Too precious, certainly. "How now? Compete With my old comrade? shuffle from their seat His children? Paltry dealing! Don't I know Ecelin? now, I think, and years ago! What's changed—the weakness? did not I compound For that, and undertake to keep him sound Despite it? Here's Taurello hankering After a boy's preferment—this plaything To carry, Bacchus!" And he laughed. Remark Why schemes wherein cold-blooded men embark Prosper, when your enthusiastic sort Fail: while these last are ever stopping short— (So much they should—so little they can do!) The careless tribe see nothing to pursue If they desist; meantime their scheme succeeds. Thoughts were caprices in the course of deeds Methodic with Taurello; so, he turned, Enough amused by fancies fairly earned Of Este's horror-struck submitted neck, And Richard, the cowed braggart, at his beck, Being contented with mere vengeance. To his own petty but immediate doubt If he could pacify the League without Conceding Richard; just to this was brought That interval of vain discursive thought! As, shall I say, some Ethiop, past pursuit Of all enslavers, dips a shackled foot Burnt to the blood, into the drowsy black Enormous watercourse which guides him back To his own tribe again, where he is king; And laughs because he guesses, numbering The yellower poison-wattles on the pouch Of the first lizard wrested from its couch Under the slime (whose skin, the while he strips To cure his nostril with, and festered lips, And eyeballs bloodshot through the desert-blast) That he has reached its boundary, at last May breathe;—thinks o'er enchantments of the South Sovereign to plague his enemies, their mouth, Eyes, nails, and hair; but, these enchantments tried In fancy, puts them soberly aside For truth, projects a cool return with friends, The likelihood of winning mere amends Ere long; thinks that, takes comfort silently, Then, from the river's brink, his wrongs and he, Hugging revenge close to their hearts, are soon Off-striding for the Mountains of the Moon. Midnight: the watcher nodded on his spear, Since clouds dispersing left a passage clear For any meagre and discolored moon To venture forth; and such was peering soon Above the harassed city—her close lanes Closer, not half so tapering her fanes, As though she shrunk into herself to keep What little life was saved, more safely. Heap By heap the watch-fires mouldered, and beside The blackest spoke Sordello and replied Palma with none to listen. "'T is your cause: Sordello, taught what Ghibellins are, What makes a Ghibellin? There should be laws— (Remember how my youth escaped! I trust To you for manhood, Palma; tell me just As any child)—there must be laws at work Explaining this. Assure me, good may lurk Under the bad,—my multitude has part In your designs, their welfare is at heart With Salinguerra, to their interest Refer the deeds he dwelt on,—so divest Our conference of much that scared me. Why Affect that heartless tone to Tito? I Esteemed myself, yes, in my inmost mind This morn, a recreant to my race—mankind O'erlooked till now: why boast my spirit's force, —Such force denied its object? why divorce These, then admire my spirit's flight the same As though it bore up, helped some half-orbed flame Else quenched in the dead void, to living space? That orb cast off to chaos and disgrace, Why vaunt so much my unencumbered dance, Making a feat's facilities enhance Its marvel? But I front Taurello, one Of happier fate, and all I should have done, He does; the people's good being paramount With him, their progress may perhaps account For his abiding still; whereas you heard The talk with Tito—the excuse preferred For burning those five hostages,—and broached By way of blind, as you and I approached, I do believe." She spoke: then he, "My thought Plainlier expressed! All to your profit—naught Meantime of these, of conquests to achieve For them, of wretchedness he might relieve And what Guelfs, approves of neither. While profiting your party. Azzo, too, Supports a cause: what cause? Do Guelfs pursue Their ends by means like yours, or better?" When The Guelfs were proved alike, men weighed with men, And deed with deed, blaze, blood, with blood and blaze, Morn broke: "Once more, Sordello, meet its gaze Proudly—the people's charge against thee fails In every point, while either party quails! These are the busy ones: be silent thou! Two parties take the world up, and allow No third, yet have one principle, subsist By the same injustice; whoso shall enlist With either, ranks with man's inveterate foes. So there is one less quarrel to compose: The Guelf, the Ghibellin may be to curse— I have done nothing, but both sides do worse Than nothing. Nay, to me, forgotten, reft Of insight, lapped by trees and flowers, was left The notion of a service—ha? What lured Me here, what mighty aim was I assured Must move Taurello? What if there remained Have men a cause distinct from both? A cause, intact, distinct from these, ordained For me, its true discoverer?" Some one pressed Before them here, a watcher, to suggest The subject for a ballad: "They must know The tale of the dead worthy, long ago Consul of Rome—that 's long ago for us, Minstrels and bowmen, idly squabbling thus In the world's corner—but too late no doubt, For the brave time he sought to bring about. Who was the famed Roman Crescentius? —Not know Crescentius Nomentanus?" Then He cast about for terms to tell him, when Sordello disavowed it, how they used Whenever their Superior introduced A novice to the Brotherhood—("for I Was just a brown-sleeve brother, merrily Appointed too," quoth he, "till Innocent Bade me relinquish, to my small content, My wife or my brown sleeves")—some brother spoke Ere nocturns of Crescentius, to revoke The edict issued, after his demise, Which blotted fame alike and effigies, All out except a floating power, a name Including, tending to produce the same Great act. Rome, dead, forgotten, lived at least Within that brain, though to a vulgar priest And a vile stranger,—two not worth a slave Of Rome's, Pope John, King Otho,—fortune gave The rule there: so, Crescentius, haply dressed In white, called Roman Consul for a jest, Taking the people at their word, forth stepped As upon Brutus' heel, nor ever kept Rome waiting,—stood erect, and from his brain Gave Rome out on its ancient place again, Ay, bade proceed with Brutus' Rome, Kings styled Themselves mere citizens of, and, beguiled Into great thoughts thereby, would choose the gem Out of a lapfull, spoil their diadem —The Senate's cypher was so hard to scratch! He flashes like a phanal, all men catch The flame, Rome 's just accomplished! when returned Otho, with John, the Consul's step had spurned, And Hugo Lord of Este, to redress The wrongs of each. Crescentius in the stress Of adverse fortune bent. "They crucified Their Consul in the Forum; and abide E'er since such slaves at Rome, that I—(for I Was once a brown-sleeve brother, merrily Appointed)—I had option to keep wife Or keep brown sleeves, and managed in the strife Lose both. A song of Rome!" And Rome, indeed, Robed at Goito in fantastic weed, The Mother-City of his Mantuan days, Looked an established point of light whence rays Traversed the world; for, all the clustered homes Beside of men, seemed bent on being Romes In their degree; the question was, how each Should most resemble Rome, clean out of reach. How if, in the reintegration of Rome, Nor, of the Two, did either principle Struggle to change—but to possess—Rome, still, Guelf Rome or Ghibellin Rome. Let Rome advance! Rome, as she struck Sordello's ignorance— How could he doubt one moment? Rome 's the Cause! Rome of the Pandects, all the world's new laws— Of the Capitol, of Castle Angelo; New structures, that inordinately glow, Subdued, brought back to harmony, made ripe By many a relic of the archetype Extant for wonder; every upstart church That hoped to leave old temples in the lurch, Corrected by the Theatre forlorn That,—as a mundane shell, its world late born,— Lay and o'ershadowed it. These hints combined, Be typified the triumph of mankind? Rome typifies the scheme to put mankind Once more in full possession of their rights. "Let us have Rome again! On me it lights To build up Rome—on me, the first and last: For such a future was endured the past!" And thus, in the gray twilight, forth he sprung To give his thought consistency among The very People—let their facts avail Finish the dream grown from the archer's tale.

Is it the same Sordello in the dusk As at the dawn?—merely a perished husk Now, that arose a power fit to build Mankind triumph of a sudden? Up Rome again? The proud conception chilled So soon? Ay, watch that latest dream of thine—A Rome indebted to no Palatine— Drop arch by arch, Sordello! Art possessed Of thy wish now, rewarded for thy quest To-day among Ferrara's squalid sons? Are this and this and this the shining ones Meet for the Shining City? Sooth to say, Your favored tenantry pursue their way After a fashion! This companion slips On the smooth causey, t' other blinkard trips At his mooned sandal. "Leave to lead the brawls Here i' the atria?" No, friend! He that sprawls On aught but a stibadium ... what his dues Who puts the lustral vase to such an use? Oh, huddle up the day's disasters! March, Ye runagates, and drop thou, arch by arch, Rome! Yet before they quite disband—a whim— Study mere shelter, now, for him, and him, Nay, even the worst,—just house them! Any cave Suffices: throw out earth! A loophole? Brave! They ask to feel the sun shine, see the grass Grow, hear the larks sing? Dead art thou, alas, And I am dead! But here's our son excels At hurdle-weaving any Scythian, fells Oak and devises rafters, dreams and shapes His dream into a door-post, just escapes The mystery of hinges. Lie we both Perdue another age. The goodly growth Of brick and stone! Our building-pelt was rough, But that descendant's garb suits well enough A portico-contriver. Speed the years— Why, the work should be one of ages, What's time to us? At last, a city rears Itself! nay, enter—what's the grave to us? Lo, our forlorn acquaintance carry thus The head! Successively sewer, forum, cirque— Last age, an aqueduct was counted work, But now they tire the artificer upon Blank alabaster, black obsidion, —Careful, Jove's face be duly fulgurant, And mother Venus' kiss-creased nipples pant Back into pristine pulpiness, ere fixed Above the baths. What difference betwixt This Rome and ours—resemblance what, between That scurvy dumb-show and this pageant sheen— These Romans and our rabble? Use thy wit! The work marched: step by step,—a workman fit Took each, nor too fit,—to one task, one time,— No leaping o'er the petty to the prime, If performed equally and thoroughly; When just the substituting osier lithe For brittle bulrush, sound wood for soft withe, To further loam-and-roughcast-work a stage,— Exacts an architect, exacts an age: No tables of the Mauritanian tree For men whose maple log 's their luxury! That way was Rome built. "Better" (say you) "merge At once all workmen in the demiurge, All epochs in a lifetime, every task In one!" So should the sudden city bask I' the day—while those we'd feast there, want the knack Of keeping fresh-chalked gowns from speck and brack, Distinguish not rare peacock from vile swan, Nor Mareotic juice from Cæcuban. "Enough of Rome! 