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IlIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 
 
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 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.? 
 
ANGELO 
 
 A POEM 
 
 By STUART STERNE 
 
 ■C/(q ^J^r 
 
 ^AjmJ^ ^ 
 
 NEW YORK^ 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON 
 
 BOSTON : H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY 
 
 Cam!irit(ge: ^Tjje i^ikmiie Press 
 1878 fd -^ "' 
 
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 Copyright, 1877, 
 By victor G. BLOEDE, 
 
 RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 
 
 STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY 
 
 H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 
 
To 
 
 Richard Grant White, 
 
 WHOSE MOST MAGNANIMOUS APPRECIATION OF WHAT LITTLE HAD BEEN 
 
 DONE, WHOSE NOBLE CONFIDENCE IN WHAT MORE MIGHT YET BE 
 
 DONE, BY ONE HE DID NOT KNOW AND HAD NEVER SEEN, 
 
 LIKE A FLOOD OF GENEROUS SUNSHINE EARLIER 
 
 QUICKENED INTO GROWTH WHATEVER POWERS, 
 
 WHATEVER GERMS AND POSSIBILITIES 
 
 OF HIGHER DEVELOPMENT THAT 
 
 STRANGER MAY POSSESS, 
 
 WITH THE EARNEST HOPE THAT HE MAY 
 
 FIND IT WORTHIER OF HIS ACCEPTANCE THAN HE COULD 
 
 HAVE FOUND ANY PREVIOUS EFFORT, 
 
 ^5fs 3lal)or oC Sobc 
 
 IN WARMEST GRATITUDE IS DEDICATED 
 BY 
 
 S. S. 
 
*^ Above all, he loved Vittoria Colonna, Marchesa of Pescara, 
 of whose divine spirit he was enamored, being in return most 
 sincerely beloved by her. She several times left the places where 
 she had gone to spejtd the summ,er, and came to Rome, for no 
 other purpose than to see Michel Angelo, and he in return bore 
 her so great a love, that I retnember hearing him say that noth- 
 ing grieved him save that when he went to see her as she was 
 ■passing from this life he had not kissed her brow or her cheeks^ 
 as he kissed her hand.^''- — CoNDivi, Life of Michel Angelo. 
 
ANGELO. 
 
 Vespers were ended. The last clouds of incense, 
 Whose fragrant wreaths, rising from out the cen- 
 ser 
 The pretty boy had swung, obscured an instant 
 The high, old altarpiece, — the Saviour toiling 
 Beneath the burden of His cross up hill, — 
 Were faded now j the chanting voices silent ; 
 The deep-toned organ hushed, whose mighty breath 
 Filled the dim arches of the vaulted dome 
 With strains divine ; the benediction given ; 
 The parting bell rung^ whose last, singing echoes 
 And faint vibrations slowly died away 
 On the soft, balmy air. The worshipers 
 Streamed from the heavy portal, dark with age. 
 And carved by master-hand with many a quaint 
 And fanciful device of angel faces. 
 And grinning masks, and clustering fruit and 
 
 flowers, 
 And slowly parting, here and there dispersed : 
 
6 ANGELO. 
 
 Some sauntering leisurely to stately homes, 
 Others bending their swifter steps in haste 
 Towards humble cots, till all were lost to view. 
 Their robes long gleaming gayly everywhere 
 Along the windings of the path that led 
 Up to the chapel on the hill. Its brow 
 O'erlooked the country spreading far around 
 The Eternal City on her seven hills. 
 Upon whose sides, amid the pillared mansions 
 Nestling in dark-hued, never-fading green, 
 Showed here and there great flecks of russet, 
 
 marks 
 Of the advancing autumn, but as yet 
 Clad with full verdure by the dense-leaved vines 
 That decked them everywhere. Valley and hills, 
 And the great, yellow river sluggishly 
 Washing their foot, all bathed and flooded now 
 By the last mellow light of golden evening; 
 The sun already hanging low, the shadows 
 E'en now half purpling in the deeper dells 
 Where his beams reached no more. 
 
 From out the chapel 
 The portly priest had passed, with smile benign, 
 And muttered, " Peace be with you, my good 
 
 children ! " 
 Dispensing blessings from his plump, white hands 
 
ANGELO. 7 
 
 To such old crones as hung about him, eager 
 To catch them, or to touch the garments of 
 The reverend father. In the cool, broad aisles. 
 Beneath the quiet arches, — here what lingered 
 Of sultry summer still, too loath to go. 
 In the warm air outside, had never entered_, — 
 None ■ stayed now save the group close by the 
 
 altar, 
 Near the stained window, where the sun, that 
 
 poured 
 Through the wide opened doors in one broad 
 
 stream 
 Upon the marble floor, fell softly, broken 
 To many-colored, glowing lights. A cluster 
 Of men engaged in eager speech, some wearing 
 The gay-hued liveries of the courtier, others 
 In the more sober garb of priest or scholar, 
 Speakers and listeners both, gathered round her 
 Who sat among them like one graciously 
 Holding her court. A court that ever grew, 
 For some who had cared little to attend 
 The holy services, yet hungered for 
 This other feast, now wending up the hill. 
 Entered to join the rest. 
 
 Among them, too. 
 Came Angelo, in converse with the friend 
 
8 ANGELO. 
 
 Who brought him hither. As he crossed the 
 
 threshold, 
 A swift, shght thrill — he marveled could it be 
 But the cool shadows that enfolded them 
 So suddenly, after their hasty walk — 
 Shook all his heart an instant. | 
 
 Ah, small need. 
 He thought, as his keen glance flew through the 
 
 church. 
 Even had a thousand other women thronged it, — 
 There was but one save her, a little maid 
 Standing behind her chair, whose idle gaze 
 Or vaguely wandered round her listlessly. 
 Or curiously was fixed on each new comer, — 
 Small need, in truth, to question which was she ! 
 So must, so could but she alone have looked 
 Whose fame, whose virtues, and whose rare, sweet 
 
 beauty 
 Filling the world, so oft rang in his ears, 
 Making her name familiar as a song 
 Long known and loved. 
 
 Some others were before him, 
 And as they were presented to her favor, 
 Angelo noted she received them seated. 
 With but a gracious motion of her hand. 
 And bending slightly forward. But when he 
 
ANGELO. 9 
 
 Advanced to her, she rose and came to meet 
 
 him, 
 And when he, forced to sudden reverence, awed 
 By something in her presence, bowed full low, 
 With half humility, the stalwart frame 
 That was not wont to bend to friend or foe, 
 She cried out eagerly, stretching her hand, — 
 " Nay, nay. Maestro ! suffer that I take 
 Your own in mine, the noble master-hand. 
 That so most swift and faithfully obeys 
 What the still nobler master-mind commands, 
 Has made the world rich in immortal works. 
 And for your brow plucked shining laurels time 
 Can never fade ! " 
 
 And when most willingly 
 He yielded her his hand, she added softly. 
 And 't was but now he heard her gentle voice 
 Was sweet as music, — 
 
 " Aye, in truth. Maestro, 
 This day, long wished for, is a golden one 
 Within the record of my life ! " 
 
 " Surely 
 In mine no less, Marchesa ! " said he, simply. 
 " You honor me too much, illustrious lady ! 
 I 'd come ere now to pay my grateful homage 
 To one it was so long my wish to some time 
 
10 ANGELO. 
 
 Meet face to face, yet 't is but three days since 
 That I returned here from my journey north, 
 Where I was much detained." 
 
 "Let us be seated," 
 She said again, and stepping back through those 
 Upon whose busy tongues silence had fallen 
 As Angelo approached, who one and all 
 Saluted reverently and made way. 
 Prayed him sit by her side. 
 
 " And you, my friends," 
 She asked, turning to them once more, " will you 
 Not now take up again the broken thread 
 Of your discourse ? " And then to Angelo, — 
 " We were discussing as you came, Maestro, 
 The sister arts of brush and chisel, wherein 
 You are consummate master." 
 
 " How, Marchesa, 
 You bid us now continue," one rejoined, 
 " Here before him, the lion in our path ! " 
 Glancing half timidly at Angelo, 
 "Who might confound us all with but a breath. 
 If it so pleased him ? " 
 
 " Aye, and wherefore not ? " 
 Another in gay garb, with laughing eyes, 
 Cried out more boldly. " Have we each of us 
 Not his own head upon his shoulders t What 
 
ANGELO. 1 1 
 
 If none dispute how Master Angelo 
 Towers like a giant over all us pigmies, 
 The greatest of his age and clime ! " 
 
 And seeing 
 How Angelo himself by a grave smile, 
 And motion of his hand to heed him not, 
 Approved the manly speech, they all fell back 
 Into their former converse. The Marchesa 
 Listened most part in silence, earnestly 
 Sometimes, and sometimes half amused, but 
 
 rarely 
 Joining in any argument, yet ever 
 Turning to Angelo with some remark 
 In tone subdued ; and once she asked, " Maestro, 
 Does all this chatter vex you ? Say the word. 
 And I will send them all away ! " " No, no ! " 
 He answered, who had scarce once lent his ear 
 To all they said, but sat wrapt up and lost 
 In silent contemplation of herself. 
 
 How passing fair she was, how stately still, 
 She who had been so many years a wife. 
 And then a mourning widow ! Time nor grief 
 Had power to dim the lustre of her beauty. 
 And what they took from it of the first flower 
 Of youth and freshness, rendered amply back. 
 
12 ANGELO. 
 
 In all the charms of mellow womanhood. 
 
 How like a queen of ripest, royal blood, 
 
 Yet half unconscious of her sovereign state, 
 
 With mildness crowned more than with majesty, 
 
 Grave gentleness and winning dignity 
 
 Most happily blended with a girlish grace 
 
 In form and features ! A white brow so placid 
 
 It seemed eternal peace shone there serene ; 
 
 And yet about the delicate lips, carved proudly, 
 
 But full of latent sweetness, a fine trace 
 
 Of secret pain, that told how this great peace 
 
 Was won not without struggle, gained, mayhap, 
 
 Through bitter storms enough. In her deep 
 
 eyes 
 A calm, still- light, as in the gaze of one 
 Whose hopes are set above all earthly things, 
 Beyond or time or death unchangeably 
 Fixed on eternity. The delicate cheek 
 But faintly tinted with the quiet blood 
 That yet sometimes played easily through it, com- 
 ing 
 And going swiftly; her luxuriant hair, 
 Like pale red gold, humbly bound back, and 
 
 gathered 
 Into a simple coil, yet not so close 
 But that some willful locks had burst their fetters, 
 
ANGELO. 13 
 
 And now hung loosely quivering on her shoulders 
 
 Beneath the dense, dark veil of finest web, 
 
 Nevermore laid aside since the first days 
 
 Of ceaseless sorrow. Her robe, too, was dark, 
 
 Of some rich, sombre fabric, without sheen. 
 
 That broke into deep shadows and dim lights, 
 
 Where from her waist it flowed in heavy folds 
 
 Down to the floor, concealing the light foot; — 
 
 Confined upon her gently heaving bosom 
 
 By one great, shimmering pearl, — a precious tear, 
 
 So fancied Angelo, A plain gold circle. 
 
 Her marriage ring, on her white, slender hand j 
 
 An ivory rosary and crucifix, 
 
 Carved richly, and emitting some fine fragrance, 
 
 Suspended from her girdle. 
 
 Thus she sat 
 Unconscious of the gaze that hung on her 
 But more and more enrapt, clung ever closer, 
 Like to an eager bee upon some flower 
 O'erflowing with sweet honey, thirstily 
 Drank in each tint and line of beauty, rounded 
 So marvelously to a perfect whole, 
 Fed on each look, each breath; till, when at last 
 A pause had fallen in the gay converse round 
 
 them. 
 She turned to him again, — ■ 
 
14 ANGELO. 
 
 "And you, Maestro, 
 Who have of all the first right to be heard, 
 Will you not speak and teach us now ? " • 
 
 And yielding 
 At once to her all-powerful, gentle sway, 
 Forgetting or unheeding his reserve 
 And wonted silence, all his grim dislike 
 To speak thus openly of things knit up 
 As closely with his soul as God himself, 
 That were that soul's own deepest life, melting 
 In the one great desire to do her pleasure. 
 He rose and stood among the rest, took up 
 The tangled skein of their discourse, where they 
 Half hopelessly had dropped it, and confirming 
 The arguments of some, confounding others, — 
 All drawing round him in respectful silence, — - 
 Soon made it a clear woof, feeling how, 'neath 
 The mild light of that quiet eye, he warmed 
 To so great, unaccustomed eloquence 
 That he himself grew half amazed at his 
 Own glowing words. 
 
