If I would but outstretch my hand and take them,
Meet face to face a greater potentate,
King Death — Epiphanes — the Illustrious! [Dies.
MICHEL ANGELO: A FRAGMENT
During the last years of his life, Longfellow dedicated most of his literary time to the translating of Michelangelo’s poetry. Although the poet never considered the work complete enough to be published during his lifetime, this posthumous edition was collected in 1883. Scholars generally regard the work as autobiographical, reflecting the translator as an aging artist, facing his imminent death.
Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni (1475-1564), was not only a master sculptor and painter, but also an accomplished poet.
CONTENTS
PART FIRST.
Prologue at Ischia
PART SECOND
Monologue: The Last Judgment
San Silvestro
Cardinal Ippolito
Borgo delle Vergine at Naples
Vittoria Colonna
Monologue
Viterbo
Michael Angelo and Benvenuto Cellini
Fra Sebastiano del Piombo
Palazzo Belvedere
Palazzo Cesarini
PART THIRD.
Monologue
Vigna di Papa Giulio
Bindo Altoviti
In the Coliseum
Macello de’ Corvi
Michael Angelo’s Studio
The Oaks of Monte Luca
The Dead Christ
Longfellow with his friend Senator Charles Sumner
Dedication
Michel piu che mortal, Angel divino.
ARIOSTO.
Similamente operando all’ artista
Ch’ a l’ abito dell’ arte e man che trema.
DANTE, Par. xiii. st. 77.
The relation of Michael Angelo to Mr. Longfellow’s life and work is dwelt on in the biographical sketch prefixed to this edition.
The notes at the end of this volume point out some of the more interesting indications of the manner in which the authorities used were made to contribute to the realism of the poem. It was the poet’s intention at one time to insert in the poem translations of some of the sonnets and other verses of Michael Angelo, and to this he refers in his Dedication when he says —
Flowers of song have thrust
Their roots among the loose disjointed stones.
These translations with one exception he withdrew and published instead in the volume entitled Kéramos and other Poems; they may be found in their place among the Translations in this edition. Another intimation of the connection of his poetry with this study appears in the poem Vittoria Colonna, written in 1877, and published in Flight the Fifth of Birds of Passage.
Michael Angelo was found in the poet’s desk after his death, and while in one or two instances some doubt arose as to Mr. Longfellow’s final choice of alternative scenes, it was reasonably clear what his latest decision was as to the sequence and form of the poem.
The reader who is interested in the poet’s development of the theme and in his several experiments will find the material at his hand in the poem as printed and annotated in vol. vi. of the Riverside edition.
NOTHING that is shall perish utterly,
But perish only to revive again
In other forms, as clouds restore in rain
The exhalations of the land and sea.
Men build their houses from the masonry 5
Of ruined tombs; the passion and the pain
Of hearts, that long have ceased to beat, remain
To throb in hearts that are, or are to be.
So from old chronicles, where sleep in dust
Names that once filled the world with trumpet tones, 10
I build this verse; and flowers of song have thrust
Their roots among the loose disjointed stones,
Which to this end I fashion as I must.
Quickened are they that touch the Prophet’s bones.
PART FIRST.
I.
Prologue at Ischia
The Castle Terrace. VITTORIA COLONNA and JULIA GONZAGA.
VITTORIA.
WILL you then leave me, Julia, and so soon,
To pace alone this terrace like a ghost?
JULIA.
To-morrow, dearest.
VITTORIA.
Do not say to-morrow.
A whole month of to-morrows were too soon.
You must not go. You are a part of me. 5
JULIA.
I must return to Fondi.
VITTORIA.
The old castle
Needs not your presence. No one waits for you.
Stay one day longer with me. They who go
Feel not the pain of parting; it is they
Who stay behind that suffer. I was thinking 10
But yesterday how like and how unlike
Have been, and are, our destinies. Your husband,
The good Vespasian, an old man, who seemed
A father to you rather than a husband,
Died in your arms; but mine, in all the flower 15
And promise of his youth, was taken from me
As by a rushing wind. The breath of battle
Breathed on him, and I saw his face no more,
Save as in dreams it haunts me. As our love
Was for these men, so is our sorrow for them. 20
Yours a child’s sorrow, smiling through its tears;
But mine the grief of an impassioned woman,
Who drank her life up in one draught of love.
JULIA.