'T was happy to conceive Rome on a sudden, nor shall fate bereave Me of that credit: for the rest, her spite Is an old story—serves my folly right By adding yet another to the dull List of abortions—things proved beautiful Could they be done, Sordello cannot do." He sat upon the terrace, plucked and threw The powdery aloe-cusps away, saw shift Rome's walls, and drop arch after arch, and drift Mist-like afar those pillars of all stripe, Mounds of all majesty. "Thou archetype, Last of my dreams and loveliest, depart!" And then a low voice wound into his heart: "Sordello!" (low as some old Pythoness Conceding to a Lydian King's distress The cause of his long error—one mistake Of her past oracle) "Sordello, wake! God has conceded two sights to a man— And a man can do but a man's portion. One, of men's whole work, time's completed plan, The other, of the minute's work, man's first Step to the plan's completeness: what's dispersed Save hope of that supreme step which, descried Earliest, was meant still to remain untried Only to give you heart to take your own Step, and there stay—leaving the rest alone? Where is the vanity? Why count as one The first step, with the last step? What is gone Except Rome's aëry magnificence, That last step you'd take first?—an evidence You were God: be man now! Let those glances fall! The basis, the beginning step of all, Which proves you just a man—is that gone too? Pity to disconcert one versed as you In fate's ill-nature! but its full extent Eludes Sordello, even: the veil rent, Read the black writing—that collective man Outstrips the individual! Who began The last of each series of workmen The acknowledged greatnesses? Ay, your own art Shall serve us: put the poet's mimes apart— Close with the poet's self, and lo, a dim Yet too plain form divides itself from him! Alcamo's song enmeshes the lulled Isle, Woven into the echoes left erewhile By Nina, one soft web of song: no more Turning his name, then, flower-like o'er and o'er! An elder poet in the younger's place; Nina's the strength, but Alcamo's the grace: Each neutralizes each then! Search your fill; You get no whole and perfect Poet—still New Ninas, Alcamos, till time's midnight Shrouds all—or better say, the shutting light Of a forgotten yesterday. Dissect Every ideal workman—(to reject In favor of your fearful ignorance The thousand phantasms eager to advance, Sums up in himself all predecessors. And point you but to those within your reach)— Were you the first who brought—(in modern speech) The Multitude to be materialized? That loose eternal unrest—who devised An apparition i' the midst? The rout Was cheeked, a breathless ring was formed about That sudden flower: get round at any risk The gold-rough pointel, silver-blazing disk O' the lily! Swords across it! Reign thy reign We just see Charlemagne, Hildebrand, And serve thy frolic service, Charlemagne! —The very child of over-joyousness, Unfeeling thence, strong therefore: Strength by stress Of Strength comes of that forehead confident, Those widened eyes expecting heart's content, A calm as out of just-quelled noise; nor swerves For doubt, the ample cheek in gracious curves Abutting on the upthrust nether lip: He wills, how should he doubt then? Ages slip: Was it Sordello pried into the work So far accomplished, and discovered lurk A company amid the other clans, Only distinct in priests for castellans And popes for suzerains (their rule confessed Its rule, their interest its interest, Living for sake of living—there an end,— Wrapt in itself, no energy to spend In making adversaries or allies),— Dived you into its capabilities And dared create, out of that sect, a soul Should turn a multitude, already whole, Into its body? Speak plainer! Is 't so sure God's church lives by a King's investiture? Look to last step! A staggering—a shock— What's mere sand is demolished, while the rock Endures: a column of black fiery dust Blots heaven—that help was prematurely thrust Aside, perchance!—but air clears, naught's erased Of the true outline! Thus much being firm based, The other was a scaffold. See him stand Buttressed upon his mattock, Hildebrand Of the huge brain-mask welded ply o'er ply As in a forge; it buries either eye White and extinct, that stupid brow; teeth clenched, The neck tight-corded, too, the chin deep-trenched, As if a cloud enveloped him while fought Under its shade, grim prizers, thought with thought At dead-lock, agonizing he, until The victor thought leap radiant up, and Will, The slave with folded arms and drooping lids They fought for, lean forth flame-like as it bids. Call him no flower—a mandrake of the earth, Thwarted and dwarfed and blasted in its birth, Rather,—a fruit of suffering's excess, Thence feeling, therefore stronger: still by stress Of Strength, work Knowledge! Full three hundred years Have men to wear away in smiles and tears Between the two that nearly seemed to touch, In composite work they end and name. Observe you! quit one workman and you clutch Another, letting both their trains go by— The actors-out of either's policy, Heinrich, on this hand, Otho, Barbaross, Carry the three Imperial crowns across, Aix' Iron, Milan's Silver, and Rome's Gold— While Alexander, Innocent uphold On that, each Papal key—but, link on link, Why is it neither chain betrays a chink? How coalesce the small and great? Alack, For one thrust forward, fifty such fall back! Do the popes coupled there help Gregory Alone? Hark—from the hermit Peter's cry At Claremont, down to the first serf that says Friedrich 's no liege of his while he delays Getting the Pope's curse off him! The Crusade— Or trick of breeding Strength by other aid Than Strength, is safe. Hark—from the wild harangue Of Vimmercato, to the carroch's clang Yonder! The League—or trick of turning Strength Against Pernicious Strength, is safe at length. Yet hark—from Mantuan Albert making cease The fierce ones, to Saint Francis preaching peace Yonder! God's Truce—or trick to supersede The very Use of Strength, is safe. Indeed We trench upon the future. Who is found To take next step, next age—trail o'er the ground— Shall I say, gourd-like?—not the flower's display Nor the root's prowess, but the plenteous way O' the plant—produced by joy and sorrow, whence Unfeeling and yet feeling, strongest thence? Knowledge by stress of merely Knowledge? No— E'en were Sordello ready to forego His life for this, 't were overleaping work Some one has first to do, howe'er it irk, Nor stray a foot's breadth from the beaten road. Who means to help must still support the load Hildebrand lifted—'why hast Thou,' he groaned, 'Imposed on me a burden, Paul had moaned, And Moses dropped beneath?' Much done—and yet Doubtless that grandest task God ever set On man, left much to do: at his arm's wrench, Charlemagne's scaffold fell; but pillars blench Merely, start back again—perchance have been Taken for buttresses: crash every screen, Hammer the tenons better, and engage A gang about your work, for the next age Or two, of Knowledge, part by Strength and part By Knowledge! Then, indeed, perchance may start Sordello on his race—would time divulge Such secrets! If one step's awry, one bulge Calls for correction by a step we thought Got over long since, why, till that is wrought, No progress! And the scaffold in its turn Becomes, its service o'er, a thing to spurn. Meanwhile, if your half-dozen years of life In store dispose you to forego the strife, Who takes exception? Only bear in mind, Ferrara's reached, Goito 's left behind: If associates trouble you, stand off! As you then were, as half yourself, desist! —The warrior-part of you may, an it list, Finding real falchions difficult to poise, Fling them afar and taste the cream of joys By wielding such in fancy,—what is bard Of you may spurn the vehicle that marred Elys so much, and in free fancy glut His sense, yet write no verses—you have but To please yourself for law, and once could please What once appeared yourself, by dreaming these Rather than doing these, in days gone by. But all is changed the moment you descry Mankind as half yourself,—then, fancy's trade Ends once and always: how may half evade The other half? men are found half of you. Out of a thousand helps, just one or two Can be accomplished presently: but flinch From these (as from the falchion, raised an inch, Elys, described a couplet) and make proof Of fancy,—then, while one half lolls aloof I' the vines, completing Rome to the tip-top— See if, for that, your other half will stop Should the new sympathies allow you. A tear, begin a smile! The rabble's woes, Ludicrous in their patience as they chose To sit about their town and quietly Be slaughtered,—the poor reckless soldiery, With their ignoble rhymes on Richard, how 'Polt-foot,' sang they, 'was in a pitfall now,' Cheering each other from the engine-mounts,— That crippled sprawling idiot who recounts How, lopped of limbs, he lay, stupid as stone, Till the pains crept from out him one by one, And wriggles round the archers on his head To earn a morsel of their chestnut bread,— And Cino, always in the self-same place Weeping; beside that other wretch's case, Eyepits to ear, one gangrene since he plied The engine in his coat of raw sheep's hide A double watch in the noon sun; and see Lucchino, beauty, with the favors free, Trim hacqueton, spruce heard and scented hair, Campaigning it for the first time—cut there In two already, boy enough to crawl For latter orpine round the southern wall, Tomà, where Richard's kept, because that whore Marfisa, the fool never saw before, Sickened for flowers this wearisomest siege: And Tiso's wife—men liked their pretty liege, Cared for her least of whims once,—Berta, wed A twelvemonth gone, and, now poor Tiso's dead, Delivering herself of his first child On that chance heap of wet filth, reconciled To fifty gazers!"—(Here a wind below Made moody music augural of woe From the pine barrier)—"What if, now the scene Draws to a close, yourself have really been Time having been lost, choose quick! —You, plucking purples in Goito's moss Like edges of a trabea (not to cross Your consul-humor) or dry aloe-shafts For fasces, at Ferrara—he, fate wafts, This very age, her whole inheritance Of opportunities? Yet you advance Upon the last! Since talking is your trade, There 's Salinguerra left you to persuade: Fail! then"— "No—no—which latest chance secure!" Leaped up and cried Sordello: "this made sure, The past were yet redeemable; its work Was—help the Guelfs, whom I, howe'er it irk, Thus help!" He shook the foolish aloe-haulm He takes his first step as a Guelf; Out of his doublet, paused, proceded calm To the appointed presence. The large head Turned on its socket; "And your spokesman," said The large voice, "is Elcorte's happy sprout? Few such"—(so finishing a speech no doubt Addressed to Palma, silent at his side) "—My sober councils have diversified. Elcorte's son! good: forward as you may, Our lady's minstrel with so much to say!" The hesitating sunset floated back, Rosily traversed in the wonted track The chamber, from the lattice o'er the girth Of pines, to the huge eagle blacked in earth Opposite,—outlined sudden, spur to crest, That solid Salinguerra, and caressed Palma's contour; 't was day looped back night's pall; Sordello had a chance left spite of all. And much he made of the convincing speech Meant to compensate for the past and reach Through his youth's daybreak of unprofit, quite To his noon's labor, so proceed till night Leisurely! The great argument to bind Taurello with the Guelf Cause, body and mind, —Came the consummate rhetoric to that? Yet most Sordello's argument dropped flat Through his accustomed fault of breaking yoke, Disjoining him who felt from