 She in her turn now, noting 
 The rugged features, the keen, blazing eye. 
 The form unbent, the rapid, strengthful motion. 
 The hair still dark, scarce touched with threads 
 of silver, 
 
ANGELO. 15 
 
 All the unbroken vigor of his presence, — 
 Gazed at him long in reverent admiration, 
 And tender, grateful wonder; marveling how 
 Labor and time and much reverse of fortune. 
 The weary years, whose weight had long bowed 
 
 others 
 To aged, feeble men, had left no trace 
 Of weakness here, passed so most harmless, dealt 
 So kindly by him, seeming but to carve 
 More deeply and endurably the lines 
 Upon that powerful brow, and knit more firmly 
 The muscles of the elastic, iron frame. 
 So stood he 'mid the others, as among 
 The pliant, pale-green saplings of the wood. 
 The sturdy oak, uprooted not, nor shaken 
 By all the fiercest tempests that had tossed 
 Its mighty crown. 
 
 Once 'mid his speech he saw 
 The low sun, creeping round, now touched her 
 
 hair. 
 Whose golden threads threw back the sister beams, 
 With a mild glow, casting a radiant halo 
 About her head, that shone with double bright- 
 ness 
 Against the dark face of the suffering Saviour 
 On the great altarpiece. And Angelo 
 
1 6 ANGELO. 
 
 Cried in his soul, — " O beauteous, pure and 
 
 saintly. 
 As e'er the Virgin Mother of the Lord ! " 
 While she, perceiving the too fiery glance, 
 And blinded by the light, moved half aside, 
 And drew her veil still closer, over e'en 
 The last, small, gleaming lock, Angelo fancying 
 The sunbeams all were vanished, and the shad- 
 ows 
 Swift deepening round them. 
 
 When he paused at length, 
 She said, " I thank you from my heart. Maestro ! 
 This was an hour, in truth, as full of profit 
 As of delight to me, and surely herein 
 I speak for all ! Now, as a further favor. 
 Pray tell me if you think 't were easily done 
 To build a chapel near here, on the brow 
 Of this same hill, by the old portico 
 Moss-grown and ivy-covered, whence 't is said 
 The cruel Emperor looked down in triumph 
 Upon the conflagration of the city. 
 Where his own bloody hand had flung the fire- 
 brand. 
 Woe and destruction. There would I erect 
 A cloister, so the feet of pious women 
 Might sanctify again the spot, so long 
 
ANGELO. I J 
 
 Made desecrate by that unhallowed spirit; — 
 What think you, Messer Angelo ? " 
 
 " I fancy 
 It were not difficult, — the site well chosen, 
 If memory serve me. But when we depart 
 We may perchance pass by there, if so please 
 
 you. 
 And I then speak more fully." 
 
 "Such desire 
 Was in my heart," she answered. "You have 
 
 guessed 
 What I had ventured not to ask ! " 
 
 " Madonna," 
 Gravely and fervently he said, "you ever 
 Need but command, I am your willing servant!" 
 And as she moved to rise, ere her slow maid 
 Had passed around her chair, for the perform- 
 ance 
 Of her small duties here, he stooped and took 
 The cushion from the floor, whereon her feet 
 Had rested while she sat, she chiding him 
 With a half timid smile, — "Nay, nay. Maestro, 
 I must not thus be served by such as you ! " 
 
 So the gay group broke up, and passed from out 
 The chapel door, in knots of two and three, 
 
1 8 ANGELO. 
 
 Engaged in lively converse as before, 
 Some strolling at their ease near Angelo 
 And the Marchesa, others towards the city, 
 While slowly in the gold-flushed heavens above . 
 The tints of sunset paled, and purple twilight 
 Crept over hill and dale. 
 
 " Surely, Maestro, 
 We meet again ere long ! Come to me soon ! " 
 She said to him at parting. Then at last 
 He took his leave, and bending o'er her hand. 
 Yet venturing not to press it to his lips. 
 He answered, " Aye, Madonna, surely soon ! " 
 " In summer time I dwell not oft," she said, 
 "Within the city, but a little way 
 Beyond the hills there," pointing as she spoke, 
 "In the old cloister Santa Margherita, 
 And now return there for a few brief weeks. 
 Although the summer is nigh over, but 
 E'er gladly welcome such good friends as think 
 
 not 
 The way too f ar ! " 
 
 Beneath the quiet stars 
 That one by one pierced glimmering through the 
 
 skies. 
 He took his silent path adown the hill 
 Back to his solitary home, the workshop, 
 
ANGELO. 19 
 
 Filled with a hundred images, creations 
 
 Of his e'erteeming, never-resting brain, 
 
 In hundred forms and fashions. Some with scarce 
 
 The first conception sketched in few rough lines, 
 
 Others begun and well advanced, still others 
 
 Awaiting but the last fine master-strokes 
 
 Of his ne'er-failing chisel, — many traced 
 
 On loosely scattered sheets, some fully rounded 
 
 In soft, dark clay, a few carved boldly out 
 
 In fine-grained marble. 
 
 As his steps bent thither 
 His thought was but of her whose smile that 
 
 day 
 Had to his eye appeared more mild and beau- 
 teous 
 Than the most radiant star that shone above 
 
 him. 
 Ah, how was 't possible her lord could ever 
 Have left his fair young wife — aye, younger then, 
 But surely scarce more fair — to join the wars, 
 Following the banners of some foreign prince ! 
 Well, mayhap it had been not vain ambition 
 And love of glory only, but the call 
 Of duty, stern, inexorable duty. 
 Merciless necessity ! And a great sigh 
 Swelled Angelo's deep breast. The lord whom 
 she 
 
20 ANGELO. 
 
 Had loved with such a single-hearted passion, 
 
 And wept with such heart-broken agony; 
 
 Had mourned so many years, with never-flagging, 
 
 Unwearying constancy, unto whose shade 
 
 She still was faithful, to whose memory 
 
 She sang those saddest, sweetest lays whose 
 
 breath 
 Bore through all lands the fame of her who craved 
 
 not 
 Or glory or applause; — and dwelling on 
 Her golden hair, her eyes, her lips, her voice, 
 The unconscious, gentle play of her white hands, 
 On all the wondrous beauty of her presence, — 
 And musing more and more upon her kindness 
 And exquisite courtesy to him, — her greeting, 
 How she rose eagerly and took his hand, 
 And how 't was he alone she thus had honored, — 
 It seemed high honor in good truth, and grew 
 Most dear delight to think on. And the Master, 
 Who was a welcome guest in court and palace, 
 Whose favor had been sued, whose friendship 
 
 sought 
 By prmce and pope and king and cardinal, 
 Yet whose proud heart, disdaining their high 
 
 state 
 And lesser worth, had never stirred nor flut- 
 tered, 
 
ANGELO. 21 
 
 Now felt all his whole soul within him thrilled 
 By a new joy and pride. 
 
 " Come to me soon ! " 
 Had she not spoken thus to him at parting ? 
 But yet what called she soon ? — to-day ? to-mor- 
 row? 
 What might not be too soon for courtesy? 
 To him it had not seemed too soon had he 
 Returned to her this very hour ! 
 
 But when 
 With the new morn his daily labor claimed 
 All powers of thought, of head and hands once 
 
 more, 
 He, half ashamed — remembering his gray hair — 
 Of the impatient ardor filled him, put 
 Three days her image resolutely from him. 
 But on the fourth, closing the workshop early, 
 The heat of noon scarce past, he sallied forth 
 From out the gates, his face and heart set towards 
 The village just behind the hills, that held 
 Blest Santa Margherita. 
 
 Easily gained he 
 Admittance here; the stately portress drew 
 The bolt with gentle salutation, bidding 
 A sister, who that moment passed the door, 
 Lead him through the cool, quiet corridors 
 
22 ANGELO. 
 
 To the Marchesa's room. " 'T is scarce the hour 
 
 yet 
 When she receives her friends here, but I think 
 Her task is well-nigh done, and you may enter." 
 And the good nun withdrew. But, ere he 
 
 knocked, 
 Angelo paused a little on the threshold, 
 Feeding his eyes upon the beauteous picture 
 That met him through the open door. 
 
 She sat 
 Like a fair mother in her daughters' midst, 
 .Or like that other name for constancy, 
 Penelope of old, thought Angelo, 
 Her lord's dear image ever in her heart, 
 Surrounded by young maidens, busily 
 Plying their needles, and bent o'er their work, — 
 Some fair enough, some plain, dark heads and 
 
 light, 
 All clad alike in simple, sober garb ; 
 Poor girls, whom the good women of the convent 
 Brought up in charity, making them apt 
 At many useful arts, to send them forth 
 Into the world at last, where one, perchance, 
 Might find a happy lot, a humble home. 
 Another, mayhap, play for one brief hour, 
 In the gay turmoil of that wicked world. 
 
ANGELO. 23 
 
 A brilliant, dizzy part, then at the last 
 To wander back, a broken-hearted woman, 
 To the old cloister's sheltering arms. And while 
 She taught their fingers nimbleness and skill. 
 Wherewith to some time gain them honest bread, 
 She, who sat with them like a guardian angel, 
 Nourished their souls with high and holy thought, 
 Talking with them of God and hope of heaven, 
 The Virgin and the Saviour; fortified 
 Their young, hot, timid hearts with noble tales 
 Of great heroic faith, and constant courage. 
 Of steadfast, sore-tried virtue, triumphing 
 O'er all temptation's evils. Now she was 
 Relating in her low, melodious voice. 
 To them that listened breathless, with their nee- 
 dles 
 Sometimes suspended idly for an instant. 
 The story of St, Margaret, patroness 
 Of their own cloister, who, but armed with her 
 Sweet innocence, had vanquished the fell dragon. 
 The teller's own hands busily employed 
 Upon a rich and beauteous altar cloth. 
 Whereon her skillful needle and her maid's 
 Were deftly twining long, luxuriant garlands 
 Of silken roses and white lilies, round 
 A Holy Mother and her Blessed Babe, — 
 
24 ANGELO. 
 
 Until she suddenly cut short her story 
 And raised her eyes, as Angelo at length 
 Tapped gently at the door. 
 
 " Come in ! " she said ; 
 And as he entered, " Ah, Maestro, you ! " 
 And rose to meet and greet him as before. 
 " A thousand welcomes ! How most amiable 
 And kind to come so soon ! Pray pardon me 
 For but a moment more, and I have done 
 
 here ! " 
 And bidding him be seated by the window, 
 Through which the air came cool and sweet, 
 
 herself 
 Returned among her maidens, — who, perceiving 
 A stranger enter, had glanced swiftly up, 
 And now sat, some with blushing cheeks, and 
 
 eyes 
 Bent meekly on their work again, a few 
 Half coyly eyeing him through long, dark lashes, — 
 Took up her needle yet once more, but left 
 Her tale unfinished then. 
 
 " So soon ! " she said. 
 So soon ! — to her the days that parted them 
 Had then flown fast enough, — the hours that 
 
 were 
 To him a weary time of endless waiting, 
 
ANGELO. 25 
 
 Been counted not by her impatient heart ! 
 
 Aye, how unmoved she was, how calm, while yet 
 
 His hand half shook from the warm clasp of 
 
 hers ! — 
 So soon, in truth ! — and peevishly repeating 
 Her words to him, it seemed a sudden shadow 
 Fell o'er the fleck of sunlight on the floor, 
 A fretful discontent, a swift displeasure, 
 A sense of wrath well-nigh with her, invading 
 His turbulent soul, so finely strung and tem- 
 pered. 
 Oft but a faint breath jarred it. 
 
