And I'm the weak eyed bat no sun should tempt Out of the grange whose four walls make his

world.

How could it end in any other way?

You called me, and I came home to your heart.

The triumph was

to reach and stay there; since

I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost?

Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold,
You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine!
"Rafael did this, Andrea painted that;
The Roman's is the better when you pray.
But still the other's Virgin was his wife"-
Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge
Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows
My better fortune, I resolve to think.
For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives,
Said one day Agnolo, his very self,

To Rafael .. I have known it all these

years

(When the young man was flaming out his thoughts

Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see,

Too lifted up in heart because of it),

"Friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub

Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how, Who, were he set to plan and execute

As you are, pricked on by our popes and kings, Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!" To Rafael's! And indeed the arm is wrong.

I hardly dare . . . yet, only you to see

Give the chalk here

quick, thus the line should

go!

Ay, but the soul! he's Rafael! rub it out!
Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth
(What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo?
Do you forget already words like those?)
If really there was such a chance, so lost,
Is, whether you're · not grateful

pleased.

- but more

Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed!
This hour has been an hour! Another smile?
If you would sit thus by me every night

God is just.

I should work better, do you comprehend?
I mean that I should earn more, give you more.
See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star;
Morello's gone, the watch-lights show the wall,
The cue-owls speak the name we call them by.
Come from the window, love, come in, at last,
Inside the melancholy little house
We built to be so gay with.
King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights
When I look up from painting, eyes tired out,
The walls become illumined, brick from brick
Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold,
That gold of his I did cement them with!
Let us but love each other. Must you go?
That Cousin here again? he waits outside?
Must see you

loans?

you, and not with me? Those

More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that? Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend? While hand and eye and something of a heart

Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth?
I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit

The gray remainder of the evening out,
Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly

How I could paint, were I but back in France,
One picture, just one more—the Virgin's face,
Not yours this time! I want you at my side
To hear them that is, Michel Agnolo —
Judge all I do and tell you of its worth.
Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend.
I take the subjects for his corridor,

Finish the portrait out of hand there, there,
And throw him in another thing or two
If he demurs; the whole should prove enough
To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside,
What's better and what's all I care about,
Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff!

Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he,
The Cousin! what does he to please you more?

I am grown peaceful as old age to-night.
I regret little, I would change still less.
Since there my past life lies, why alter it?
The very wrong to Francis! it is true
I took his coin, was tempted and complied,
And built this house and sinned, and all is said.
My father and my mother died of want.

Well, had I riches of my own? you see

How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot.

They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died:

And I have labored somewhat in my time
And not been paid profusely. Some good son
Paint my two hundred pictures - let him try!
No doubt there's something strikes a balance.
Yes,

You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night,

This must suffice me here. What would one have? In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance

Four great walls in the New Jerusalem,
Meted on each side by the angel's reed,
For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo, and me
To cover

the three first without a wife, While I have mine! So still they overcome Because there's still Lucrezia, - as I choose.

Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love.

Robert Browning.

The Old Bridge at Florence

(Florence)

ADDEO GADDI built me. I am old,

TADDE

Five centuries old. I plant my foot of stone

Upon the Arno, as St. Michael's own

Was planted on the dragon. Fold by fold

Beneath me as it struggles, I behold

Its glistening scales. Twice hath it overthrown My kindred and companions. Me alone

It moveth not, but is by me controlled.

I can remember when the Medici

Were driven from Florence; longer still ago The final wars of Ghibelline and Guelf. Florence adorns me with her jewelry; And when I think that Michael Angelo Hath leaned on me, I glory in myself. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Giotto's Tower

(Florence)

HOW

OW many lives, made beautiful and sweet By self-devotion and by self-restraint, Whose pleasure is to run without complaint On unknown errands of the Paraclete, Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet, Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint Around the shining forehead of the saint, And are in their completeness incomplete! In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower, The lily of Florence blossoming in stone,A vision, a delight, and a desire, The builder's perfect and centennial flower, That in the night of ages bloomed alone, But wanting still the glory of the spire.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.