him who spoke. Was 't not a touching incident—so prompt A rendering the world its just accompt, Once proved its debtor? Who'd suppose, before This proof, that he, Goito's god of yore, At duty's instance could demean himself So memorably, dwindle to a Guelf? Be sure, in such delicious flattery steeped, His inmost self at the out-portion peeped, Thus occupied; then stole a glance at those Appealed to, curious if her color rose Or his lip moved, while he discreetly urged The need of Lombardy becoming purged At soonest of her barons; the poor part Abandoned thus, missing the blood at heart And spirit in brain, unseasonably off Elsewhere! But, though his speech was worthy scoff, Good-humored Salinguerra, famed for tact And tongue, who, careless of his phrase, ne'er lacked The right phrase, and harangued Honorius dumb At his accession,—looked as all fell plumb To purpose and himself found interest In every point his new instructor pressed —Left playing with the rescript's white wax seal To scrutinize Sordello head and heel. He means to yield assent sure? No, alas! All he replied was, "What, it comes to pass That poesy, sooner than politics, Makes fade young hair?" To think such speech could fix Taurello! Then a flash of bitter truth: So fantasies could break and fritter youth That he had long ago lost earnestness, Lost will to work, lost power to express But to will and to do are different: The need of working! Earth was turned a grave: No more occasions now, though he should crave Just one, in right of superhuman toil, To do what was undone, repair such spoil, Alter the past—nothing would give the chance! Not that he was to die; he saw askance Protract the ignominious years beyond To dream in—time to hope and time despond, Remember and forget, be sad, rejoice As saved a trouble; he might, at his choice, One way or other, idle life out, drop He may sleep on the bed he has made. No few smooth verses by the way—for prop, A thyrsus, these sad people, all the same, Should pick up, and set store by,—far from blame, Plant o'er his hearse, convinced his better part Survived him. "Rather tear men out the heart O' the truth!"—Sordello muttered, and renewed His propositions for the Multitude. But Salinguerra, who at this attack Had thrown great breast and ruffling corselet back To hear the better, smilingly resumed His task; beneath, the carroch's warning boomed; He must decide with Tito; courteously He turned then, even seeming to agree With his admonisher—"Assist the Pope, Extend Guelf domination, fill the scope O' the Church, thus based on All, by All, for All— Change Secular to Evangelical"— Echoing his very sentence: all seemed lost, When suddenly he looked up, laughingly almost, To Palma: "This opinion of your friend's— For instance, would it answer Palma's ends? Best, were it not, turn Guelf, submit our Strength"— (Here he drew out his baldric to its length) —"To the Pope's Knowledge—let our captive slip, Wide to the walls throw ope our gates, equip Azzo with ... what I hold here! Who'll subscribe To a trite censure of the minstrel tribe Henceforward? or pronounce, as Heinrich used, 'Spear-heads for battle, burr-heads for the joust!' —When Constance, for his couplets, would promote Alcamo, from a parti-colored coat, To holding her lord's stirrup in the wars. Not that I see where couplet-making jars With common sense: at Mantua I had borne This chanted, better than their most forlorn Of bull-baits,—that's indisputable!" Brave! Whom vanity nigh slew, contempt shall save! All's at an end: a Troubadour suppose Mankind will class him with their friends or foes? Scorn flings cold water in his face, A puny uncouth ailing vassal think The world and him bound in some special link? Abrupt the visionary tether burst. What were rewarded here, or what amerced If a poor drudge, solicitous to dream Deservingly, got tangled by his theme So far as to conceit the knack or gift Or whatsoe'er it be, of verse, might lift The globe, a lever like the hand and head Of—"Men of Action," as the Jongleurs said, —"The Great Men," in the people's dialect? And not a moment did this scorn affect Arouses him at last, to some purpose, Sordello: scorn the poet? They, for once, Asking "what was," obtained a full response. Bid Naddo think at Mantua, he had but To look into his promptuary, put Finger on a set thought in a set speech: But was Sordello fitted thus for each Conjecture? Nowise; since within his soul, Perception brooded unexpressed and whole. A healthy spirit like a healthy frame Craves aliment in plenty—all the same, Changes, assimilates its aliment. Perceived Sordello, on a truth intent? Next day no formularies more you saw Than figs or olives in a sated maw. 'T is Knowledge, whither such perceptions tend; They lose themselves in that, means to an end, The many old producing some one new, A last unlike the first. If lies are true, The Caliph's wheel-work man of brass receives A meal, munched millet grains and lettuce leaves Together in his stomach rattle loose; You find them perfect next day to produce: But ne'er expect the man, on strength of that, Can roll an iron camel-collar flat Like Haroun's self! I tell you, what was stored And thus gets the utmost out of him. Bit by bit through Sordello's life, outpoured That eve, was, for that age, a novel thing: And round those three the People formed a ring, Of visionary judges whose award He recognized in full—faces that barred Henceforth return to the old careless life, In whose great presence, therefore, his first strife For their sake must not be ignobly fought; All these, for once, approved of him, he thought, Suspended their own vengeance, chose await The issue of this strife to reinstate Them in the right of taking it—in fact He must be proved king ere they could exact Vengeance for such king's defalcation. Last, A reason why the phrases flowed so fast Was in his quite forgetting for a time Himself in his amazement that the rhyme Disguised the royalty so much: he there— And Salinguerra yet all unaware Who was the lord, who liegeman! "Thus I lay On thine my spirit and compel obey His lord,—my liegeman,—impotent to build Another Rome, but hardly so unskilled In what such builder should have been, as brook One shame beyond the charge that I forsook His function! Free me from that shame, I bend A brow before, suppose new years to spend,— Allow each chance, nor fruitlessly, recur— Measure thee with the Minstrel, then, demur He asserts the poet's rank and right, At any crowd he claims! That I must cede Shamed now, my right to my especial meed— Confess thee fitter help the world than I Ordained its champion from eternity, Is much: but to behold thee scorn the post I quit in thy behalf—to hear thee boast What makes my own despair!" And while he rung The changes on this theme, the roof up-sprung, The sad walls of the presence-chamber died Into the distance, or embowering vied With far-away Goito's vine-frontier; And crowds of faces—(only keeping clear The rose-light in the midst, his vantage-ground To fight their battle from)—deep clustered round Sordello, with good wishes no mere breath, Kind prayers for him no vapor, since, come death, Come life, he was fresh-sinewed every joint, Each bone new-marrowed as whom gods anoint Though mortal to their rescue. Now let sprawl The snaky volumes hither! Is Typhon all For Hercules to trample—good report From Salinguerra only to extort? "So was I" (closed he his inculcating, A poet must be earth's essential king) Basing these on their proper ground, "So was I, royal so, and if I fail, 'T is not the royalty, ye witness quail, But one deposed who, caring not exert Its proper essence, trifled malapert With accidents instead—good things assigned As heralds of a better thing behind— And, worthy through display of these, put forth Never the inmost all-surpassing worth That constitutes him king precisely since As yet no other spirit may evince Its like: the power he took most pride to test, Whereby all forms of life had been professed At pleasure, forms already on the earth, Was but a means to power beyond, whose birth Should, in its novelty, be kingship's proof. Now, whether he came near or kept aloof The several forms he longed to imitate, Not there the kingship lay, he sees too late. Those forms, unalterable first as last, Proved him her copier, not the protoplast Of nature: what would come of being free, By action to exhibit tree for tree, Bird, beast, for beast and bird, or prove earth bore One veritable man or woman more? Means to an end, such proofs are: what the end? Let essence, whatsoe'er it be, extend— Never contract. Already you include The multitude; then let the multitude Include yourself; and the result were new: Themselves before, the multitude turn you. This were to live and move and have, in them, Your being, and secure a diadem You should transmit (because no cycle yearns Beyond itself, but on itself returns) When, the full sphere in wane, the world o'erlaid Long since with you, shall have in turn obeyed Some orb still prouder, some displayer, still More potent than the last, of human will, Recognizing true dignity in service, And some new king depose the old. Of such Am I—whom pride of this elates too much? Safe, rather say, 'mid troops of peers again; I, with my words, hailed brother of the train Deeds once sufficed: for, let the world roll back, Who fails, through deeds howe'er diverse, re-track My purpose still, my task? A teeming crust— Air, flame, earth, wave at conflict! Then, needs must Emerge some Calm embodied, these refer The brawl to—yellow-bearded Jupiter? No! Saturn; some existence like a pact And protest against Chaos, some first fact I' the faint of time. My deep of life, I know, Is unavailing e'en to poorly show" ... For here the Chief immeasurably yawned) ... "Deeds in their due gradation till Song dawned— The fullest effluence of the finest mind, All in degree, no way diverse in kind From minds about it, minds which, more or less, Lofty or low, move seeking to impress Whether successively that of epoist, Themselves on somewhat; but one mind has climbed Step after step, by just ascent sublimed. Thought is the soul of act, and, stage by stage, Soul is from body still to disengage As tending to a freedom which rejects Such help and incorporeally affects The world, producing deeds but not by deeds, Swaying, in others, frames itself exceeds, Assigning them the simpler tasks it used To patiently perform till Song produced Acts, by thoughts only, for the mind: divest Mind of e'en Thought, and, lo, God's unexpressed Will draws above us! All then is to win Save that. How much for me, then? where begin My work? About me, faces! and they flock, The earnest faces. What shall I unlock By song? behold me prompt, whate'er it be, To minister: how much can mortals see Of Life? No more than so? I take the task And marshal you Life's elemental masque, Show Men, on evil or on good lay stress, Dramatist, or, so to call him, analyst, This light, this shade make prominent, suppress All ordinary hues that softening blend Such natures with the level. Apprehend Which sinner is, which saint, if I allot Hell, Purgatory, Heaven, a blaze or blot, To those you doubt concerning! I enwomb Some wretched Friedrich with his red-hot tomb; Some dubious spirit, Lombard Agilulph With the black chastening river I engulf! Some unapproached Matilda I enshrine With languors of the planet of decline— These, fail to recognize, to arbitrate Between henceforth, to rightly estimate Thus marshalled in the masque! Myself, the while, As one of you, am witness, shrink or smile At my own showing! Next age—what's to do? The men and women stationed hitherto Will I unstation, good and bad, conduct Each nature to its farthest, or obstruct At soonest, in the world: light, thwarted, breaks A limpid purity to rainbow flakes, Or shadow, massed, freezes to gloom: behold How such, with fit assistance to unfold, Or obstacles to crush them, disengage Their forms, love, hate, hope, fear, peace make, war wage, In presence of you all! Myself, implied Superior now, as, by the platform's side, I bade them do and suffer,—would last content The world ... no—that's too far! I circumvent A few, my masque contented, and to these Offer unveil the last of mysteries— Man's inmost life shall have yet freer play: Once more I cast external things away, And natures composite, so decompose That" ... Why, he writes Sordello! "How I rose, And how have you advanced! since evermore Yourselves effect what I was fain before Effect, what I supplied yourselves suggest, What I leave bare yourselves can now invest. How we attain to talk as brothers talk, In half-words, call things by half-names, no balk From discontinuing old aids. To-day Takes in account the work of Yesterday: Has not the world a Past now, its adept Consults ere he dispense with or accept New aids? a single touch more may enhance, A touch less turned to insignificance Those structures' symmetry the past has strewed The world with, once so bare. Leave the mere rude Who turns in due course synthetist. Explicit details! 