 And he turned 
 His darkened eyes from her who ever drew 
 
 them. 
 And suffered them to wander round the room, — 
 A lofty chamber with a tinted ceiling, 
 The walls lined everywhere with dark brown 
 
 wood 
 Preciously carved, and hung with many a treas- 
 ure 
 Of art and beauty. In one sacred corner 
 The image of the Saviour on the Cross, 
 And at its foot a cushion; — here, past doubt, 
 She made her daily prayers. Near it a shelf 
 Filled with old, learned volumes, and a seat 
 
26 ANGELO. 
 
 Whereon she rested sometimes, where lay now 
 
 A lute and a small open book of music. 
 
 Here, too, a great stained window, through whose 
 
 panes 
 Fell mellow tints upon the wall beyond. 
 Save where, thrown wMely open, it admitted 
 The breeze and the white light, half checkered by 
 The shadow of the climbing vine outside, 
 And playing o'er the table. Here lay scattered 
 Loose sheets of paper, some half filled with writ- 
 ing, 
 And letters, near her pen. Among them stood 
 Three noble lilies in a tall, white glass 
 Slender as their own stems, and a wide urn 
 Of curious workmanship in fretted silver. 
 Heaped with gold oranges and swelling bunches 
 Of white and pale-red grapes, whose delicate sub- 
 stance 
 Let half the sunlight through. O'er all things 
 
 spread 
 The exquisite bloom, the charm ineffable, 
 Lent by a woman's touch. And Angelo, 
 Even as he fastened on her face again 
 The gaze that could not long be absent thence,. 
 Sighed heavily once more. 
 
 " Now, my good children, 
 
ANGELO. 27 
 
 Go for to-day ! Be diligent at work 
 And earnest at your prayers, until to-morrow 
 You come to me again ! " she said, and rose, 
 And ere the girls took leave with a low cour- 
 tesy, 
 Each one drew near and pressed her timid lips 
 Upon her outstretched hand, while Angelo, 
 With a contracted brow and hungry eyes, 
 Jealously watched them. 
 
 But when they had gone. 
 The maid too vanishing, left them alone, 
 And now Vittoria, with her grave, sweet smile 
 Turned back to him, and drew her chair near 
 
 his j 
 The gloomy frown unbent, all his ill temper. 
 Already half dispelled, melted away, 
 And when she said again, " In truth. Maestro, 
 It was most kind in you to come to-day ! 
 Know you that I have heard you sadly slan- 
 dered ? 
 Even by such friends as say they know you 
 
 well. 
 Who painted you to me as one who loves 
 To dwell apart, withdrawn unto himself. 
 And ever shunning company; and now 
 How pleasantly am I deceived ! " — he answered 
 
28 ANGELO. 
 
 With a grim smile, " As one you 'd say, Ma- 
 donna, 
 Given to black, sullen moods and bursts of tem- 
 per, 
 Morose and fierce, — a most unamiable, 
 Harsh, crabbed old fellow ! Aye, I know such is 
 The pretty name I go by ! But, Madonna, 
 Saw you e'er clouds, however dark, the sun 
 Could gild not with his light?" 
 
 So they sat long, 
 Conversing upon many things ; talked of 
 His native city, of his youth, his art, 
 Of the great statue in the public place. 
 The marvelous tombs, the ceiling of the chapel, 
 Where he in hundred images immortal 
 Had painted the beginning and the end. 
 The first creation and the last dread day 
 Of this small, fleeting world. Of many of 
 The godly monuments that should attest 
 His heaven-born power e'en to the latest ages. 
 Talked freely like old friends, without reserve, 
 As though long years they 'd daily met, accus- 
 tomed 
 To read each other's hearts ; Angelo's soul 
 Unfolding 'neath her influence benign. 
 Opening its deepest life, revealing its 
 
ANGELO. 29 
 
 Most secret thought to her, as never yet 
 
 He had to other mortal, while Vittoria, 
 
 With delicate womanly tact and modesty, 
 
 Held back her own, stood half aloof in shadow, 
 
 Save where in tender sympathy her spirit 
 
 Reached forward to his own. 
 
 Thus sped the hours 
 Until the light waned, and a clear, soft bell 
 Rang out above them, " It is vespers," said 
 
 she. 
 And bent her head as in mute prayer an instant, 
 A look of wrapt devotion in her face. 
 And as he gazed on her, she seemed to him 
 The very spirit of that holy place. 
 Aye, there was something of soft, tinted lights, 
 Of solemn organ strains and sacred songs. 
 In all her life and soul 1 
 
 But as he moved not, 
 When now the bell had ceased, and shortly after 
 Sweet, distant voices rose upon the air. 
 She said again, " The chanting has begun ; 
 I should be there, — come with me to the chapel ! " 
 But he, arising, " No, I must away, — 
 Pardon, Madonna, if I stayed too late, 
 'T is a hard task to leave you ! " 
 
 " Come again," 
 
30 ANGELO. 
 
 She answered simply ; " whensoe'er you please 
 To do me honor, Master, you will ever 
 Be dear and welcome to me." 
 
 " When I please ! 
 Ah, I much fear you know not what you say. 
 What you would bring upon yourself. Madonna, 
 If I should take you at your word ! " And nigh 
 Had added, — Then should I rest here forever, 
 Stir from this spot no more while I have breath ! 
 "How often and how soon," — forgetting all 
 The sting that word had given, — "I'll come 
 
 again ! 
 Yet thank you for your passing courtesy. 
 But will you be alone? I like it not 
 To find a court about you ! Friendship, even 
 Like love, is but a jealous god, and I 
 Am bold, Madonna, and exacting, claim 
 All favors for myself ! " 
 
 "Yes, near this hour. 
 It is but rare that other friends are With me." 
 " And if I, too, be good and diligent " — 
 He asked, clasping the hand she put in his — 
 ** Until we meet again, will you grant me 
 The same reward those maidens took .? " 
 
 And she 
 Said, with her sweet, faint flush and smile, " You, 
 
 Master, 
 
ANGELO. 31 
 
 Are ever so most diligent, you may 
 
 All times take what reward you please ! " 
 
 So with 
 His fervent lips pressed to her hand, he left her 
 Without another word. 
 
 He came again. 
 Full soon and oft, as he had prophesied, 
 ■Came every day at length, passing all freely ^X 
 Both in and out her dwelling when it pleased him, 
 At morn, or noon, or eve j until the hour 
 That brought him sight of her to feast on, grew 
 The one bright, luminous point in all his day, 
 However dark and toilsome all the rest, — 
 The central sun round which his heart revolved, 
 Reached forward to eagerly, as a blossom 
 Turns to the light, waxing itself more radiant 
 As so it turned j until her blessed presence. 
 Seemed more than bread, was as the wine of life 
 Unto his thirsting soul, — a need so great 
 That were it suddenly cut off, he fancied 
 He surely must have perished. 
 
 Her he found 
 Ever the same, serene, and kind, and courteous, 
 Sweet in that gentle dignity and peace 
 That sat so well on her, and that no cloud 
 
32 ANGELO. 
 
 Seemed to have power to dim or trouble more, 
 Secure forever from earth's pangs and tempests, 
 His eye but rarely tracing a faint shade 
 Of sadness on her brow. She gradually 
 Warming to deeper confidence with him, 
 Revealing him her heart in turn, perceiving 
 His soul was aye an open book before her. 
 He saw her oftenest clad in sombre robes 
 Like that in which he first beheld her, sometimes 
 Varied by pearly gray or spotless white. 
 Wherein she looked to his enraptured eye 
 Like a sweet bride, — but like a bride of Heaven 
 More than of earth! was his swift, grievous 
 
 thought, — 
 And ever with the fine, dark veil dimming 
 The lustre of her golden hair, shading 
 The beauteous lines of head and face and throat, 
 And with the rosary, yet now and then 
 A cluster of fresh, fragrant violets, 
 A golden-hearted lily, or pale rose 
 Upon her bosom, Angelo e'er gazing 
 With passionate, jealous yearning at the flowers 
 Resting so near her heart. 
 
 Thus passed the autumn 
 And melted into winter, till that greened 
 And blossomed into spring again and summer, 
 
ANGELO. 33 
 
 And that too vanished, and gave way once more 
 To other autumn fading in its turn. 
 Thus many seasons glided swiftly by, 
 How many, Angelo told not. It seemed 
 That he had known her from the world's begin- 
 ning, 
 How he had lived before, long years without her, 
 Scarce comprehending now, time ever deepening 
 The spell upon his soul ; glided by swiftly. 
 Amid a thousand schemes and giant labors, 
 And daily visits to Vittoria, made 
 Sometimes again in Santa Margherita, 
 And sometimes in the chapel on the hill ; 
 More oft in her own dwelling in the city. 
 Where, through the winter and the early spring, 
 She dwelt, in easier reach, — although what road 
 Had seemed too long, too hot and wearisome. 
 So it but led to her ! On those rare days. 
 Dark ones to him and barren, when by some 
 111 chance, some cruel circumstance unlocked for, 
 Some overpress of work, he could not come, 
 He sent her messages and letters, sometimes 
 The breathing, burning words that in his soul 
 When he dwelled far from her, fashioned them- 
 selves 
 Into melodious rhyme. She suffering gravely 
 3 
 
34 ANGELO. 
 
 And silently, rejecting not, nor yet 
 Fairly accepting, by a look or word, 
 The homage, the deep, passionate devotion, 
 He, careless of concealment, lavishly 
 Poured at her feet, only refusing ever 
 To read in the hot flame wherewith his eye 
 Sometimes lit up, more than most ardent friend- 
 ship. 
 And once she wrote to him, " If you, my friend. 
 Send me so many letters, pray do they 
 Not make you tardy at your morning's work ? 
 Myself, I know, they more than once delayed 
 From early mass, for when they come I cannot 
 But stop and read." And he, bowing his head, 
 Submissively received the gentle hint 
 So delicately tempered by fine flattery, 
 And wrote no more so often. 
 
 He was with her 
 Late one long afternoon in early spring. 
 While she yet tarried in her stately mansion. 
 The day had been full warm, and the skies dark- 
 ened 
 With rain that fell not, only now, towards eve, 
 A tardy sunshine lit the brightening heavens, 
 A fresher breath stirred the reviving air. 
 The windows of the chamber where they sat, 
 
ANGELO. 35 
 
 That overlooked the river in the distance, 
 Were thrown wide open on the broad veranda, 
 O'er whose checked marble floor there flickered 
 
 now 
 The timid shadows of the fresh, young leaves 
 But just kissed into life by the warm sunbeams. 
 And making green the stout old vine that wound 
 Its arms about the pillars. The faint breeze 
 That drifted by them wafted now and then 
 To Angelo the odor of the violets 
 Upon Vittoria's bosom. 
 
 "Aye, Madonna," 
 He said, breaking a pause, in moody tones, 
 For not e'en she had power to exorcise. 
 Always and wholly, the dark, haunting spirits 
 That often swift and unaccountably 
 Beset his soul, "As we advance in life, 
 As we grow old, — and think how many years 
 Have passed o'er this head ! — full three-score 
 
 and over. 
 Sixty long winters ! — there steals on us, some- 
 times, 
 A sense of waning power and weariness ! 
 Aye, one grows weary of all things at last. 
 Unutterably weary unto death ! " 
 He cried more loud, flinging his arms aloft 
 
36 ANGELO. 
 
 With a great, powerful gesture, that but ill 
 Chimed in with his lamenting words: "Weary" — 
 He went on fiercely, heeding not this time 
 The gentle voice that would have interposed — 
 " Of peace and storms, of triumph and defeat, 
 Success and failure, praise and blame and glory, 
 Labor and struggle and unceasing eifort, 
 Of all the fevered heart and brain conceive, 
 Of strength itself and everlasting courage, 
 Unnerved even for the very task itself — 
 Oh, the most difficult task ! — of living, breathing, 
 Moving our hands and feet ! And looking back, 
 It seems to me there is no day, no hour 
 In all my past, wherein I battled not, 
 Wrestled not fiercely with myself or others. 
 With hostile fate and circumstance, — fought not 
 My ground, hewed not my path, even inch by 
 
 inch, 
 Through thousand difficulties, pains, and perils, 
 Bleeding at countless wounds ! My youth em- 
 bittered 
 By petty jealousies and enmities, 
 Wranglings and scoffs of those that envied me 
 What power God gave me, and what more I 
 
 gained 
 By hot, unceasing labor. In my manhood 
 
ANGELO. 37 
 
 My country's fall and ruin and disgrace, 
 
 My native town foully betrayed into 
 
 Her cursed foe's red hand ! Oh, such a blow 
 
 Is never quite lived down. It is a wound 
 
 That rankles on forever, seems to sap 
 
 The very root of life ! " And a great anguish 
 
 Rang in his deep-toned voice. 
 