Behold this locket. This is the white hair
Of my Vespasian. This the flower-of-love, 25
This amaranth, and beneath it the device,
Non moritura. Thus my heart remains
True to his memory; and the ancient castle,
Where we have lived together, where he died,
Is dear to me as Ischia is to you. 30
VITTORIA.
I did not mean to chide you.
JULIA.
Let your heart
Find, if it can, some poor apology
For one who is too young, and feels too keenly
The joy of life, to give up all her days
To sorrow for the dead. While I am true 35
To the remembrance of the man I loved
And mourn for still, I do not make a show
Of all the grief I feel, nor live secluded
And, like Veronica da Gámbara,
Drape my whole house in mourning, and drive forth 40
In coach of sable drawn by sable horses,
As if I were a corpse. Ah, one to-day
Is worth for me a thousand yesterdays.
VITTORIA.
Dear Julia! Friendship has its jealousies
As well as love. Who waits for you at Fondi? 45
JULIA.
A friend of mine and yours; a friend and friar.
You have at Naples your Fra Bernardino;
And I at Fondi have my Fra Bastiano,
The famous artist, who has come from Rome
To paint my portrait. That is not a sin. 50
VITTORIA.
Only a vanity.
JULIA.
He painted yours.
VITTORIA.
Do not call up to me those days departed,
When I was young, and all was bright about me,
And the vicissitudes of life were things
But to be read of in old histories, 55
Though as pertaining unto me or mine
Impossible. Ah, then I dreamed your dreams,
And now, grown older, I look back and see
They were illusions.
JULIA.
Yet without illusions
What would our lives become, what we ourselves? 60
Dreams or illusions, call them what you will,
They lift us from the commonplace of life
T
o better things.
VITTORIA.
Are there no brighter dreams,
No higher aspirations, than the wish
To please and to be pleased?
JULIA.
For you there are: 65
I am no saint; I feel the world we live in
Comes before that which is to be hereafter,
And must be dealt with first.
VITTORIA.
But in what way?
JULIA.
Let the soft wind that wafts to us the odor
Of orange blossoms, let the laughing sea 70
And the bright sunshine bathing all the world,
Answer the question.
VITTORIA.
And for whom is meant
This portrait that you speak of?
JULIA.
For my friend
The Cardinal Ippolito.
VITTORIA.
For him?
JULIA.
Yes, for Ippolito the Magnificent. 75
‘T is always flattering to a woman’s pride
To be admired by one whom all admire.
VITTORIA.
Ah, Julia, she that makes herself a dove
Is eaten by the hawk. Be on your guard.
He is a Cardinal; and his adoration 80
Should be elsewhere directed.
JULIA.
You forget
The horror of that night, when Barbarossa,
The Moorish corsair, landed on our coast
To seize me for the Sultan Soliman;
How in the dead of night, when all were sleeping, 85
He scaled the castle wall; how I escaped,
And in my night-dress, mounting a swift steed,
Fled to the mountains, and took refuge there
Among the brigands. Then of all my friends
The Cardinal Ippolito was first 90
To come with his retainers to my rescue.
Could I refuse the only boon he asked
At such a time, my portrait?
VITTORIA.
I have heard
Strange stories of the splendors of his palace,
And how, apparelled like a Spanish Prince, 95
He rides through Rome with a long retinue
Of Ethiopians and Numidians
And Turks and Tartars, in fantastic dresses,
Making a gallant show. Is this the way
A Cardinal should live?
JULIA.
He is so young; 100
Hardly of age, or little more than that;
Beautiful, generous, fond of arts and letters,
A poet, a musician, and a scholar;
Master of many languages, and a player
On many instruments. In Rome, his palace 105
Is the asylum of all men distinguished
In art or science, and all Florentines
Escaping from the tyranny of his cousin,
Duke Alessandro.
VITTORIA.
I have seen his portrait,
Painted by Titian. You have painted it 110
In brighter colors.
JULIA.
And my Cardinal,
At Itri, in the courtyard of his palace,
Keeps a tame lion!
VITTORIA.
And so counterfeits
St. Mark, the Evangelist!
JULIA.
Ah, your tame lion
Is Michael Angelo.
VITTORIA.
You speak a name 115
That always thrills me with a noble sound,
As of a trumpet! Michael Angelo!
A lion all men fear and none can tame;
A man that all men honor, and the model
That all should follow; one who works and prays, 120
For work is prayer, and consecrates his life
To the sublime ideal of his art,
Till art and life are one; a man who holds
Such place in all men’s thoughts, that when they speak
Of great things done, or to be done, his name 125
Is ever on their lips.