't is but brother's speech, We need, speech where an accent's change gives each The other's soul—no speech to understand By former audience: need was then to expand, Expatiate—hardly were we brothers! true— Nor I lament my small remove from you, Nor reconstruct what stands already. Ends Accomplished turn to means: my art intends New structure from the ancient: as they changed The spoils of every clime at Venice, ranged The horned and snouted Libyan god, upright As in his desert, by some simple bright Clay cinerary pitcher—Thebes as Rome, Athens as Byzant rifled, till their Dome From earth's reputed consummations razed A seal, the all-transmuting Triad blazed Above. Ah, whose that fortune? Ne'ertheless E'en he must stoop contented to express No tithe of what's to say—the vehicle Never sufficient: but his work is still For faces like the faces that select This for one day: now, serve as Guelf! The single service I am bound effect,— That bid me cast aside such fancies, bow Taurello to the Guelf cause, disallow The Kaiser's coming—which with heart, soul, strength, I labor for, this eve, who feel at length My past career's outrageous vanity, And would, as it amends, die, even die Now I first estimate the boon of life, If death might win compliance—sure, this strife Is right for once—the People my support." My poor Sordello! what may we extort By this, I wonder? Palma's lighted eyes Turned to Taurello who, long past surprise, Began, "You love him—what you'd say at large Let me say briefly. First, your father's charge To me, his friend, peruse: I guessed indeed You were no stranger to the course decreed. Salinguerra, dislodged from his post, He bids me leave his children to the saints: As for a certain project, he acquaints The Pope with that, and offers him the best Of your possessions to permit the rest Go peaceably—to Ecelin, a stripe Of soil the cursed Vicentines will gripe, —To Alberic, a patch the Trevisan Clutches already; extricate, who can, Treville, Villarazzi, Puissolo, Loria and Cartiglione!—all must go, And with them go my hopes. 'T is lost, then! Lost This eve, our crisis, and some pains it cost Procuring; thirty years—as good I'd spent Like our admonisher! But each his bent Pursues: no question, one might live absurd One's self this while, by deed as he by word Persisting to obtrude an influence where 'T is made account of, much as ... nay, you fare With twice the fortune, youngster!—I submit, Happy to parallel my waste of wit With the renowned Sordello's: you decide A course for me. Romano may abide Romano,—Bacchus! After all, what dearth Of Ecelins and Alberies on earth? Say there's a prize in prospect, must disgrace Betide competitors, unless they style Themselves Romano? Were it worth my while To try my own luck! But an obscure place Suits me—there wants a youth to bustle, stalk And attitudinize—some fight, more talk, Most flaunting badges—how, I might make clear Since Friedrich's very purposes lie here —Here, pity they are like to lie! For me, With station fixed unceremoniously Long since, small use contesting; I am but The liegeman—you are born the lieges—shut That gentle mouth now! or resume your kin In your sweet self; were Palma Ecelin For me to work with! Could that neck endure This bauble for a cumbrous garniture, She should ... or might one bear it for her? Stay— I have not been so flattered many a day As by your pale friend—Bacchus! The least help Would lick the hind's fawn to a lion's whelp: His neck is broad enough—a ready tongue Beside—too writhled—but, the main thing, young— I could ... why, look ye!" And the badge was thrown In moving, opens a door to Sordello, Across Sordello's neck: This badge alone Makes you Romano's Head—becomes superb On your bare neck, which would, on mine, disturb The pauldron," said Taurello. A mad act, Nor even dreamed about before—in fact, Not when his sportive arm rose for the nonce— But he had dallied overmuch, this once, With power: the thing was done, and he, aware The thing was done, proceeded to declare— (So like a nature made to serve, excel In serving, only feel by service well!) —That he would make Sordello that and more. "As good a scheme as any. What's to pore At in my face?" he asked—"ponder instead This piece of news; you are Romano's Head! One cannot slacken pace so near the goal, Suffer my Azzo to escape heart-whole This time! For you there's Palma to espouse— For me, one crowning trouble ere I house Like my compeer." On which ensued a strange And solemn visitation; there came change O'er every one of them; each looked on each: Up in the midst a truth grew, without speech. And when the giddiness sank and the haze Subsided, they were sitting, no amaze, Sordello with the baldric on, his sire Who is declared Salinguerra's son, Silent, though his proportions seemed aspire Momently; and, interpreting the thrill Right at its ebb, Palma was found there still Relating somewhat Adelaide confessed A year ago, while dying on her breast,— Of a contrivance that Vicenza night When Ecelin had birth. "Their convoy's flight, Cut off a moment, coiled inside the flame That wallowed like a dragon at his game The toppling city through—San Biagio rocks! And wounded lies in her delicious locks Retrude, the frail mother, on her face, None of her wasted, just in one embrace Covering her child: when, as they lifted her, Cleaving the tumult, mighty, mightier And mightiest Taurello's cry outbroke, Leapt like a tongue of fire that cleaves the smoke, Midmost to cheer his Mantuans onward—drown His colleague Ecelin's clamor, up and down The disarray: failed Adelaide see then Who was the natural chief, the man of men? Outstripping time, her infant there burst swathe, Stood up with eyes haggard beyond the scathe From wandering after his heritage Lost once and lost for aye—and why that rage, That deprecating glance? A new shape leant On a familiar shape—gloatingly bent O'er his discomfiture; 'mid wreaths it wore, Still one outflamed the rest—her child's before 'T was Salinguerra's for his child: scorn, hate, Rage now might startle her when all too late! Then was the moment!—rival's foot had spurned Hidden hitherto by Adelaide's policy. Never that House to earth else! Sense returned— The act conceived, adventured and complete, They bore away to an obscure retreat Mother and child—Retrude's self not slain" (Nor even here Taurello moved) "though pain Was fled: and what assured them most 't was fled, All pain, was, if they raised the pale hushed head 'T would turn this way and that, waver awhile, And only settle into its old smile— (Graceful as the disquieted water-flag Steadying itself, remarked they, in the quag On either side their path)—when suffered look Down on her child. They marched: no sign once shook The company's close litter of crossed spears Till, as they reached Goito, a few tears Slipped in the sunset from her long black lash, And she was gone. So far the action rash; No crime. They laid Retrude in the font, Taurello's very gift, her child was wont To sit beneath—constant as eve he came To sit by its attendant girls the same As one of them. For Palma, she would blend With this magnific spirit to the end, That ruled her first; but scarcely had she dared To disobey the Adelaide who scared Her into vowing never to disclose A secret to her husband, which so froze His blood at half-recital, she contrived To hide from him Taurello's infant lived, Lest, by revealing that, himself should mar Romano's fortunes. And, a crime so far, Palma received that action: she was told Of Salinguerra's nature, of his cold Calm acquiescence in his lot! But free To impart the secret to Romano, she How the discovery moves Salinguerra, Engaged to repossess Sordello of His heritage, and hers, and that way doff The mask, but after years, long years: while now, Was not Romano's sign-mark on that brow?" Across Taurello's heart his arms were locked: And when he did speak 'twas as if he mocked The minstrel, "who had not to move," he said, "Nor stir—should fate defraud him of a shred Of his son's infancy? much less his youth!" (Laughingly all this)—"which to aid, in truth, Himself, reserved on purpose, had not grown Old, not too old—'twas best they kept alone Till now, and never idly met till now;" —Then, in the same breath, told Sordello how All intimations of this eve's event Were lies, for Friedrich must advance to Trent, Thence to Verona, then to Rome, there stop, Tumble the Church down, institute a-top The Alps a Prefecture of Lombardy: —"That's now!—no prophesying what may be Anon, with a new monarch of the clime, Native of Gesi, passing his youth's prime At Naples. Tito bids my choice decide On whom" ... "Embrace him, madman!" Palma cried, Who through the laugh saw sweat-drops burst apace, And his lips blanching: he did not embrace Sordello, but he laid Sordello's hand On his own eyes, mouth, forehead. Understand, This while Sordello was becoming flushed And Sordello the finally-determined, Out of his whiteness; thoughts rushed, fancies rushed; He pressed his hand upon his head and signed Both should forbear him. "Nay, the best's behind!" Taurello laughed—not quite with the same laugh: "The truth is, thus we scatter, ay, like chaff These Guelfs, a despicable monk recoils From: nor expect a fickle Kaiser spoils Our triumph!—Friedrich? Think you, I intend Friedrich shall reap the fruits of blood I spend And brain I waste? Think you, the people clap Their hands at my out-hewing this wild gap For any Friedrich to fill up? 