 " Nay, friend," she said, 
 When now he paused, " if the good God, who has 
 Exalted you above so many thousands, — 
 And does not all our fair, wide land, not only 
 The noble city of your birth, claim you 
 For her great son, her joy and pride! — saw fit 
 To send you sharper pangs than to us others, 
 'T is for He made you greater than us all, 
 Cast your soul in some higher, godlier mould 
 Than that wherein he fashioned other mortals ! 
 And surely for all bitterness you speak of, 
 There has been sweetness also, in your life. 
 And bliss diviner than was ever given 
 To us poor children of the earth to know. 
 You have scaled heights where our more feeble 
 
 feet 
 Can follow not, drunk deep of ecstasies 
 We scarce have tasted. In your giant spirit 
 Both pain and joy alike tower far above 
 
38 ANGELO. 
 
 The measure of our common understanding, 
 
 To heights that make the curse, perchance, and 
 
 yet 
 The greatness of your life, — nay, but which are 
 That very life itself ! And in those hours 
 Of weariness," she said again, when he 
 Made yet no answer to her words, — " my friend, 
 Believe they come to all of us ! — can you 
 Not think of Him, our shining, great example 
 In patience and long-suffering, — Him who toiled, 
 Bowed 'neath the aching burden of His "cross 
 Up the steep hill, and fainted by the road-side, 
 To ever rise again, and yet toil onward 
 Until the top was gained ? " 
 
 He still stood silent, 
 And doubtful if he heard her, with his brow 
 Bent frowning on the ground in gloomy revery. 
 She gently laid her hand upon his arm 
 Now hanging listlessly. 
 
 That touch aroused him. 
 And turning on her eyes still sullen, yet 
 In softer tone, he said, "Ah, but forgive me, 
 Vittoria ! You who bear so generously 
 With all my churlish moods and freaks, — so 
 
 foreign 
 To what your even life, your soul serene 
 
ANGELO. 39 
 
 Have ever known, you scarce may comprehend 
 
 them ! 
 Wherefore talk I to you of age ! On you 
 Time left no scars ! " 
 
 "Nay, you forget, Maestro," — 
 Half smiling as she spoke, too glad to lead him 
 From the dark depths back to more shallow 
 
 waters, — 
 " I, too, have seen full two-score years and over ! " 
 " But they were sunny summers ! " 
 
 " Nay, my friend," — 
 And all her smile had vanished, — " my life, too, 
 Has known its chilly winters and fierce storms ! " 
 She paused an instant, then, — " And what you 
 
 say 
 Of that still sense of waning strength, — though 
 
 surely 
 The power of your green years is still unbroken. 
 You will make glad the world with many more 
 Immortal works 1 — that sense we women own 
 In the perception that with time there fades. 
 Though we would bid it stay, all that in young 
 
 days 
 Once made us fair, perchance ! " 
 
 " Your passing beauties " — 
 He answered ; and from out the eyes resting 
 
40 ANGELO. 
 
 Upon her with a dreamy gaze all darkness 
 Melted away, until they well-nigh smiled — 
 " Heaven is but gradually and one by one 
 Recalling to Himself, to clothe therewith 
 Some other human soul, so they may not 
 Be wholly lost to this sad earth. Even as 
 He gathers up my sighs and prayers and tears 
 To give to him who then shall worship her 
 As I do you, and happier far than I, 
 Have power, mayhap, with all the pains endured, 
 To move her heart, as I could ne'er move 
 yours 
 
 I" 
 
 Her eye fell, but she answered not. And he, 
 After a moment's silence, sighing heavily, 
 Thrown back on his old thoughts, all the black 
 
 shadows 
 Deepening once more about him, said again, — 
 " Aye, there is not a year whose memory hangs 
 
 not 
 Like a dead weight upon my soul! But yet 
 Our sense grows callous, too, and dulled ; and 
 
 thus 
 The edge is taken off all things, darkness 
 And light alike ! Our heart's most generous 
 
 fires 
 
ANGELO, 41 
 
 Languish and die ; our soaring thought falls 
 
 flat ; 
 Hope turns to vain despair and joy to anguish ; 
 Fond dreams and prayers melt into empty air; 
 Yearning consumes itself, eats its own heart ; 
 The tenderest chords are rudely jarred and 
 
 broken 
 So many countless, maddening times, at last 
 The sickened soul, — for it is here " (striking 
 His hand upon his heart) " that we are pierced 
 Unto the life ! — chilled and repulsed so often, 
 Rolled back to feed upon itself alone, 
 That rushed out joyful to embrace the world, — 
 Stabbed by a thousand disappointments, pricked 
 
 by 
 Unnumbered smarting stings and needle-points, 
 Starved into grim indifference, its own self 
 Grows cold and hard, learns to accept unques- 
 tioning 
 The bitter stone of resignation for 
 Its natural, daily bread, — scarce ventures more 
 To spread poor, stunted wings, that life has 
 
 clipped 
 So closely that they bleed, wherewith to flutter 
 Even towards the smallest hope ! And yet some 
 things," 
 
42 ANGELO. 
 
 He fieiicely cried, and clinched his hands to- 
 gether, 
 With one consuming, flaming glance at her, — 
 " Some hopes we cannot, will not, yield e'en then, 
 Surrender not with life itself ! — It seems 
 That we must wrest from Fate, and be it from 
 Her deepest, merciless heart ! " 
 
 The swift, faint flush 
 That kindled 'neath his eye, and slowly spread 
 O'er brow and cheek and neck, showed him how 
 
 well 
 She understood, but yet she said full calmly, 
 "From Fate, perchance, my friend, but not from 
 
 God! 
 In those old, far-off days, when even as now 
 God dwelt beyond the stars, but for some cause 
 Inscrutable unto our feeble sight 
 Had never made His presence manifest. 
 Revealed Himself to men, — the da3^s when gods 
 Lived on Olympus, and below here peopled 
 The woods and rivers, mingling freely in 
 The human joys and sorrows of the mortals 
 From out whose brain they sprang, — then men, 
 
 perchance, 
 Might talk of Fate and wresting from her grasp 
 What she denied. But, Angelo, for us 
 
ANGELO. 43 
 
 Who are so favored by His signal mercy, 
 Us who have looked upon the face of God, 
 It is not thus to speak ! " 
 
 "The face of God, 
 The face of God ! " he muttered. " Aye, but e'en 
 The face of God itself is dimmed and blurred 
 By all the tears and clouds and blinding smoke 
 Of petty earth-fires, rolled 'twixt us and it. 
 Till in the troubled currents of our lives 
 Our groping sight half loses it, — all radiance 
 Is well-nigh blotted out ! " 
 
 But she this time 
 Scarce heard the murmured words, for she had 
 
 risen. 
 And passing to the chamber's other end 
 Took from a casket, curiously inlaid. 
 Some leaves of paper; then returning, asked, 
 " Pray, Angelo, would you have patience now 
 To listen to such lines as I last wrote, 
 Lend me your ear and mind a little, kindly 
 Give me your judgment? They have not been 
 
 heard yet 
 By other friends ! " 
 
 And reading in his eye 
 His too glad willingness, even had he not. 
 Suddenly subdued, cried out, " Ah, yes. Madonna, 
 
44 ANGELO. 
 
 How can you question, 't is a joy and honor ! " 
 She bidding him sit near her, read to him. 
 
 Read in her low, clear voice that quivered not, 
 A lay of love and praise, a plaint of pain 
 For the departed, at whose tomb her soul 
 Kept ceasless watch, and all her heart's affections 
 Burned like a lamp eternal, night and day, — 
 A passionate outpouring of the founts 
 Of deepest tenderness and grief, in words 
 So full of music, on her lips they seemed 
 Soft as the murmur of that shady brook, 
 Sad as the warble of that nightingale, 
 Sweet as the breath of that fair, sunkissed rose 
 Whereof she sang, and yet wherefrom all glory 
 Had parted with his vanishing. A song 
 Through all whose tearful sadness there yet shone 
 A mild, unshaken star, the faith sublime 
 That ever pointed upward, a great trust 
 In Him who doeth all things well. 
 
 "My friend, 
 What say you ? " she asked, gently, after ending. 
 As he sat long in silence. 
 
 "O Vittoria, 
 What would you have me say ! " he cried. " It is 
 The sweetest strain ever made glad these ears, 
 
ANGELO. 45 
 
 And the most bitter ever pierced this soul ! 
 But would I, too, had faith like yours ! Yet for 
 You women, who ne'er mingle as we must 
 In the fierce conflicts of the evil world. 
 Whose souls are of more even, peaceful temper, 
 'T is easy to have faith ! " 
 
 " Think you in truth, 
 It was so easy ever ? " And in her 
 Deep earnestness she laid unconsciously 
 Her hand on his once more, and though his own 
 Hungered to clasp it round and hold it close, 
 Fearful she might withdraw it, he moved not 
 A finger, ventured scarce to breathe. 
 
 " Believe you, 
 The rock of faith, where now I trust my soul 
 Has built her mansion indestructible. 
 Was gained without much weary toil, without 
 Much difficult ascent, and bleeding feet ? 
 The calm that you perchance see with me 
 
 now 
 Was never rent by tempests, — was not found 
 Beyond most troubled, storm-tossed seas ? O 
 
 friend. 
 Then have you read my heart but ill ! " 
 
 And slowly 
 Drawing her hand away and leaning back 
 
46 ANGELO. 
 
 With a deep sigh, her eyes gazing far off 
 Into some dreamy distance now, her soul 
 Borne on the current of her own sweet song 
 Back to the bright shores of the golden past, 
 She said again, — 
 
 "Our parents had betrothed us 
 In early infancy, but as he grew 
 To man's estate, and I to womanhood. 
 Our hearts confirming the long bond, knew well 
 Of all the wide world we could ne'er have loved 
 But one another; and in the fresh springtime 
 Of both our lives — only our love had turned 
 E'en latest days to spring — we two were wed. 
 Oh, have you ever loved, in youthful years," — 
 And nigh forgetting who it was that heard her 
 There quivered in her rising voice a thrill 
 Of deepest passion, — " in glad, youthful years. 
 When joy and hope were young and fair and 
 
 radiant. 
 When the swift blood bounded through every 
 
 vein, 
 Each breath, each pulse of eager, throbbing life, 
 Was sweetest bliss, unspeakable delight. 
 All the earth flooded, as your heart, with sun- 
 shine, — 
 Oh, loved you ever, with each glowing sense, 
 
ANGELO. 47 
 
 Each burning fibre of your soul ? " — 
 
 " Madonna ! " 
 He cried out suddenly, as one in anguish, 
 Whose lips will keep the stifled groan no longer, 
 That must burst forth at last, — " Madonna, spare 
 
 me ! " 
 And laid one trembling hand upon her chair, 
 For with her face turned from him, she had not 
 Perceived how as she spoke his spirit struggled 
 With a great, dark despair, that all in vain 
 The working brow strove to conceal, and now 
 But swiftly glancing round, she said more calmly, 
 " Forgive me, Angelo ! I would but pray you 
 Remember all the passion of your youth. 
 If you would know what was our love ! " And 
 
 then, 
 Her voice soon sinking to its wonted peace. 
 Went on, — 
 
 "The first few blissful years we dwelt 
 Upon a beauteous island in the sea, 
 Near that blue, smiling bay and dark volcano, 
 So famed among the glories of our land, 
 The untold happiness of all our days 
 Undimmed by any faintest shadow, save 
 That Heaven pleased not to hear our ardent 
 
 prayers 
 
48 ANGELO. 
 
 To grant us a sweet child. Then came the day 
 When called on by the prince — a stranger, too, 
 Yet who espoused our much-loved country's 
 
 cause — 
 To join his arms against the foreign foe 
 Whose desecrating hands were lying waste 
 Our blooming fields : he went from me, and I, 
 What though the souls of both of us were wrung 
 At parting thus, perceiving his high duty 
 And mine full clearly, sought not to detain him, 
 But rather cheered him on. 
 
