MICHAEL ANGELO.
                         I remember.
With it he sent me something of his making,--
A Mercury, with long body and short legs,
As if by any possibility
A messenger of the gods could have short legs.
It was no more like Mercury than you are,
But rather like those little plaster figures
That peddlers hawk about the villages
As images of saints.  But luckily
For Topolino, there are many people
Who see no difference between what is best
And what is only good, or not even good;
So that poor artists stand in their esteem
On the same level with the best, or higher.

URBINO.
How Eccellenza laughed!

MICHAEL ANGELO.
                     Poor Topolino!
All men are not born artists, nor will labor
E'er make them artists.

URBINO.
                        No, no more
Than Emperors, or Popes, or Cardinals.
One must be chosen for it.  I have been
Your color-grinder six and twenty years,
And am not yet an artist.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
                       Some have eyes
That see not; but in every block of marble
I see a statue,--see it as distinctly
As if it stood before me shaped and perfect
In attitude and action.  I have only
To hew away the stone walls that imprison
The lovely apparition, and reveal it
To other eyes as mine already see it.
But I grow old and weak.  What wilt thou do
When I am dead, Urbino?

URBINO.
                       Eccellenza,
I must then serve another master.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
                               Never!
Bitter is servitude at best.  Already
So many years hast thou been serving me;
But rather as a friend than as a servant.
We have grown old together.  Dost thou think
So meanly of this Michael Angelo
As to imagine he would let thee serve,
When he is free from service?  Take this purse,
Two thousand crowns in gold.

URBINO.
              Two thousand crowns!

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Ay, it will make thee rich.  Thou shalt not die
A beggar in a hospital.

URBINO.
                        Oh, Master!

MICHAEL ANGELO.
I cannot have them with me on the journey
That I am undertaking.  The last garment
That men will make for me will have no pockets.

URBINO, kissing the hand of MICHAEL ANGELO.
My generous master!

MICHAEL ANGELO.
                   Hush!

URBINO.
                     My Providence!

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Not a word more.  Go now to bed, old man.
Thou hast served Michael Angelo.  Remember,
Henceforward thou shalt serve no other master.

VII

THE OAKS OF MONTE LUCA

MICHAEL ANGELO, alone in the woods.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
How still it is among these ancient oaks!
Surges and undulations of the air
Uplift the leafy boughs, and let them fall
With scarce a sound.  Such sylvan quietudes
Become old age.  These huge centennial oaks,
That may have heard in infancy the trumpets
Of Barbarossa's cavalry, deride
Man's brief existence, that with all his strength
He cannot stretch beyond the hundredth year.
This little acorn, turbaned like the Turk,
Which with my foot I spurn, may be an oak
Hereafter, feeding with its bitter mast
The fierce wild boar, and tossing in its arms
The cradled nests of birds, when all the men
That now inhabit this vast universe,
They and their children, and their children's children,
Shall be but dust and mould, and nothing more.
Through openings in the trees I see below me
The valley of Clitumnus, with its farms
And snow-white oxen grazing in the shade
Of the tall poplars on the river's brink.
O Nature, gentle mother, tender nurse!
I who have never loved thee as I ought,
But wasted all my years immured in cities,
And breathed the stifling atmosphere of streets,
Now come to thee for refuge.  Here is peace.
Yonder I see the little hermitages
Dotting the mountain side with points of light,
And here St. Julian's convent, like a nest
Of curlews, clinging to some windy cliff.
Beyond the broad, illimitable plain
Down sinks the sun, red as Apollo's quoit,
That, by the envious Zephyr blown aside,
Struck Hyacinthus dead, and stained the earth
With his young blood, that blossomed into flowers.
And now, instead of these fair deities
Dread demons haunt the earth; hermits inhabit
The leafy homes of sylvan Hamadryads;
And jovial friars, rotund and rubicund,
Replace the old Silenus with his ass.

Here underneath these venerable oaks,
Wrinkled and brown and gnarled like them with age,
A brother of the monastery sits,
Lost in his meditations.  What may be
The questions that perplex, the hopes that cheer him?
Good-evening, holy father.

MONK.
                      God be with you.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
Pardon a stranger if he interrupt
Your meditations.

MONK.
                It was but a dream,--
The old, old dream, that never will come true;
The dream that all my life I have been dreaming,
And yet is still a dream.

MICHAEL ANGELO.
                    All men have dreams:
I have had mine; but none of them came true;
They were but vanity.  Sometimes I think
The happiness of man lies in pursuing,
Not in possessing; for the things possessed
Lose half their value.  Tell me of your dream.

MONK.
The yearning of my heart, my sole desire,
That like the sheaf of Joseph stands up right,
While all the others bend and bow to it;
The passion that torments me, and that breathes
New meaning into the dead forms of prayer,
Is that with mortal eyes I may behold
The Eternal City.