'Tis mine— That's yours: I tell you, towards some such design Have I worked blindly, yes, and idly, yes, And for another, yes—but worked no less With instinct at my heart; I else had swerved, While now—look round! My cunning has preserved Samminiato—that's a central place Secures us Florence, boy,—in Pisa's case, By land as she by sea; with Pisa ours, And Florence, and Pistoia, one devours The land at leisure! Gloriously dispersed— Brescia, observe, Milan, Piacenza first That flanked us (ah, you know not!) in the March; On these we pile, as keystone of our arch, Romagna and Bologna, whose first span Covered the Trentine and the Valsugan; Sofia's Egna by Bolgiano's sure!" ... So he proceeded: half of all this, pure The devil putting forth his potency: Delusion, doubtless, nor the rest too true, But what was undone he felt sure to do, As ring by ring he wrung off, flung away The pauldron-rings to give his sword-arm play— Need of the sword now! That would soon adjust Aught wrong at present; to the sword intrust Sordello's whiteness, undersize: 'twas plain He hardly rendered right to his own brain— Like a brave hound, men educate to pride Himself on speed or scent nor aught beside, As though he could not, gift by gift, match men! Since Sordello, who began by rhyming, Palma had listened patiently: but when 'Twas time expostulate, attempt withdraw Taurello from his child, she, without awe Took off his iron arms from, one by one, Sordello's shrinking shoulders, and, that done, Made him avert his visage and relieve Sordello (you might see his corselet heave The while) who, loose, rose—tried to speak, then sank: They left him in the chamber. All was blank. And even reeling down the narrow stair Taurello kept up, as though unaware Palma was by to guide him, the old device —Something of Milan—"how we muster thrice The Torriani's strength there; all along Our own Visconti cowed them"—thus the song Continued even while she bade him stoop, Thrid somehow, by some glimpse of arrow-loop, The turnings to the gallery below, Where he stopped short as Palma let him go. When he had sat in silence long enough Splintering the stone bench, braving a rebuff She stopped the truncheon; only to commence One of Sordello's poems, a pretence For speaking, some poor rhyme of "Elys' hair And head that's sharp and perfect like a pear, So smooth and close are laid the few fine locks May, even from the depths of failure Stained like pale honey oozed from topmost rocks Sun-blanched the livelong summer"—from his worst Performance, the Goito, as his first: And that at end, conceiving from the brow And open mouth no silence would serve now, Went on to say the whole world loved that man And, for that matter, thought his face, though wan, Eclipsed the Count's—he sucking in each phrase As if an angel spoke. The foolish praise Ended, he drew her on his mailed knees, made Her face a framework with his hands, a shade, A crown, an aureole: there must she remain (Her little mouth compressed with smiling pain As in his gloves she felt her tresses twitch) To get the best look at, in fittest niche Dispose his saint. That done, he kissed her brow, —"Lauded her father for his treason now," He told her, "only, how could one suspect The wit in him?—whose clansman, recollect, Was ever Salinguerra—she, the same, Romano and his lady—so, might claim To know all, as she should"—and thus begun Schemes with a vengeance, schemes on schemes, "not one Fit to be told that foolish boy," he said, "But only let Sordello Palma wed, —Then!" 'T was a dim long narrow place at best: Yet spring to the summit of success, Midway a sole grate showed the fiery West, As shows its corpse the world's end some split tomb— A gloom, a rift of fire, another gloom, Faced Palma—but at length Taurello set Her free; the grating held one ragged jet Of fierce gold fire: he lifted her within The hollow underneath—how else begin Fate's second marvellous cycle, else renew The ages than with Palma plain in view? Then paced the passage, hands clenched, head erect, Pursuing his discourse; a grand unchecked Monotony made out from his quick talk And the recurring noises of his walk; —Somewhat too much like the o'ercharged assent Of two resolved friends in one danger blent, Who hearten each the other against heart; Boasting there 's naught to care for, when, apart The boaster, all 's to care for. He, beside Some shape not visible, in power and pride Approached, out of the dark, ginglingly near, Nearer, passed close in the broad light, his ear Crimson, eyeballs suffused, temples full-fraught, Just a snatch of the rapid speech you caught, And on he strode into the opposite dark, Till presently the harsh heel's turn, a spark I' the stone, and whirl of some loose embossed thong That crashed against the angle aye so long After the last, punctual to an amount Of mailed great paces you could not but count,— Prepared you for the pacing back again. And by the snatches you might ascertain That, Friedrich's Prefecture surmounted, left By this alone in Italy, they cleft Asunder, crushed together, at command Of none, were free to break up Hildebrand, If he consent to oppress the world. Rebuild, he and Sordello, Charlemagne— But garnished, Strength with Knowledge, "if we deign Accept that compromise and stoop to give Rome law, the Cæsar's Representative." Enough, that the illimitable flood Of triumphs after triumphs, understood In its faint reflux (you shall hear) sufficed Young Ecelin for appanage, enticed Him on till, these long quiet in their graves, He found 't was looked for that a whole life's braves Should somehow be made good; so, weak and worn, Must stagger up at Milan, one gray morn Of the to-come, and fight his latest fight. But, Salinguerra's prophecy at height— Just this decided, as it now may be, He voluble with a raised arm and stiff, A blaring voice, a blazing eye, as if He had our very Italy to keep Or cast away, or gather in a heap To garrison the better—ay, his word Was, "run the cucumber into a gourd, Drive Trent upon Apulia"—at their pitch Who spied the continents and islands which Grew mulberry-leaves and sickles, in the map— (Strange that three such confessions so should hap To Palma, Dante spoke with in the clear Amorous silence of the Swooning-sphere,— Cunizza, as he called her! Never ask Of Palma more! She sat, knowing her task Was done, the labor of it,—for, success Concerned not Palma, passion's votaress) Triumph at height, and thus Sordello crowned— Above the passage suddenly a sound Stops speech, stops walk: back shrinks Taurello, bids With large involuntary asking lids, Palma interpret. "'T is his own foot-stamp— Your hand! His summons! Nay, this idle damp Befits not!" Out they two reeled dizzily. "Visconti 's strong at Milan," resumed he, In the old, somewhat insignificant way— (Was Palma wont, years afterward, to say) As though the spirit's flight, sustained thus far, Dropped at that very instant. Gone they are— Palma, Taurello; Eglamor anon, Ecelin,—only Naddo 's never gone! —Labors, this moonrise, what the Master meant— "Is Squarcialupo speckled?—purulent, I 'd say, but when was Providence put out? He carries somehow handily about His spite nor fouls himself!" Goito's vines Stand like a cheat detected—stark rough lines, The moon breaks through, a gray mean scale against The vault where, this eve's Maiden, thou remain'st Like some fresh martyr, eyes fixed—who can tell? As Heaven, now all 's at end, did not so well, And we have done. Spite of the faith and victory, to leave Its virgin quite to death in the lone eve. While the persisting hermit-bee ... ha! wait No longer: these in compass, forward fate!

The thought of Eglamor's least like a thought, At the close of a day or a life, And yet a false one, was, "Man shrinks to naught If matched with symbols of immensity; Must quail, forsooth, before a quiet sky Or sea, too little for their quietude:" And, truly, somewhat in Sordello's mood Confirmed its speciousness, while eve slow sank Down the near terrace to the farther bank, And only one spot left from out the night Glimmered, upon the river opposite— A breadth of watery heaven like a bay, A sky-like space of water, ray for ray, And star for star, one richness where they mixed As this and that wing of an angel, fixed, Tumultuary splendors folded in To die. Nor turned he till Ferrara's din (Say, the monotonous speech from a man's lip Who lets some first and eager purpose slip In a new fancy's birth; the speech keeps on Though elsewhere its informing soul be gone) —Aroused him, surely offered succor. Fate Paused with this eve; ere she precipitate Herself,—best put off new strange thoughts awhile, That voice, those large hands, that portentous smile,— What help to pierce the future as the past, Lay in the plaining city? And at last The main discovery and prime concern, All that just now imported him to learn, Truth's self, like yonder slow moon to complete Heaven, rose again, and, naked at his feet, Lighted his old life's every shift and change, Past procedure is fitliest reviewed, Effort with counter-effort; nor the range Of each looked wrong except wherein it checked Some other—which of these could he suspect, Prying into them by the sudden blaze? The real way seemed made up of all the ways— Mood after mood of the one mind in him; Tokens of the existence, bright or dim, Of a transcendent all-embracing sense Demanding only outward influence, A soul, in Palma's phrase, above his soul, Power to uplift his power,—such moon's control Over such sea-depths,—and their mass had swept Onward from the beginning and still kept Its course: but years and years the sky above Held none, and so, untasked of any love, His sensitiveness idled, now amort, Alive now, and, to sullenness or sport Given wholly up, disposed itself anew At every passing instigation, grew And dwindled at caprice, in foam-showers spilt, Wedge-like insisting, quivered now a gilt Shield in the sunshine, now a blinding race Of whitest ripples o'er the reef—found place For much display; not gathered up and, hurled Right from its heart, encompassing the world. So had Sordello been, by consequence, Without a function: others made pretence To strength not half his own, yet had some core Within, submitted to some moon, before Them still, superior still whate'er their force,— Were able therefore to fulfil a course, Nor missed life's crown, authentic attribute. To each who lives must be a certain fruit Of having lived in his degree,—a stage, Earlier or later in men's pilgrimage, To stop at; and to this the spirits tend Who, still discovering beauty without end, Amass the scintillations, make one star —Something unlike them, self-sustained, afar,— And meanwhile nurse the dream of being blest By winning it to notice and invest Their souls with alien glory, some one day As more appreciable in its entirety. Whene'er the nucleus, gathering shape alway, Round to the perfect circle—soon or late; According as themselves are formed to wait; Whether mere human beauty will suffice —The yellow hair and the luxurious eyes, Or human intellect seem best, or each Combine in some ideal form past reach On earth, or else some shade of these, some aim, Some love, hate even, take their place, the same, So to be served—all this they do not lose, Waiting for death to live, nor idly choose What must be Hell—a progress thus pursued Through all existence, still above the food That 's offered them; still fain to reach beyond The widened range, in virtue of their bond Of sovereignty. Not that a Palma's Love, A Salinguerra's Hate, would equal prove To swaying all Sordello: but why doubt Strong, he needed external strength: Some love meet for such strength, some moon without Would match his sea?—or fear, Good manifest, Only the Best breaks faith?—Ah, but the Best Somehow eludes us ever, still might be And is not! Crave we gems? No penury Of their material round us! Pliant earth And plastic flame—what balks the mage his birth —Jacinth in balls or lodestone by the block? Flinders enrich the strand, veins swell the rock; Naught more! Seek creatures? Life 's i' the tempest, thought Clothes the keen hill-top, mid-day woods are fraught With fervors: human forms are well enough! But we had hoped, encouraged by the stuff Profuse at nature's pleasure, men beyond These actual men!