 " And years succeeded, 
 Long years when he dwelt far from me, but 
 
 rarely, 
 And for but few, sweet days returning home. 
 When oft my lonely, anxious nights were spent 
 In tearful prayer, beseeching Heaven to spare 
 
 him. 
 Preserve him safe 'mid all the thousand perils 
 That ever hedged him round. And then the 
 
 hour 
 That brought me news of a great battle fought. 
 And from himself the message he was wounded 
 Unto the death, he feared, and bid me haste 
 To come to him in the great city north 
 Where he had halted. With my breathless soul 
 
ANGELO. 49 
 
 Hung trembling, thrilled by hope and doubt and 
 
 fear, 
 I flew to him, pausing nor night, nor day. 
 Could I have called the lightnings or the storm- 
 winds 
 To serve and bear me on, they yet had been 
 Too slow for my impatience. But half way 
 A messenger in mourning met me, saying 
 It was too late, — that he had died, my name 
 The last sigh on his lips. Ah, Angelo, 
 If hearts could break in one great agony, 
 Then mine had burst as I hung over him, 
 In wild despair clung to the lifeless form 
 That could no longer answer, hear no more 
 All the sweet names I called him with mad 
 
 tears, — 
 The sinful heart which in that hour rose up 
 In rank rebellion against God, and His 
 Most wise and just and merciful decrees. 
 
 "How I survived I know not. For long years, 
 Broken in spirit, dead to every hope, 
 I dwelt within a cloister, half resolved 
 To take the veil, and while I lived to leave 
 Those sheltering walls no more : till, searching 
 closely, 
 4 
 
50 ANGELO. 
 
 With anxious care and scrutiny, my heart, 
 I found it not yet fitted for such high 
 And saintly state, my soul not perfectly 
 Surrendered unto God alone, not wholly 
 Won from all joys and beauties of the earth : 
 Till time had laid her soothing, healing hand 
 Upon the quivering wound and closed it; till 
 The dawn broke slowly, when my Saviour shed 
 The light of His blessed countenance divine 
 Into my darkened soul, with passing mercy, 
 Till I knew joy again, and peace eternal, 
 When I found Him ! " 
 
 And with a rapid motion, 
 Wherein, unknown to her, leaped forth once more 
 The smouldering fire and fervor of her soul, 
 She clasped the rosary and kissed the cross. 
 With passionate, clinging lips. 
 
 Oh for one instant 
 To be that carved, unconscious image there ! 
 Was the wild wish that flashed through Angelo's 
 Hot, jealous heart. And then the after-thought, — 
 Oh what a mad, vain, and presumptuous fool 
 Were he who would bear home this holy life. 
 That like a steady, upward-spiring torch. 
 Burns at the altar of the Most High God, 
 
ANGELO. 5 1 
 
 To be the fire on his domestic hearth ! — 
 Impossible conceit ! 
 
 And swift regretful 
 Of his irreverence, bowing his head 
 Upon the hand he gently took in his, 
 And that resisted not, now drooping idly 
 Upon her lap, the other one brief moment 
 Covering his eyes, he said, — and now his voice 
 Was low and deep, — 
 
 " I thank you ! O Vittoria, 
 Who did in truth win an immortal victory, 
 Who triumphed over life, and conquered death. 
 Teach me such faith as yours ! The trust sub- 
 lime 
 That is as oil upon the troubled waters ! 
 Aye, I have hungered, thirsted, blindly wrestled 
 For peace like yours full many a day in vain. 
 In the dark hours when all the maddening spec- 
 tres 
 Of the sore past arise, when I remember 
 All I have suffered and shall suffer yet, 
 The slumbering poison in the blood awakes, 
 My stubborn heart groans 'neath its galling bur- 
 den. 
 Forgets, denies its God ! I stand before you 
 Loaded with years, and bowed with weight of sin, 
 
52 ANGELO. 
 
 The taint of many ills upon my soul ! 
 Yet see me a repentant sinner ! Take me, 
 And mould and fashion all my heart anew. 
 Reject me not ! let me be your disciple, 
 Help me, guide me. Madonna ! Show my feet, 
 That plod through stony valleys filled with shad- 
 ows, 
 To scale the sunny heights yours long have gained ! 
 From you I could accept and learn, methinks, 
 That which naught else beneath God's far-off 
 
 heavens 
 Could ever teach me ! " 
 
 She drew softly from him 
 The hand that rested in his clasp till now. 
 And for one intant, as though blessing him. 
 Laid her white fingers, lightly as a breath, — 
 And yet the touch thrilled through his veins 
 
 like fire, — 
 Upon his brow, uplifted to her face 
 With a new fervor radiant in his eyes; — 
 Then, a faint tremor in her voice, she said, 
 " I will endeavor, Angelo ! What help 
 My feeble power, what help a fellow mortal 
 Can give you, shall be yours with all my soul. 
 But, friend, salvation such as this, through slow 
 And painful travail mayhap, is yet born 
 
ANGELO. 53 
 
 From our own deepest consciousness alone. \ 
 And that within your inmost heart there lives 
 Even now a faith like that whereof you speak, 
 Strong, great, unquenchable, I am well sure. 
 Nay, Angelo, shake not your head ! I know 
 
 it! 
 He who was blessed with such high, godly gifts 
 As unto you were granted, surely bows 
 With every breath he draws, mutely before 
 The Power who gave them, every hour of life 
 Acknowledges, if half unconsciously. 
 The Godhead, the last, absolute Perfection, 
 That never failing feeds his inspiration. 
 Whereof each aspiration of his soul 
 Is but a part, — the soul that dwells forever 
 Close to the heart of God ! Pray draw me some 
 
 time 
 An image of the Lord ! — Christ the Redeemer 
 Upon the tree suffering His earthly anguish. 
 And in those godly features let me read 
 My fond conviction true ! Will you, my friend ? " 
 
 " Perchance, Madonna ! Aye, some time, I will, 
 Some time,— but I may say not, know not when ! " 
 He murmured, stooping to pick up a violet 
 Had slipped from out her bosom to his feet. 
 
54 ANGELO. 
 
 And so, her hand pressed to his lips and heart, 
 They parted for that day. 
 
 The next and next, 
 For three long days, the sultry air yet brooded 
 Heavy with undue heat above the earth, 
 Till that nigh groaned. Fierce summer, it ap- 
 peared. 
 Had leaped with one bold bound into his throne, 
 Ere yet his time was come. The fiery sun 
 Sent scorching arrows down from blazing skies. 
 Till the o'ercharged, hot heart of heaven at 
 
 length 
 Burst in a gush of tears, and the wild rain 
 Swept down in wind-lashed torrents. For long 
 
 hours 
 The tempest shook and tossed and madly fretted 
 The trembling, bending shrubs and sighing trees. 
 Flowering in the first tender green of spring. 
 And loudly piping drove against the panes. 
 Then fell a pause, too swift and suddenly 
 To long endure; and still dark, fitful clouds 
 Flew shifting through the murky skies ; but in 
 That momentary hush came Angelo. 
 Yet to his soul, wherefrom she fondly fancied 
 The shadows for a little time had fled, 
 
ANGELO. 55 
 
 The breaking storm, that seemed to roll a weight 
 From every heart, had brought no calm. Vit- 
 
 toria 
 Well knew it at the first swift glance, long 
 
 skilled 
 In reading on that face each faintest shade. 
 He would not seat himself, but moved about 
 Uneasily here and there, said naught, and made 
 But short and broken answers to such questions 
 As she in all her wonted grave, sweet manner 
 Would ask from time to time. Until at length, 
 Wearied with such bleak converse, and perchance 
 Catching from him some spirit of unrest, 
 She said, " Methinks 't is warm here and oppress- 
 ive ! " 
 And rising threw the window widely open. 
 " Ah yes," as she gazed up into the skies, 
 " The storm is not yet over, — heaven not yet 
 Has emptied all his floods ! there in the east 
 Another tempest brews, but till it burst 
 Come, Angelo, let us out here upon 
 The balcony; the air is cool and pleasant 
 After the rain. But oh, how it has raged ! " 
 For all the floor lay strewn with bright young 
 leaves 
 
56 ANGELO. 
 
 The merciless wind had torn from off their vine 
 And scattered there. 
 
 Mutely he followed her, 
 And while she sat where she could see the river, 
 Half veiled in' vapory mist, he with his arms 
 Crossed on his breast, stood by in moody silence. 
 Leaning against the pillar nearest her. 
 At length, bending upon her strange, dark eyes, 
 Whose meaning this time she could fathom not. 
 He said, in husky tones, once more resuming 
 Their last discourse, as though no space divided 
 That hour from this, — 
 
 "And 'tis the sorest ill 
 That years and suffering on our souls inflict. 
 That they rob conscious life of all delight, 
 Existence of all rapture, — that the thrill 
 Of ecstasy must perish. Oh, how shortlived 
 That golden dream of early youth and child- 
 hood. 
 Which sees the earth in thousand rainbow tints, 
 A shimmering, witching, wondrous fairy-land, 
 Where all things great and fair are possible, 
 Spread in its charmed sight ! How soon it fades 
 Into dim distance hopelessly, that naught. 
 No yearning and no tearful turning back, 
 Can e'er bring near again, — the spell is broken, 
 
ANGELO. 57 
 
 «> 
 
 The bright enchantment fled ! How soon we 
 
 learn 
 How cold and bleak and barren is the world, 
 How stripped of all sweet bloom and tender 
 
 grace, 
 How filled with chill, hard, merciless facts alone, 
 'Gainst which we strike our feet and break our 
 
 hearts 
 At every step ; whereon each fond delusion 
 Is shivered like a bauble on a stone ; — 
 A dreary waste where naught is possible 
 Of great and fair, save what ourselves achieve 
 With aching strain of every nerve and fibre ! " 
 
 He scarcely paused, then said again, his breast 
 Heaved with swift-flying breath, his voice, sub- 
 dued first, 
 Swelled, gradually with deep and deeper pas- 
 sion, — 
 " But one thing can restore the broken spell, 
 A tardy recompense in later years 
 For all lost ecstasies, — and when we find it, 
 Shall we not love it, strain it to our hearts, 
 Our bleeding hearts, to hold it there forever, 
 A joy eternal, — plant the shining lily 
 In our poor patch of withered desert land? 
 
58 ANGELO. 
 
 Madonna ! " cried he, while she gazed at him, 
 A shade of anxious, deepening, trouble darkening 
 Her quiet eyes, — " Madonna, you are she. 
 Who in the wintry autumn of my years, 
 Now, at the hour when other men look forward 
 But to the grave, have burst on my dark life 
 A starry, singing, flowering spring, — brought back 
 My youth to me and gladness, nay a youth 
 More joyous than I ever knew ! — beneath 
 Whose magic touch the sunken fairy-land 
 Arose once more in all its ancient splendor! 
 Aye, life is beautiful and earth is fair. 
 Lies bathed in golden sunlight at. my feet, 
 Since I knew you, loved you ! Nay, suffer me 
 To tell you so but once ! " he fiercely pleaded, 
 As she rose swiftly up and stood before him 
 One trembling hand outstretched and face averted. 
 " But once to speak in words what yet no words 
 Can ever tell, but what has surely long 
 Been known to you from thousand silent signs. 
 And more than once well-nigh o'erflowed in 
 
 words ! 
 Nay, I will speak ! " he cried, as her lips moved, 
 " For once relieve this bursting heart of what 
 Was here locked up so long " — striking his 
 
 breast 
 
ANGELO. 59 
 
 With his clinched hand — " that it has grown a 
 
 galling, 
 Intolerable burden ! I must speak 
 This once at every cost, and you must hear me, 
 Though you should banish me from out your sight 
 Forever after this ! I know my cause 
 Is hopeless, hopeless as though I should stretch 
 These hungry arms to clasp the sun above us ! " 
 And yet, perceiving her lips blenched and quiv- 
 ering, 
 He suddenly asked, his voice like a great cry, 
 " Yet is it utterly without all hope, 
 Madonna, is it so ? " 
 
 And now, but for 
 She threw out both her hands to hinder him, — 
 Hands she felt seized, covered with burning 
 
 kisses, — 
 He would have bent a knee. 
 