JULIA.
You too can paint
The portrait of your hero, and in colors
Brighter than Titian’s; I might warn you also
Against the dangers that beset your path;
But I forbear.
VITTORIA.
If I were made of marble, 130
Of Fior di Persico or Pavonazzo,
He might admire me: being but flesh and blood,
I am no more to him than other women;
That is am nothing.
JULIA.
Does he ride through Rome
Upon his little mule, as he was wont, 135
With his slouched hat, and boots of Cordovan,
As when I saw him last?
VITTORIA.
Pray do not jest.
I cannot couple with his noble name
A trivial word! Look, how the setting sun
Lights up Castel-a-mare and Sorrento, 140
And changes Capri to a purple cloud!
And there Vesuvius with its plume of smoke,
And the great city stretched upon the shore
As in a dream!
JULIA.
Parthenope the Siren!
VITTORIA.
And yon long line of lights, those sunlit windows 145
Blaze like the torches carried in procession
To do her honor! It is beautiful!
JULIA.
I have no heart to feel the beauty of it!
My feet are weary, pacing up and down
These level flags, and wearier still my thoughts 150
Treading the broken pavement of the Past.
It is too sad. I will go in and rest,
And make me ready for to-morrow’s journey.
VITTORIA.
I will go with you; for I would not lose
One hour of your dear presence. ‘T is enough 155
Only to be in the same room with you.
I need not speak to you, nor hear you speak;
If I but see you, I am satisfied. [They go in.
PART SECOND
I.
Monologue: The Last Judgment
MICHAEL ANGELO’S Studio. He is at work on the cartoon of the Last Judgment.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
WHY did the Pope and his ten Cardinals
Come here to lay this heavy task upon me?
Were not the paintings on the Sistine ceiling
Enough for them? They saw the Hebrew leader
Waiting, and clutching his tempestuous beard, 5
But heeded not. The bones of Julius
Shook in their sepulchre. I heard the sound;
They only heard the sound of their own voices.
Are there no other artists here in Rome
To do this work, that they must needs seek me? 10
Fra Bastian, my Fra Bastian, might have done it,
But he is lost to art. The Papal Seals,
Like leaden weights upon a dead man’s eyes,
Press down his lids; and so the burden falls
On Michael Angelo, Chief Architect 15
And Painter of the Apostolic Palace.
That is the title they cajole me with,
To make me do their work and leave my own;
But having once begun, I turn not back.
Blow, ye bright angels, on your golden trumpets 20
To the four corners of the earth, and wake
The dead to judgment! Ye recording angels,
Open your books and read! Ye dead, awake!
Rise from your graves, drowsy and drugged with death,
As men who suddenly aroused from sleep 25
Look round amazed, and know not where they are!
In happy hours, when the imagination
Wakes like a wind at midnight, and the soul
Trembles in all its leaves, it is a joy
To be uplifted on it
s wings, and listen 30
To the prophetic voices in the air
That call us onward. Then the work we do
Is a delight, and the obedient hand
Never grows weary. But how different is it
In the disconsolate, discouraged hours, 35
When all the wisdom of the world appears
As trivial as the gossip of a nurse
In a sick-room, and all our work seems useless.
What is it guides my hand, what thoughts possess me,
That I have drawn her face among the angels, 40
Where she will be hereafter? O sweet dreams,
That through the vacant chambers of my heart
Walk in the silence, as familiar phantoms
Frequent an ancient house, what will ye with me?
‘T is said that Emperors write their names in green 45
When under age, but when of age in purple.
So Love, the greatest Emperor of them all,
Writes his in green at first, but afterwards
In the imperial purple of our blood.
First love or last love, — which of these two passions 50
Is more omnipotent? Which is more fair,
The star of morning, or the evening star?
The sunrise or the sunset of the heart?
The hour when we look forth to the unknown,
And the advancing day consumes the shadows, 55
Or that when all the landscape of our lives
Lies stretched behind us, and familiar places
Gleam in the distance, and sweet memories
Rise like a tender haze, and magnify
The objects we behold, that soon must vanish? 60
What matters it to me, whose countenance
Is like Laocoön’s, full of pain? whose forehead
Is a ploughed harvest-field, where three-score years
Have sown in sorrow and have reaped in anguish?
Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Page 124