—and thus are over-fond In arguing, from Good—the Best, from force Divided—force combined, an ocean's course From this our sea whose mere intestine pants Might seem at times sufficient to our wants. External power? If none be adequate, And he stand forth ordained (a prouder fate) Himself a law to his own sphere?—remove All incompleteness, for that law, that love? Nay, if all other laws be feints,—truth veiled Helpfully to weak vision that had failed To grasp aught but its special want,—for lure, Embodied? Stronger vision could endure The unbodied want: no part—the whole of truth! The People were himself; nor, by the ruth At their condition, was he less impelled Even now, where can he perceive such? To alter the discrepancy beheld, Than if, from the sound whole, a sickly part Subtracted were transformed, decked out with art, Then palmed on him as alien woe—the Guelf To succor, proud that he forsook himself. Internal strength must suffice then, All is himself; all service, therefore, rates Alike, nor serving one part, immolates The rest: but all in time! "That lance of yours Makes havoc soon with Malek and his Moors, That buckler's lined with many a giant's beard, Ere long, our champion, be the lance upreared, The buckler wielded handsomely as now! But view your escort, bear in mind your vow, Count the pale tracts of sand to pass ere that, And, if you hope we struggle through the flat, Put lance and buckler by! Next half-month lacks Mere sturdy exercise of mace and axe To cleave this dismal brake of prickly-pear Which bristling holds Cydippe by the hair, Lames barefoot Agathon: this felled, we'll try The picturesque achievements by and by— Next life!" Ay, rally, mock, O People, urge Your claims!—for thus he ventured, to the verge, Push a vain mummery which perchance distrust Of his fast-slipping resolution thrust Likewise: accordingly the Crowd—(as yet He had unconsciously contrived forget, I' the whole, to dwell o' the points ... one might assuage The signal horrors easier than engage With a dim vulgar vast unobvious grief Not to be fancied off, nor gained relief In brilliant fits, cured by a happy quirk, But by dim vulgar vast unobvious work To corrrespond ...)—this Crowd then, forth they stood. "And now content thy stronger vision, brood On thy bare want; uncovered, turf by turf, Study the corpse-face through the taint-worms' scurf!" Down sank the People's Then; up-rose their Now These sad ones render service to! And how His sympathy with the people, to wit; Piteously little must that service prove —Had surely proved in any case! for, move Each other obstacle away, let youth Become aware it had surprised a truth 'T were service to impart—can truth be seized, Settled forthwith, and, of the captive eased, Its captor find fresh prey, since this alit So happily, no gesture luring it, The earnest of a flock to follow? Vain, Most vain! a life to spend ere this he chain To the poor crowd's complacence: ere the crowd Pronounce it captured, he descries a cloud Its kin of twice the plume; which he, in turn, If he shall live as many lives, may learn How to secure: not else. Then Mantua called Back to his mind how certain bards were thralled —Buds blasted, but of breath more like perfume Than Naddo's staring nosegay's carrion bloom; Some insane rose that burnt heart out in sweets, A spendthrift in the spring, no summer greets; Some Dularete, drunk with truths and wine, Grown bestial, dreaming how become divine. Yet to surmount this obstacle, commence With the commencement, merits crowning! Hence Must truth be casual truth, elicited In sparks so mean, at intervals dispread So rarely, that 'tis like at no one time Of the world's story has not truth, the prime Of truth, the very truth which, loosed, had hurled The world's course right, been really in the world —Content the while with some mean spark by dint Of some chance-blow, the solitary hint Of buried fire, which, rip earth's breast, would stream Sky-ward! Sordello's miserable gleam Was looked for at the moment: he would dash This badge, and all it brought, to earth,—abash Taurello thus, perhaps persuade him wrest The Kaiser from his purpose,—would attest His own belief, in any case. Before Of which, try now the inherent force! He dashes it however, think once more! For, were that little, truly service? "Ay, I' the end, no doubt; but meantime? Plain you spy Its ultimate effect, but many flaws Of vision blur each intervening cause. Were the day's fraction clear as the life's sum Of service, Now as filled as teems To-come With evidence of good—nor too minute A share to vie with evil! No dispute, 'Twere fitliest maintain the Guelfs in rule: That makes your life's work: but you have to school Your day's work on these natures circumstanced Thus variously, which yet, as each advanced Or might impede the Guelf rule, must be moved Now, for the Then's sake,—hating what you loved, Loving old hatreds! Nor if one man bore Brand upon temples while his fellow wore The aureole, would it task you to decide: But, portioned duly out, the future vied Never with the unparcelled present! Smite Or spare so much on warrant all so slight? The present's complete sympathies to break, Aversions bear with, for a future's sake So feeble? Tito ruined through one speck. The Legate saved by his sole lightish fleck? This were work, true, but work performed at cost Of other work; aught gained here, elsewhere lost. For a new segment spoil an orb half-done? Rise with the People one step, and sink—one? Were it but one step, less than the whole face Of things, your novel duty bids erase! Harms to abolish! What, the prophet saith, The minstrel singeth vainly then? Old faith, Old courage, only born because of harms, Were not, from highest to the lowest, charms? Flame may persist; but is not glare as stanch? Where the salt marshes stagnate, crystals branch; Blood dries to crimson; Evil's beautified In every shape. Thrust Beauty then aside And banish Evil! Wherefore? After all, Is Evil a result less natural Than Good? For overlook the seasons' strife With tree and flower,—the hideous animal life, (Of which who seeks shall find a grinning taunt How much of man's ill may be removed? For his solution, and endure the vaunt Of nature's angel, as a child that knows Himself befooled, unable to propose Aught better than the fooling)—and but care For men, for the mere People then and there,— In these, could you but see that Good and Ill Claimed you alike! Whence rose their claim but still From Ill, as fruit of Ill? What else could knit You theirs but Sorrow? Any free from it Were also free from you! Whose happiness Could be distinguished in this morning's press Of miseries?—the fool's who passed a gibe 'On thee,' jeered he, so wedded to thy tribe, Thou carriest green and yellow tokens in Thy very face that thou art Ghibellin!' Much hold on you that fool obtained! Nay mount Yet higher—and upon men's own account How much of ill ought to be removed? Must evil stay: for, what is joy?—to heave Up one obstruction more, and common leave What was peculiar, by such act destroy Itself; a partial death is every joy; The sensible escape, enfranchisement Of a sphere's essence: once the vexed—content, The cramped—at large, the growing circle—round, All's to begin again—some novel bound To break, some new enlargement to entreat; The sphere though larger is not more complete. Now for Mankind's experience: who alone Might style the unobstructed world his own? Whom palled Goito with its perfect things? Sordello's self: whereas for Mankind springs Salvation by each hindrance interposed. They climb; life's view is not at once disclosed To creatures caught up, on the summit left, Heaven plain above them, yet of wings bereft: But lower laid, as at the mountain's foot. So, range on range, the girdling forests shoot Twixt your plain prospect and the throngs who scale Height after height, and pierce mists, veil by veil, Heartened with each discovery; in their soul, The Whole they seek by Parts—but, found that Whole, Could they revert, enjoy past gains? The space Of time you judge so meagre to embrace The Parts were more than plenty, once attained The Whole, to quite exhaust it: naught were gained But leave to look—not leave to do: Beneath Soon sates the looker—look above, and Death Tempts ere a tithe of Life be tasted. Live First, and die soon enough, Sordello! Give If removed, at what cost to Sordello? Body and spirit the first right they claim, And pasture soul on a voluptuous shame That you, a pageant-city's denizen, Are neither vilely lodged 'midst Lombard men— Can force joy out of sorrow, seem to truck Bright attributes away for sordid muck, Yet manage from that very muck educe Gold; then subject nor scruple, to your cruce The world's discardings! Though real ingots pay Your pains, the clods that yielded them are clay To all beside,—would clay remain, though quenched Your purging-fire; who's robbed then? Had you wrenched An ampler treasure forth!—As 't is, they crave A share that ruins you and will not save Them. Why should sympathy command you quit The course that makes your joy, nor will remit Their woe? Would all arrive at joy? Reverse Men win little thereby; he loses all: The order (time instructs you) nor coerce Each unit till, some predetermined mode, The total be emancipate; men's road Is one, men's times of travel many; thwart No enterprising soul's precocious start Before the general march! If slow or fast All straggle up to the same point at last, Why grudge your having gained, a month ago, The brakes at balm-shed, asphodels in blow, While they were landlocked? Speed their Then, but how This badge would suffer you improve your Now!" His time of action for, against, or with Our world (I labor to extract the pith Of this his problem) grew, that even-tide, Gigantic with its power of joy, beside The world's eternity of impotence To profit though at his whole joy's expense. For he can infinitely enjoy himself, "Make nothing of my day because so brief? Rather make more: instead of joy, use grief Before its novelty have time subside! Wait not for the late savor, leave untried Virtue, the creaming honey-wine, quick squeeze Vice like a biting spirit from the lees Of life! Together let wrath, hatred, lust, All tyrannies in every shape, be thrust Upon this Now, which time may reason out As mischiefs, far from benefits, no doubt; But long ere then Sordello will have slipped Away; you teach him at Goito's crypt, There 's a blank issue to that fiery thrill. Stirring, the few cope with the many, still: So much of sand as, quiet, makes a mass Unable to produce three tufts of grass, Shall, troubled by the whirlwind, render void The whole calm glebe's endeavor: he employed! And e'en though somewhat smart the Crowd for this, Contribute each his pang to make your bliss, 'T is but one pang—one blood-drop to the bowl Which brimful tempts the sluggish asp uncowl At last, stains ruddily the dull red cape, And, kindling orbs gray as the unripe grape Before, avails forthwith to disentrance The portent, soon to lead a mystic dance Among you! For, who sits alone in Rome? Have those great hands indeed hewn out a home, And set me there to live? Oh life, life-breath, Life-blood,—ere sleep, come travail, life ere death! This life stream on my soul, direct, oblique, But always