 "Nay, Angelo! — 
 Nay, for the love of God, I do conjure, 
 I pray, I do beseech you ! — hush ! — no more ! " 
 She whispered breathless over him. " And look, 
 We are no more alone ! " — glancing to where 
 Marietta stood within the open window. 
 Her little maid, holding her lute, who not 
 Suspecting aught, had entered noiselessly 
 
60 ANGELO. 
 
 To seek her mistress, but perceiving now 
 Her lady's eyes on her, turned swiftly back, 
 And would have gone, but that she called to her, 
 "Nay, come, my child! Stay, I have need of 
 you 
 
 f " 
 
 "Pardon; I fancied you alone, Madonna!" 
 She said, advancing shyly. And Vittoria, 
 Now fully facing her, with lips still white, 
 But firm, clear voice, "No, Messer Angelo, 
 You see is with me. Messer Angelo, 
 Who just as you came in saw a black wasp 
 Alighting near my foot, and so stooped down 
 To kindly free me from it ! " 
 
 He had turned, 
 And like a sullen lion kept at bay, 
 Resolved in stubborn fierceness not to yield. 
 But hold his ground before such petty foe, — 
 Retreated to the pillar, where he leaned, 
 His arms thrown backward closely clasping it. 
 His head bowed low upon his breast. A mart}T 
 Bound to his torturing stake ! was the swift image 
 Passed through Vittoria's soul, as hastily once 
 She glanced at him. Surely no martyr's face. 
 Who saw the cruel flames creep close and closer, 
 Was ever darker and more rent with anguish 
 
ANGELO. 6 1 
 
 Than his knit^ stormful brow, his stern -set lips, 
 His shadowed, burning eyes, so fierce, it seemed 
 That lurid lightnings brooded in their depths, 
 As fitfully they darted o'er the forms 
 Of the two women near him. 
 
 "Did you come 
 To sing to me, my child ? " Vittoria asked. 
 "You have your lute, I see. Ah, that is well! 
 I shall be most content to listen now 
 To some sweet strain. And Messer Angelo 
 Will surely pardon, if it please him not ! " 
 
 "Yes, I would sing you the last song, Madonna, 
 They sent me from my country, my sweet France ; 
 They sing it there at court. I have just learned 
 
 it, 
 And fancy it will please you." 
 
 And not waiting 
 For more than a mute sign, while her bright 
 
 eyes. 
 Lit with a glance of swift intelligence. 
 Glided o'er both, she touched her lute and sang : — 
 
 "Nay! pray the gods, my friend, 
 They never 'twixt us send 
 The lurid flame of love. 
 
62 ANGELO. 
 
 The flaring, restless fire 
 
 Of passionate desire 
 
 That brings but tears and pain ! 
 
 Grant we may e'er remain 
 
 In this calm, golden sunshine of the heart, 
 
 Content to meet or part, 
 
 As the glad day and kindly fate ordain ! 
 
 "For wherefore wed, my friend, 
 When now our two lives blend 
 So full and perfectly ? 
 Perchance, yet closer bound, 
 Souls that together sound 
 Now so harmoniously. 
 Jarred and discordant grew, 
 Each other's company. 
 Sweet now and ever new, 
 Tasted unceasingly. 
 Stale as a twice-told tale ! 
 
 " I counted it not gain. 
 But rather grievous loss and bitter pain, 
 Friendship's dear joys were done. 
 And love's delights begun ; 
 A true friend lost me and a lover won ! 
 Nay, I do swear to thee, 
 As God loves thee and me, 
 'T were thousand pities and must never be ! " 
 
ANGELO. 63 
 
 Vittoria had drawn from him, and so turned 
 That Angelo scarce saw her outlined face, 
 Closing her eyes as she lay back to listen, 
 The delicate color slowly surging back 
 To pallid lips and cheek, though still Marietta, 
 Seated upon a low stool near her feet. 
 Thought, even 'mid her singing, never yet 
 Had been her lady's face so lily white. 
 x\nd while she sat and heard, her ear and fancy 
 Touched lightly by the careless words, that set 
 Deftly to some sweet tune, rippled and skipped 
 From off Marietta's pretty lips, like to 
 The warbling of a bright-hued bird, something 
 Like a half smile hovered for one brief instant 
 About her lips, to find how strangely well 
 The airy song chimed with the heavy mood 
 That stifling hung upon their souls, how deeply, 
 Though but with shallow, earthly chords, struck in 
 With the most subtle strings, the finest fibres, 
 So painfully vibrating this dark hour. 
 Faint like a shadow as the smile had been, 
 His jealous eye had seen it, and but ill 
 Catching the meaning of the foreign tongue. 
 He grimly asked, " You smile ! what say those 
 words ? " 
 
64 ANGELO. 
 
 " A sparkling, gay French song," — she answered, 
 turning 
 
 Her head half towards him, but their eyes met 
 not, — 
 
 " Of friends, who would not wed ! " — then to Ma- 
 rietta, 
 
 "A pleasing, . pretty thing, in truth, my child. 
 
 And you have learned it well, and sung it sweet- 
 
 ly.- 
 
 Kind thanks for all your pains ! " 
 
 But Angelo, 
 Who had drawn swiftly near, now bending o'er 
 
 her, 
 Whispered in fevered breath close to her ear, — 
 "A vile French song this hour, and you can 
 
 smile ! 
 You see me perish in your sight and smile ! " 
 Then violently broke away and vanished 
 Ere she could turn to him. 
 
 She made no sign 
 By word or look, to hold or call him back. 
 But with a heavy sigh clasped both her hands 
 Before her face, and thus sat motionless 
 And silent long. All an eternity, 
 Marietta thought, who stayed, yet ventured not 
 To breathe a word. And looking up at length 
 
ANGELO. 65 
 
 She found her little maid's eyes fixed on her 
 With troubled gaze. "How! you still here, my 
 
 child?" 
 She said all gently, yet her voice was strange, — 
 Then, with a motion of her hand, "Go, now; 
 Leave me, my daughter, I would be alone ! " 
 And gathering up her lute, giving no utterance 
 To the swift question rising to her lips, 
 If there were aught that she could do, Marietta 
 Obeyed her lady's bidding. 
 
 He was gone, — 
 His face, his voice, his eyes no longer there ; 
 But yet it seemed as though his unseen presence, 
 His passionate soul, burst from its earthly fetters, 
 Still lingered, hovered near, clung close to her, 
 As though, departing, he had left behind him 
 All his own fitful, feverish, wild unrest. 
 His kisses on her hand burned on and on, 
 What though again and yet again she clasped 
 Each with the other, that was chill as death, 
 Till a fine stream of sharp, consuming fire 
 Coursed through each vein, her quiet pulses flew, 
 A great, unwonted tumult stirred and lashed 
 All the calm, even currents of her blood 
 Into a whirling storm. 
 5 
 
66 ANGELO. 
 
 With swift impatience 
 She rose and pushed her chair away, and hastily 
 Strode long time up and down the wide veranda, 
 How long she knew not, with untiring steps, — 
 Her veil e'er following her like a dark mist, 
 Until she caught and held it fast about her, — 
 Until at length, wearied but yet uncalmed, 
 She sank into her seat once more. 
 
 Sat there 
 Alone upon the darkening balcony, 
 Her throbbing head supported on her hand, 
 Heedless of, seeing not, the lurid sunset 
 That for an instant shed its glory round her. 
 The dim, swift, deepening twilight, and the shades 
 Of the wild night, that fell, — till a pale moon 
 That struggled painfully through flying clouds, 
 Poured out a feeble light upon the floor, 
 Oft dimmed and swallowed by black shadows : 
 
 felt not 
 The chilly breath of the damp wind, that drove 
 The coming storm invisibly before him, — 
 Felt naught, nor heard, nor saw, her inward 
 
 gaze 
 Intently searching her own soul. 
 
 Was it 
 Then possible, oh, possible, my God! — 
 
ANGELO. 67 
 
 That she might yield to his mad prayers? His 
 
 words, 
 " Yet is it utterly without all hope ? " 
 Rang ever in her ears, and she remembered 
 With what intense, fond, clinging sympathy, 
 What deep affection, all her being oft 
 Yearned towards his lonely greatness. Was this 
 
 passion ? 
 Could this be a new love, that unawares 
 Had crept thus stealthily into her heart? 
 And was she growing faithless to his image, 
 The one great master love of all her life, 
 Him, whose blest shadow still, — and at the 
 
 fancy 
 The temple of her inmost spirit shook 
 And rocked in its foundations. 
 
 «Omy God, 
 My God ! " she murmured, and sprang up again, 
 Wringing her hands, " of what avail to rack 
 The feeble brain with torturing thought ! What 
 
 comfort. 
 What balm was ever found, save but with Thee ! " 
 And so fiew back into the room, and, kneeling. 
 Sank at the foot of the great crucifix. 
 " Madonna, O Madonna, sainted Virgin ! " — 
 Was the hot prayer that burst from out her soul, — 
 
6S ANGELO. 
 
 "Oh, if I ever strayed or swerved from thee, 
 
 Forgot thy perfect service for an hour, 
 
 I do beseech thee, grant me pardon now ! 
 
 Oh, by all anguish and all ecstasies. 
 
 The sweetness and the passing bitterness. 
 
 That thou hast known, a thousand times more 
 
 great 
 Than any that could pierce this petty heart ; 
 By all the holy joys of motherhood. 
 To me denied, — thy Blessed Babe's sweet smiles, 
 That thou couldst gather to thy happy bosom, 
 To serve for sunshine on the darkest path; 
 By the fierce sword that rent thy travailing soul 
 Beneath the cross, — look down in mercy on 
 My agony, help thou my wrestling spirit. 
 Here at the feet of Thy Beloved Son, — 
 Thou who a woman, knowst a woman's heart, 
 Free me from this most cruel doubt ! '^ 
 
 Long after, 
 Marietta, who had once or twice before, 
 Bearing her lady's slender evening meal. 
 Tapped at the door without receiving answer, 
 Now venturing to peep in, by the dim moonlight 
 Beheld her thus, keeling in deepest prayer. 
 Her face turned upward to the cross, her hands 
 Clasped tightly on her bosom, — and drew back 
 
ANGELO. 69 
 
 Noiselessly as she came. And later still, 
 Once more stole softly to the room to see 
 If now perchance her lady needed her; 
 But starting, found her sunken with her face 
 Close to the ground, one arm thrown out from 
 
 her 
 As reaching after something far away, 
 The other pillowing her head, from which 
 The golden hair, half-loosed, streamed over her 
 In faintly gleaming waves. She lay so still 
 Marietta anxiously had nigh sprung forward 
 To lend her aid, but that just then she stirred, 
 And a low moan broke from her lips, — the words, 
 " O my Beloved ! turn thy face not from me ! " 
 So once again the little maid slipped out, 
 To come no more that night, her delicate eye- 
 brows 
 Drawn up in mute amazement, as she shook 
 Her sage young head, thinking of all the mis- 
 chief 
 That poor black wasp had made ! 
 
 The hours moved on 
 While thus Vittoria lay, sleepless, but yet 
 Unconscious of all sights and sounds about her. 
 She knew not that the moaning wind outside 
 Rose high and higher, — now burst the casement 
 open, 
 
70 ANGELO. 
 
 Then flung it loudly shut; that the last ray 
 Of sickly moonlight died, leaving the room 
 In utter darkness, that full soon was rent 
 By flashes of blue light, which seemed to fill 
 The fitful heavens as with one sheet of flame, 
 The crashing thunder rolling at its heels ; 
 How later in the night the approaching tempest, 
 Which had but paused so long gathering new 
 
 power. 
 Burst with redoubled fury, sighed and wailed, 
 In whistling gusts of gushing, drenching rain, 
 For a brief, frenzied hour. How that, too, 
 
 passed. 
 The wind fell, the clouds parted, and at length 
 The undimmed stars shone out ; knew but she 
 
 heard 
 A long familiar, much-beloved voice 
 Say to the troubled waters, " Peace, be still ! " 
 And saw that they obeyed, and slowly felt 
 The sweetness of a calm ineffable 
 Descending on her soul. 
 
 When she looked up 
 The nightly stars had paled, the morning broke, 
 A new, glad dawn flushed all the cloudless 
 
 heavens. 
 She rose, and by a slender chain drew forth 
 
ANGELO. yi 
 
 The image of her loved one from her bosom, 
 
 And by the early, swiftly growing light 
 
 Looked on his face; and as there rose before 
 
 her 
 The noble form whereon so oft her eyes 
 Had fed in passionate joy, she knew her heart 
 Had never faltered in its constancy 
 E'en for an hour. All her great love welled up, 
 Shook every fibre of her heart, surged like 
 A swelling tidal wave through every vein, 
 Sent the warm life-blood flushing down into 
 The very hands that, trembling, held the picture. 
 Till all her thrilling soul o'erflowed, glowing 
 With ecstasy, new, yet so all familiar. 
 Till she let fall the crucifix one hand 
 Had clasped till now, and pressed in breathless 
 
 rapture 
 That other image to her lips and heart, 
 Whispering again and yet again, " Francesco ! " 
 
 " Oh, what a strange, wild, fearful fever-dream 
 Was all this long, long night ! " she sighing 
 
 thought, 
 Covering her burning eyes with both her hands. 
 And in the golden morning light at length 
 Sought tardy slumber on her couch. 
 
72 ANGELO. 
 
 Marietta, 
 Who, when the sun already hung full high. 
 Ventured to come again, found her awake 
 And beckoning to her to approach. She still 
 Was paler than her wont, Marietta fancied. 
 And something in the face called to her mind 
 The world outside, — somewhere there was a trace 
 Of a great storm, but yet a calm, clear light, 
 More beauteous than she ever saw before. 
 Shone from her eyes, as in her sweet, low voice 
 She said, "I was not well last night, dear child, 
 Nor yet feel scarcely my accustomed strength, 
 Though I will rise. But for a day or two, 
 Whoe'er may come, would see no visitor. 
 Not even Messer Angelo. I pray you 
 Remember, and so tell him ! " 
 
 For that day, 
 And yet the next, was but small need of this. 
 For he appeared not, but upon the third, 
 Towards gathering eve, he came, and so received 
 The message. He said naught, but bit his lip, 
 And with a look of mute despair slowly 
 Turned from the door. 
 
 The early morning brought 
 A letter from him, where he wrote, — 
 
ANGELO. 73 
 
 " Madonna, 
 See me repentant kneeling at your feet, 
 Imploring your forgiveness ! All I spoke 
 Is but too true, yet I was mad to speak it! 
 You will not see me now, and I submit 
 To your decree as my just penalty, 
 But you will hold me not to my own word, 
 To banish me forever from your sight ? 
 Such was my speech, if now I well recall 
 Aught that I uttered in that frenzied hour ; 
 I have not thus offended past all hope 
 To win your pardon? Nevermore, I swear, 
 Shall you have cause to thus complain of me, 
 But for this once forgive me ! " 
 
 And she answered, 
 "With all my heart I pardon, Angelo, 
 If one may pardon where was no offense, 
 And I make no complaint. Yet for a time 
 Methinks that it were well for both of us 
 We should not meet. In but a day or two 
 I leave the city for my summer stay 
 At Santa Margherita." 
 
 She was going 
 For all the summer, and would suffer not 
 He bade farewell! — said this time not, "Come 
 soon 
 
74 ANGELO. 
 
 To see me, if the way is not too far ! " 
 Though she had told him her retreat, trusting 
 That he would understand, and surely honor 
 Her mutely hinted wish. 
 
 He made no answer, 
 But ere the week had passed, sent her a sheet, — 
 The image of the Saviour on the Cross, 
 She once had begged of him. 
 
 And when she saw 
 The throbbing, thorn-crowned brow, the bleeding 
 
 side. 
 The hands and feet pierced by the cruel nails, 
 The white, parched lips, the breaking eye, where 
 
 yet 
 Even now, in this last agony, shone radiant 
 A gleam of godly hope and trust divine, — 
 The aching limbs, so heavy with near death, 
 It seemed, but for two angels that sustained Him, 
 He must have fallen at the feet of her 
 Who stood a broken image of despair. 
 Her form in anguish writhed, her hands stretched 
 
 upward 
 Beneath the suffering Son whom she had borne, — 
 Saw all she had so oft looked on before. 
 But pictured here as though 't were wrested from 
 The bleeding life itself, with power so wondrous 
 
ANGELO. 75 
 
 It pierced her with a pang of love and pity, 
 As swift and. keen as though she now beheld it 
 For the first time, — and read below the cross. 
 In Angelo's bold, rugged hand, the words, 
 "No one hath knowledge how much blood it 
 
 costs ! " — 
 Vittoria covered up her face, and, trembling, 
 Burst into passionate tears. 
 
 The languid days 
 Following the storms of that hot-hearted spring, 
 The sultry weeks of summer, came and went. 
 Crept slowly forward as with leaden pace, 
 But yet they passed, with sureness as unerring 
 As all the hours that borrow wings from joy. 
 Passed swift enough — though 't was so long 
 
 since last 
 He looked upon her face, or heard her voice. 
 Or even had some word or message from her — 
 To Angelo, buried in many labors. 
 So all absorbed in these blank days, wherein 
 All joy and hope seemed utterly cut off. 
 He sometimes nigh forgot he lived and loved her, 
 That heaven had once been near and earth most 
 
 fair. 
 And other hours again, full oft when he 
 
76 ANGELO. 
 
 Awoke in the blind stillness of the night, 
 All the old yearning, the sore, hungry pain, 
 Rose up and shook his heart. 
 
 'T were well for both 
 That for a time they should not meet, she wrote. 
 In those last, cruel lines that parted them. 
 A time, — but yet how long was that ! — how long 
 Meant she this penalty, this banishment 
 Was to endure, this silence, that most surely 
 She her own self must be the first to break? 
 Weeks more, months, years, perchance? And if 
 
 it should be — 
 Forever, mayhap ? And what then, he thought, 
 Though all his soul bled at the cruel fancy, — 
 What then, and if it were ! Oh, what great mat- 
 ter ! — 
 Another shadow in the waning days 
 That from the first were full of troubled darkness, 
 Another drop of Mar ah in the cup 
 That long has overflowed with bitterness, — 
 It were but this, — no more ! 
 
 And then, in all 
 The solitude of his great spirit, cried, — 
 "Labor and Sleep and Death! Oh, my three 
 
 helpers. 
 The sole remaining friends and comforts left 
 
ANGELO. 77 
 
 To strengthen and sustain the fainting heart, 
 Whose slender joys contract e'er more and more 
 To small and smaller circles, — light the path 
 Grows e'er more lonely, dim, and difficult, — 
 Leave me not ye, at least ! — desert me not, 
 Stand by me to the bitter end ! Thou who 
 Through the long day dost aid me to fight bravely, 
 The weary battle e'er again renewed, 
 Of life and consciousness ; thou who at night 
 Dost smooth my thorny, solitary pillow, 
 Bringst me oblivion for a little while. 
 Truce to all warfare here ; and thou, most sure, 
 Most dear and welcome of them all, who at 
 The last shalt hand me the sweet cup of Lethe, 
 Forgetfulness, whence there is no awakening, — 
 The heavy burden presses these sore shoulders. 
 Shall not grow all unbearable, so fong 
 As ye are faithful, — tarry not too long 
 For my impatient waiting ! " 
 
 And sometimes 
 Did he acknowledge it was well, to be 
 Thus stripped of every other cheer and gladness, 
 That all the fervor of his soul was poured. 
 All the deep currents of his being turned, 
 But into the great channel of his labors j 
 No foreign image now, no alien thought, 
 
78 ANGELO. 
 
 No sense of passionate desire, broke in 
 Upon his meditations, wooed his soul 
 From his immortal aims. 
 
 It was late morning 
 On a cool, breezy day far on in summer, 
 When in his workshop Angelo sat thus. 
 His mind and rapid hands intently bent 
 Upon the block of lucid marble, from 
 Whose heart he had carved out a beauteous image, 
 A sleeping Cupid, one small, chubby hand 
 Supporting the round, dimpled cheek, the light 
 That streamed in brightly from above shedding 
 A life-like glow about the curly head 
 And finely penciled brow. He was alone 
 Save for Matteo, his old servant, — yet 
 Far more than servant, his dear, trusted friend, 
 Faithful companion of long years, — mutely 
 Busied with paints and brushes in a corner; 
 And save for the stray bee that now and then 
 Dropped gently humming in through the great 
 
 window. 
 Ere long to find her pathway out again. 
 And for the ringing of the sharp-edged tools 
 The Master handled, perfect silence reigned. 
 Unbroken oft for hours by but a word 
 From either of the two. But as the bells 
 
ANGELO. - 79 
 
 Chimed out from many towers the hour of noon, 
 A tap came at the bolted outer door. 
 
 Matteo slowly went to open, jealous 
 Lest his Maestro be disturbed, and holding 
 The door but half ajar. Outside was asked, 
 "Is Messer Angelo within, good friend, 
 And may I see him ? " 
 
 Angelo's keen ear 
 Had caught the low, sweet sound, missed all too 
 
 long, 
 Of that beloved voice, and a great thrill 
 Half sudden joy, half old, fresh-starting pain, 
 Shot through his heart and shook his hand, so 
 
 that 
 He swiftly put the quivering chisel down. 
 Lest one more stroke, too hastily made, should 
 
 turn 
 The delicate moulding of the Cupid's lips — 
 That looked as from sweet flowers they just had 
 
 sipped 
 Fresh dew and honey, and curved gently upward 
 As with the sunny smile of happy dreams — 
 Into the downward lines of drooping sadness. 
 
 " Aye, aye, Matteo ! " he called out, his voice 
 Unsteady as his hand, " I am within ! 
 
80 ANGELO. 
 
 Pray the dear lady enter, she is welcome ! " 
 And quickly stepping down from his high stool, 
 He hastened towards her, an unwonted flush 
 O'erspreading his dark face. 
 
 For one long instant 
 When first again their eyes met they stood silent 
 Without or word or motion, gazing deeply 
 And lingeringly into each other's soul. 
 Then Angelo's glance fell and turned aside, 
 Beneath Vittoria's quiet, steady eye 
 That wavered not, nor did the delicate color 
 Change in her cheeks, where now no trace re- 
 mained 
 Of that long night. But noting how the furrows 
 On his broad brow, the lines about his lips. 
 Seemed to have deepened since she saw him 
 
 last. 
 She stretched out both her hands to him. 
 
 " Madonna," 
 He said, and swiftly seized them, " this in truth 
 Is passing kind in you ! " 
 
 " Dear friend," she answered, 
 " I come at last to thank you for that Saviour. 
 Forgive me that these thanks should come so 
 
 late, — 
 The thanks e'en yet I scarce know how to speak, 
 Nor ever shall, perchance!" 
 
ANGELO. 8 1 
 
 " It pleased you, then ? " 
 "Angelo, that is not the word! 'Tis all, 
 And more than all my inmost soul had prayed, 
 Hoped, and believed of you. What after that 
 Could I say further ? I have looked on it 
 Till every line is graven on my heart." 
 