streaming! Hindrances? They pique: Helps? such ... but why repeat, my soul o'er-tops Each height, then every depth profoundlier drops? Enough that I can live, and would live! Wait For some transcendent life reserved by Fate To follow this? Oh, never! Fate, I trust The same, my soul to; for, as who flings dust, Perchance (so facile was the deed) she checked The void with these materials to affect My soul diversely: these consigned anew To naught by death, what marvel if she threw A second and superber spectacle Before me? What may serve for sun, what still Wander a moon above me? What else wind About me like the pleasures left behind, And how shall some new flesh that is not flesh Cling to me? What 's new laughter? Soothes the fresh Sleep like sleep? Fate 's exhaustless for my sake In brave resource: but whether bids she slake My thirst at this first rivulet, or count No draught worth lip save from some rocky fount Above i' the clouds, while here she 's provident Of pure loquacious pearl, the soft tree-tent Guards, with its face of reate and sedge, nor fail The silver globules and gold-sparkling grail At bottom? Oh, 't were too absurd to slight For the hereafter the to-day's delight! Quench thirst at this, then seek next well-spring: wear Home-lilies ere strange lotus in my hair! Here is the Crowd, whom I with freest heart Offer to serve, contented for my part Freed from a problematic obligation, To give life up in service,—only grant That I do serve; if otherwise, why want Aught further of me? If men cannot choose But set aside life, why should I refuse The gift? I take it—I, for one, engage Never to falter through my pilgrimage— Nor end it howling that the stock or stone Were enviable, truly: I, for one, Will praise the world, you style mere anteroom To palace—be it so! shall I assume —My foot the courtly gait, my tongue the trope, My mouth the smirk, before the doors fly ope One moment? What? with guarders row on row, Gay swarms of varletry that come and go, Pages to dice with, waiting-girls unlace The plackets of, pert claimants help displace, Heart-heavy suitors get a rank for,—laugh At yon sleek parasite, break his own staff 'Cross Beetle-brows the Usher's shoulder,—why, Admitted to the presence by and by, Should thought of having lost these make me grieve Among new joys I reach, for joys I leave? Cool citrine-crystals, fierce pyropus-stone, Are floor-work there! But do I let alone That black-eyed peasant in the vestibule Once and forever?—Floor-work? No such fool! Rather, were heaven to forestall earth, I'd say I, is it, must be blessed? Then, my own way And accepting life on its own terms, Bless me! Give firmer arm and fleeter foot, I 'll thank you: but to no mad wings transmute These limbs of mine—our greensward was so soft! Nor camp I on the thunder-cloud aloft: We feel the bliss distinctlier, having thus Engines subservient, not mixed up with us. Better move palpably through heaven: nor, freed Of flesh, forsooth, from space to space proceed 'Mid flying synods of worlds! No: in heaven's marge Show Titan still, recumbent o'er his targe Solid with stars—the Centaur at his game, Made tremulously out in hoary flame! "Life! Yet the very cup whose extreme dull Dregs, even, I would quaff, was dashed, at full, Aside so oft; the death I fly, revealed So oft a better life this life concealed, And which sage, champion, martyr, through each path Which, yet, others have renounced: how? Have hunted fearlessly—the horrid bath, The crippling-irons and the fiery chair. 'T was well for them; let me become aware As they, and I relinquish life, too! Let What masters life disclose itself! Forget Vain ordinances, I have one appeal— I feel, am what I feel, know what I feel; So much is truth to me. What Is, then? Since One object, viewed diversely, may evince Beauty and ugliness—this way attract, That way repel,—why gloze upon the fact? Why must a single of the sides be right? What bids choose this and leave the opposite? Where's abstract Right for me?—in youth endued With Right still present, still to be pursued, Through all the interchange of circles, rife Each with its proper law and mode of life, Each to be dwelt at ease in: where, to sway Absolute with the Kaiser, or obey Implicit with his serf of fluttering heart, Or, like a sudden thought of God's, to start Up, Brutus in the presence, then go shout That some should pick the unstrung jewels out— Each, well!" And, as in moments when the past Gave partially enfranchisement, he cast Himself quite through mere secondary states Of his soul's essence, little loves and hates, Because there is a life beyond life, Into the mid deep yearnings overlaid By these; as who should pierce hill, plain, grove, glade, And on into the very nucleus probe That first determined there exist a globe. As that were easiest, half the globe dissolved, So seemed Sordello's closing-truth evolved By his flesh-half's break up; the sudden swell Of his expanding soul showed Ill and Well, Sorrow and Joy, Beauty and Ugliness, Virtue and Vice, the Larger and the Less, All qualities, in fine, recorded here, Might be but modes of Time and this one sphere, Urgent on these, but not of force to bind Eternity, as Time—as Matter—Mind, If Mind, Eternity, should choose assert Their attributes within a Life: thus girt With circumstance, next change beholds them cinct Quite otherwise—with Good and Ill distinct, Joys, sorrows, tending to a like result— Contrived to render easy, difficult, This or the other course of ... what new bond In place of flesh may stop their flight beyond Its new sphere, as that course does harm or good To its arrangements. Once this understood, As suddenly he felt himself alone, Quite out of Time and this world: all was known. What made the secret of his past despair? —Most imminent when he seemed most aware Of his own self-sufficiency; made mad By craving to expand the power he had, And not new power to be expanded?—just This made it; Soul on Matter being thrust, Joy comes when so much Soul is wreaked in Time On Matter,—let the Soul's attempt sublime Matter beyond the scheme and so prevent By more or less that deed's accomplishment, And Sorrow follows: Sorrow how avoid? Let the employer match the thing employed, Fit to the finite his infinity. And thus proceed forever, in degree And with new conditions of success, Changed but in kind the same, still limited To the appointed circumstance and dead To all beyond. A sphere is but a sphere; Small, Great, are merely terms we bandy here; Since to the spirit's absoluteness all Are like. Now, of the present sphere we call Life, are conditions; take but this among Many; the body was to be so long Youthful, no longer: but, since no control Tied to that body's purposes his soul, She chose to understand the body's trade More than the body's self—had fain conveyed Her boundless, to the body's bounded lot. Hence, the soul permanent, the body not,— Scarcely its minute for enjoying here,— The soul must needs instruct her weak compeer, Run o'er its capabilities and wring A joy thence, she held worth experiencing: Which, far from half discovered even,—lo, The minute gone, the body's power let go Apportioned to that joy's acquirement! Broke Nor such as, in this, produce failure. Morning o'er earth, he yearned for all it woke— From the volcano's vapor-flag, winds hoist Black o'er the spread of sea,—down to the moist Dale's silken barley-spikes sullied with rain, Swayed earthwards, heavily to rise again— The Small, a sphere as perfect as the Great To the soul's absoluteness. Meditate Too long on such a morning's cluster-chord And the whole music it was framed afford,— The chord's might half discovered, what should pluck One string, his finger, was found palsy-struck. And then no marvel if the spirit, shown A saddest sight—the body lost alone Through her officious proffered help, deprived Of this and that enjoyment Fate contrived,— Virtue, Good, Beauty, each allowed slip hence,— Vaingloriously were fain, for recompense, To stem the ruin even yet, protract The body's term, supply the power it lacked From her infinity, compel it learn These qualities were only Time's concern, And body may, with spirit helping, barred— Advance the same, vanquished—obtain reward, Reap joy where sorrow was intended grow, Of Wrong make Right, and turn Ill Good below. And the result is, the poor body soon Sinks under what was meant a wondrous boon, Leaving its bright accomplice all aghast. So much was plain then, proper in the past; To be complete for, satisfy the whole Series of spheres—Eternity, his soul Needs must exceed, prove incomplete for, each Single sphere—Time. But does our knowledge reach No farther? Is the cloud of hindrance broke But, even here, is failure inevitable? But by the failing of the fleshly yoke, Its loves and hates, as now when death lets soar Sordello, self-sufficient as before, Though during the mere space that shall elapse 'Twixt his enthralment in new bonds, perhaps? Must life be ever just escaped, which should Have been enjoyed?—nay, might have been and would, Each purpose ordered right—the soul's no whit Beyond the body's purpose under it— Like yonder breadth of watery heaven, a bay, And that sky-space of water, ray for ray And star for star, one richness where they mixed As this and that wing of an angel, fixed, Tumultuary splendors folded in To die—would soul, proportioned thus, begin Exciting discontent, or surelier quell The body if, aspiring, it rebel? But how so order life? Still brutalize The soul, the sad world's way, with muffled eyes To all that was before, all that shall be After this sphere—all and each quality Save some sole and immutable Great-Good And Beauteous whither fate has loosed its hood Or may failure here be success also To follow? Never may some soul see All —The Great Before and After, and the Small Now, yet be saved by this the simplest lore, And take the single course prescribed before, As the king-bird with ages on his plumes Travels to die in his ancestral glooms? But where descry the Love that shall select That course? Here is a soul whom, to affect, Nature has plied with all her means, from trees And flowers e'en to the Multitude!—and these, Decides he save or no? One word to end! Ah, my Sordello, I this once befriend And speak for you. Of a Power above you still Which, utterly incomprehensible, Is out of rivalry, which thus you can When induced by love? Love, though unloving all conceived by man— What need! And of—none the minutest duct To that out-nature, naught that would instruct And so let rivalry begin to live— But of a Power its representative Who, being for authority the same, Communication different, should claim A course, the first chose but this last revealed— This Human clear, as that Divine concealed— What utter need! What has Sordello found? Or can his spirit go the mighty round, End where poor Eglamor begun? So, says Old fable, the two eagles went two ways About the world: where, in the midst, they met, Though on a shifting waste of sand, men set Jove's temple. Quick, what has Sordello found? Sordello knows: For they approach—approach—that foot's rebound Palma? No, Salinguerra though in mail; They mount, have reached the threshold, dash the veil Aside—and you divine who sat there dead, Under his foot the badge: still, Palma said, A triumph lingering in the wide eyes, Wider than some spent swimmer's if he spies Help from above in his extreme despair, And, head far back on shoulder thrust, turns there With short quick passionate cry: as Palma pressed In one great kiss, her lips upon his breast, It beat. By this, the hermit-bee has stopped His day's toil at Goito: the new-cropped Dead vine-leaf answers, now 't is eve, he bit, Twirled so, and filed all day: the mansion's fit, God counselled for. As easy guess the word That passed betwixt them, and become the third To the soft small unfrighted bee, as tax Him with one fault—so, no remembrance racks But too late: an insect knows sooner. Of the stone maidens and the font of stone He, creeping through the crevice, leaves alone. Alas, my friend, alas Sordello, whom Anon they laid within that old font-tomb, And, yet again, alas! And now is 't worth Our while bring back to mind, much less set forth How Salinguerra extricates himself Without Sordello? Ghibellin and Guelf May fight their fiercest out? If Richard sulked In durance or the Marquis paid his mulct, Who cares, Sordello gone? The upshot, sure, On his disappearance from the stage, Was peace; our chief made some frank overture That prospered; compliment fell thick and fast On its disposer, and Taurello passed With foe and friend for an outstripping soul, Nine days at least. Then,—fairly reached the goal,— He, by one effort, blotted the great hope Out of his mind, nor further tried to cope With Este, that mad evening's style, but sent Away the Legate and the League, content No blame at least the brothers had incurred, —Dispatched a message to the Monk, he heard Patiently first to last, scarce shivered at, Then curled his limbs up on his wolfskin mat And ne'er spoke more,—informed the Ferrarese He but retained their rule so long as these Lingered in pupilage,—and last, no mode Apparent else of keeping safe the road From Germany direct to Lombardy For Friedrich,—none, that is, to guarantee The faith and promptitude of who should next Obtain Sofia's dowry,—sore perplexed— (Sofia being youngest of the tribe The next aspirant can press forward; Of daughters, Ecelin was wont to bribe The envious magnates with—nor, since he sent Henry of Egna this fair child, had Trent Once failed the Kaiser's purposes—"we lost Egna last year, and who takes Egna's post— Opens the Lombard gate if Friedrich knock?") Himself espoused the Lady of the Rock In pure necessity, and, so destroyed His slender last of chances, quite made void Old prophecy, and spite of all the schemes Overt and covert, youth's deeds, age's dreams, Was sucked into Romano. And so hushed He up this evening's work, that, when 't was brushed Somehow against by a blind chronicle Which, chronicling whatever woe befell Ferrara, noted this the obscure woe Of "Salinguerra's sole son Giacomo Deceased, fatuous and doting, ere his sire," The townsfolk rubbed their eyes, could but admire Which of Sofia's five was meant. The chaps Of earth's dead hope were tardy to collapse, Obliterated not the beautiful Distinctive features at a crash: but dull And duller these, next year, as Guelfs withdrew Each to his stronghold. Then (securely too Ecelin at Campese slept; close by, Who likes may see him in Solagna lie, With cushioned head and gloved hand to denote The cavalier he was)—then his heart smote Young Ecelin at last; long since adult. And, save Vicenza's business, what result In blood and blaze? (So hard to intercept Sordello till his plain withdrawal!) Stepped Salinguerra's part lapsing to Ecelin, Then its new lord on Lombardy. I' the nick Of time when Ecelin and Alberic Closed with Taurello, come precisely news That in Verona half the souls refuse Allegiance to the Marquis and the Count— Have cast them from a throne they bid him mount, Their Podestà, through his ancestral worth. Ecelin flew there, and the town henceforth Was wholly his—Taurello sinking back From temporary station to a track That suited. News received of this acquist, Friedrich did come to Lombardy: who missed Taurello then? Another year: they took Vicenza, left the Marquis scarce a nook For refuge, and, when hundreds two or three Of Guelfs conspired to call themselves "The Free," Opposing Alberic,—vile Bassanese,— (Without Sordello!)—Ecelin at ease Slaughtered them so observably, that oft A little Salinguerra looked with soft Blue eyes up, asked his sire the proper age To get appointed his proud uncle's page. More years passed, and that sire had dwindled down To a mere showy turbulent soldier, grown Better through age, his parts still in repute, Subtle—how else?—but hardly so astute As his contemporaneous friends professed; Undoubtedly a brawler: for the rest, Known by each neighbor, and allowed for, let Keep his incorrigible ways, nor fret Men who would miss their boyhood's bugbear: "trap The ostrich, suffer our bald osprey flap A battered pinion!"—was the word. In fine, One flap too much and Venice's marine Was meddled with; no overlooking that! She captured him in his Ferrara, fat And florid at a banquet, more by fraud Than force, to speak the truth; there 's slander laud Ascribed you for assisting eighty years To pull his death on such a man; fate shears The life-cord prompt enough whose last fine thread You fritter: so, presiding his board-head, The old smile, your assurance all went well With Friedrich (as if he were like to tell!) In rushed (a plan contrived before) our friends, Made some pretence at fighting, some amends For the shame done his eighty years—(apart The principle, none found it in his heart To be much angry with Taurello)—gained Their galleys with the prize, and what remained But carry him to Venice for a show? —Set him, as 't were, down gently—free to go His gait, inspect our square, pretend observe The swallows soaring their eternal curve 'Twixt Theodore and Mark, if citizens Gathered importunately, fives and tens, To point their children the Magnifico, Who, with his brother, played it out, All but a monarch once in firm-land, go His gait among them now—"it took, indeed, Fully this Ecelin to supersede That man," remarked the seniors. Singular! Sordello's inability to bar Rivals the stage, that evening, mainly brought About by his strange disbelief that aught Was ever to be done,—this thrust the Twain Under Taurello's tutelage,—whom, brain And heart and hand, he forthwith in one rod Indissolubly bound to baffle God Who loves the world—and thus allowed the thin Gray wizened dwarfish devil Ecelin, And massy-muscled big-boned Alberic (Mere man, alas!) to put his problem quick To demonstration—prove wherever 's will To do, there 's plenty to be done, or ill Or good. Anointed, then, to rend and rip— Kings of the gag and flesh-hook, screw and whip, They plagued the world: a touch of Hildebrand (So far from obsolete!) made Lombards band Together, cross their coats as for Christ's cause, And saving Milan win the world's applause. Ecelin perished: and I think grass grew Never so pleasant as in Valley Rù And went home duly to their reward. By San Zenon where Alberic in turn Saw his exasperated captors burn Seven children and their mother; then, regaled So far, tied on to a wild horse, was trailed To death through raunce and bramble-bush. I take God's part and testify that 'mid the brake Wild o'er his castle on the pleasant knoll, You hear its one tower left, a belfry, toll— The earthquake spared it last year, laying flat The modern church beneath,—no harm in that! Chirrups the contumacious grasshopper, Rustles the lizard and the cushats chirre Above the ravage: there, at deep of day A week since, heard I the old Canon say He saw with his own eyes a barrow burst And Alberic's huge skeleton unhearsed Only five years ago. He added, "June 's The month for carding off our first cocoons The silkworms fabricate"—a double news, Nor he nor I could tell the worthier. Choose! And Naddo gone, all 's gone; not Eglamor! Believe, I knew the face I waited for, A guest my spirit of the golden courts! Oh strange to see how, despite ill-reports, Disuse, some wear of years, that face retained Its joyous look of love! Suns waxed and waned, And still my spirit held an upward flight, Spiral on spiral, gyres of life and light More and more gorgeous—ever that face there The last admitted! crossed, too, with some care As perfect triumph were not sure for all, Good will—ill luck, get second prize: But, on a few, enduring damp must fall, —A transient struggle, haply a painful sense Of the inferior nature's clinging—whence Slight starting tears easily wiped away. Fine jealousies soon stifled in the play Of irrepressible admiration—not Aspiring, all considered, to their lot Who ever, just as they prepare ascend Spiral on spiral, wish thee well, impend Thy frank delight at their exclusive track, That upturned fervid face and hair put back! Is there no more to say? He of the rhymes— Many a tale, of this retreat betimes, Was born: Sordello die at once for men? The Chroniclers of Mantua tired their pen Telling how Sordello Prince Visconti saved Mantua, and elsewhere notably behaved— Who thus, by fortune ordering events, Passed with posterity, to all intents, For just the god he never could become. As Knight, Bard, Gallant, men were never dumb In praise of him: while what he should have been, Could be, and was not—the one step too mean For him to take,—we suffer at this day Because of: Ecelin had pushed away Its chance ere Dante could arrive and take What least one may I award Sordello? That step Sordello spurned, for the world's sake: He did much—but Sordello's chance was gone. Thus, had Sordello dared that step alone, Apollo had been compassed—'t was a fit He wished should go to him, not he to it —As one content to merely be supposed Singing or fighting elsewhere, while he dozed Really at home—one who was chiefly glad To have achieved the few real deeds he had, Because that way assured they were not worth Doing, so spared from doing them henceforth— A tree that covets fruitage and yet tastes Never itself, itself. Had he embraced Their cause then, men had plucked Hesperian fruit And, praising that, just thrown him in to boot All he was anxious to appear, but scarce Solicitous to be. A sorry farce Such life is, after all! Cannot I say This—that must perforce content him, He lived for some one better thing? this way.— Lo, on a heathy brown and nameless hill By sparkling Asolo, in mist and chill, Morning just up, higher and higher runs A child barefoot and rosy. See! the sun 's On the square castle's inner-court's low wall Like the chine of some extinct animal Half turned to earth and flowers; and through the haze (Save where some slender patches of gray maize Are to be overleaped) that boy has crossed The whole hill-side of dew and powder-frost Matting the balm and mountain camomile. Up and up goes he, singing all the while Some unintelligible words to beat The lark, God's poet, swooning at his feet, So worsted is he at "the few fine locks Stained like pale honey oozed from topmost rocks Sun-blanched the livelong summer,"—all that 's left Of the Goito lay! And thus bereft, Sleep and forget, Sordello! In effect He sleeps, the feverish poet—I suspect As no prize at all, has contented me. Not utterly companionless; but, friends, Wake up! The ghost 's gone, and the story ends I 'd fain hope, sweetly; seeing, peri or ghoul, That spirits are conjectured fair or foul, Evil or good, judicious authors think, According as they vanish in a stink Or in a perfume. Friends, be frank! ye snuff Civet, I warrant. Really? Like enough! Merely the savor's rareness; any nose May ravage with impunity a rose: Rifle a musk-pod and 't will ache like yours! I 'd tell you that same pungency ensures An after-gust, but that were overbold. Who would has heard Sordello's story told.