 "Madonna," said he, in low tones, "I am 
 Rewarded for all pains ! " 
 
 " Aye, I have come," — 
 Speaking more gayly now, while her eye wandered 
 About the great, wide chamber, — " yet scarce 
 
 know 
 If 'twas permitted me to penetrate 
 Into your inner sanctum, dear Maestro, 
 Break in upon your labors ! " 
 
 "You are free 
 And welcome to the holiest that is mine ! " 
 And then, reading her mute desire, " I have 
 But little here worthy your glance, Madonna, 
 Yet what there is — ! " 
 
 And while she thanked Matteo, 
 Who had been freeing from its dust and cob- 
 webs 
 The sole, old easy-chair he could discover, 
 And brought it to the lady now, he drew 
 6 
 
S2 ANGELO. 
 
 The cloth he hastily had thrown over it, 
 Down from the sleeping Cupid. 
 
 "Ah, Maestro!'^ 
 She cried, beholding it with kindling eye 
 And bated breath, " how fair, how wonderful ! 
 A masterpiece, in truth ; none greater e'er 
 Yet issued from your hands ! Methinks I see 
 The little heart pulsate, the tender breast 
 Heave gently with soft breath, — the delicate 
 
 flesh 
 Must living throb and yield beneath my fingers, 
 If I should dare to touch him, — that e'en now 
 His eyelids quiver and his laughing eyes 
 Will open on us in another instant. 
 Lest we move cautiously! I would not wake 
 
 him, 
 He looks so happy thus ! " 
 
 And Angelo, — 
 " Had I the courage that was mine. Madonna, 
 A little while ago, I had said boldly, 
 Surely he never sleeps within your presence^ — 
 'T is but a trick ! " 
 
 And only now, too late. 
 Perceiving on what ground her foot had trenched, 
 The tardy flush rose to Vittoria's brow, 
 And she turned from him. 
 
ANGELO. 83 
 
 Old Matteo, sharply 
 From his far corner watching them, marveled 
 His master ever stood as at High Mass, 
 With head uncovered, — a deep mark of rever- 
 ence 
 Even the Holy Father scarce won from him. 
 For when his Holiness some time ago 
 Had honored them, he had but grimly doffed 
 His cap an instant, and then put it back. 
 Ah, true, the lady was most beautiful. 
 No royal princess ever could be fairer, 
 Crowned with such golden hair ! — a gliding sun- 
 beam. 
 She lighted all the place, thought the old man, 
 His eyes long following her admiringly. 
 As near his master, with her slow, proud step. 
 She moved about the workshop, dim and dusky 
 At those far ends where the light, pouring freely 
 Through the square opening in the roof, reached 
 
 not, 
 And fell but through small, blinded panes, — the 
 
 Master 
 Uncovering all his treasures to her gaze. 
 As he had never known him since he lived, 
 To favor man or woman. The designs, 
 Not all yet executed or completed. 
 
84 ANGELO. 
 
 For the great tombs, — two female figures, Life 
 Both active and contemplative, one standing 
 Holding a mirror and a wreath of flowers, 
 The other bent upon one knee, her head 
 And eyes turned upward. And Matteo fancied 
 The lady looking at her strangely like 
 The kneeling image. The beloved Virgin 
 With her sweet Babe, holding in one dear hand 
 A softly feathered bird, pressed tenderly 
 Against the blessed heart And this the lady 
 Was pleased with most of all, he well could see. 
 Dwelled longest on, with loving, lingering eyes, 
 And passing admiration, — well, it was 
 A marvel of sweet grace and beauty! 
 
 These, 
 And whatsoever else he could discover, 
 Sketches half finished, rude first forms begun, — 
 And old Matteo wondered, too, how well 
 The lady seemed to understand their meaning, — 
 Above all else the towering mass of marble, 
 Wherein the figure of a mighty Moses 
 Was roughly just blocked out with few, great 
 
 strokes, ' 
 The Master showed. For Angelo, submitting 
 Once more resistless to the quiet power, 
 Himself had felt her presence like the sun, 
 
ANGELO. 85 
 
 That warmed his soul revived to new glad life, 
 Melted the ice that round his heart had gathered. 
 Like to a tree, when first the joyous sap 
 Swells through its stem, and sends the dawning 
 
 hope 
 Of fresh, green flower through every thrilling 
 
 twig, 
 He knew but when the spring had come again. 
 How long and bleak had been the dreary winter, 
 How full of thirst and hunger. 
 
 , Thanking him 
 
 With her sweet, sunny smile for his great cour- 
 tesy. 
 That suffered her to feed on so much beauty, 
 And filled her soul with joy, she said at length 
 She must depart. Then, while her smile went 
 
 out. 
 Added most gravely, — 
 
 " Angelo, methinks 
 We have been parted long ! " 
 
 "Ah, long, Madonna, 
 As an eternity ! " he said, a shadow 
 For the first time that hour clouding his brow. 
 " They tell of men imprisoned in dark dungeons. 
 Who lived for years shut from the light of day, 
 But 'twas not life^ that drawing breath!" 
 
86 ANGELO. 
 
 And she, 
 With her deep eyes fixed on him, "Angelo, 
 I too have suffered in our separation ! " 
 
 "And is my exile to endure still longer;" 
 He asked, the shadow deepening on his face, 
 " The fiat you pronounced ? " 
 
 "Call it not so!*' 
 She gently pleaded, "It was not my word; 
 It was imperative necessity 
 We both submitted to ! " 
 
 And with a fine 
 Significance, whose meaning he well caught, 
 She added, " But that hour is past, I know, 
 I am well sure ! " 
 
 " And may I come again ? " 
 He cried, with sudden gladness, the last cloud 
 Rolling away from him ; " And shall all things 
 Be as they were before ? " 
 
 " All things," she said, 
 . " Only more sweet and peaceful, Angelo ! " 
 
 " I thank you, thank you ! " were all words he 
 
 spoke, 
 A deep light kindling in his eye. And then, 
 " Have you returned so early to the city, 
 While yet the summer lingers ? " 
 
ANGELO. 87 
 
 Nay, I am 
 At Santa Margherita still. I came 
 But for an hour, — but to see you," she an- 
 swered, 
 A touch of shyness in her voice and face 
 That was turned from him. 
 
 " Ah, Madonna ! " cried he, 
 •' Madonna ! " as he seized her hand and kissed it. 
 
 And so they parted at the door, Vittoria 
 Thanking him for his proffered company, 
 Saying Marietta waited with the mules 
 But a few rods away. 
 
 Thus the old life — 
 The glad, old life where her blest sight was ever 
 The golden memory of yesterday. 
 The never-failing promise of to-morrow. 
 The hope and joy, the rest and the reward 
 Of every toilsome day — began again. 
 All things were now as they of old had been, 
 Only, as she had said, more sweet and peaceful. 
 For, in remembrance of his solemn promise, 
 And of the anguished, unforgotten past, 
 Angelo, watchful, kept the fire that burned 
 Within his soul unquenched, unquenchable, 
 Covered with dampening ashes, rarely suffered 
 
88 ANGELO. 
 
 Even a small, timid flame to leap from out 
 The smouldering glow, that was not swiftly 
 
 smothered 
 When in her presence. 'T was no easy price — 
 Nay, a full heavy cost — to pay for such 
 Dear privilege of being often with her; 
 But yet he sometimes fancied that a part 
 Of this forced outer calm flowed back upon 
 His deepest inner life, till seeming grew 
 Half to reality, — lifted his spirit, 
 'Mid all its thirst unsatisfied, to something 
 Like a sublime content, — helped him to bear 
 The hopeless love that was his joy and anguish, 
 A bitter sweetness, a sweet bitterness 
 Whereon his soul fed, ever shifting, till 
 He knew not if to smile or weep. 
 
 So moved 
 The days and nights that grew to weeks and 
 
 months, 
 And these to years at length : onward once more, 
 Upon their even course, another winter. 
 Another spring and summer came and went, 
 And yet another and another year 
 Saw them united in the happy peace 
 Of ripened, perfect friendship ; there was naught, 
 No smallest adverse breath, no faintest discord, 
 Save that he ever bore within himself, 
 
ANGELO. 89 
 
 That now broke in on the sweet harmony 
 Wherein their spirits dwelt. One thing alone 
 Had grown of late into a cloud of trouble, 
 And anxious, pondering care, to Angelo, — 
 A strange expression on Vittoria's face, 
 Such as it never wore ere now, but his 
 Swift, searching eye detected instantly, — 
 A look of languor, of deep weariness. 
 That, like a dim, gray, subtle shadow, faint 
 And scarce perceptible, perchance, but yet 
 Unchecked, resistless, slowly, surely crept 
 O'er every feature, putting out all light there. 
 But when he spoke to her, she smiled it off, 
 Said his affection was too easily troubled. 
 That he deceived himself: no other friend 
 Had marked aught change, — " No other friend, 
 
 Madonna, 
 Sees with such eyes as mine ! " he had replied, — 
 Yet owned that she felt weary now sometimes 
 Beyond her wont. 
 
 Thus, on one afternoon, — 
 'T was in the city, and the early spring. 
 After the unwilling absence of a day, 
 Wherein his labor held him till late eve, — 
 He found her lying back upon her cushions. 
 Her eyes half closed, and now a change too deep 
 To longer be denied, in her white face. 
 
90 ANGELO. 
 
 " Madonna ! " cried he, flying to her side, 
 All his heart's anguish quivering in his voice, — 
 " Madonna, you are ill, — have long been ill, 
 And but concealed it from me ! Tell me all, — 
 All the whole, fearful truth ! " 
 
 "Aye, Angelo," 
 She said, with a faint smile, her eyes fixed on 
 
 him, 
 'T is true that I was ill last night, — ■ so ill 
 I scarcely fancied I should see the morning. 
 A fever " — 
 
 " O great Heaven ! " he cried again, 
 Striking his forehead as in swift despair, 
 "Did I not know, did I not long perceive 
 This dread misfortune coming ! " 
 
 " Hush, my friend ! 
 Be reassured, I pray you! I am better, 
 Far better now ! After the shadowy waters 
 That washed my feet this night, but whence the 
 
 Lord 
 Was pleased to lead me safely forth once more 
 Unto the light of day, no need to fear, — 
 All will be well ! Come, sit you here with me. 
 And let us talk of other things ! " 
 
 "Ah, yes," 
 He said, as he obeyed, his sudden fears 
 
ANGELO. 91 
 
 Half lulled to quiet by the confidence, 
 The calm assurance of her voice and words ; 
 " My fretful soul too easily in all things 
 Darts forward to the last, worst, bitterest end, 
 And clings there hopeless ! " 
 
 Then, after a pause. 
 Wherein he long gazed on her silently. 
 He asked, unwonted calm in his low voice, 
 " And if on the dark currents of that night, 
 Madonna, you had drifted out into 
 Eternity, had you regretted it?" 
 
 A smile so bright, it seemed a heavenly radiance 
 That lighted up her face with such swift glow. 
 Broke from her lips and eyes, — 
 
 " If those dark currents 
 Bear us unto the islands of the blest. 
 May we regret it, Angelo ? Know e'en 
 A pang of pain at being called ? Nay, rather 
 A thrill of joy unspeakable ! " she cried. 
 Half stretching out her arms with sudden fervor. 
 
 " Without a pang, because she goes to him ! " 
 His soul cried out, yet he shut down his lips. 
 But when she turned to him again, and saw 
 
92 ANGELO. 
 
 A great, sharp throe of pain pass o'er his face, 
 She said, her hand on his, — 
 
 "But I had grieved, 
 Aye, deeply grieved, to leave so much behind 
 That is most precious to my soul, — at parting 
 From old, dear friends, and most of all from 
 
 you. 
 The dearest of them all ! " 
 
 And hearing this, 
 The wound just struck was well-nigh healed 
 
 again 
 By the sweet balm applied. 
 
 " And must I leave you 
 Just now, to go upon my journey southward, 
 Where that new labor calls me, as you know!" 
 He said at parting. "Nay, methinks I can- 
 not ! " 
 " When go you ? " 
 
 "By to-morrow." 
 
 " And return ? " 
 " I may not say, — within ten days, two weeks, — 
 But surely I will haste me all I can." 
 " Pray go in peace, dear friend ! I shall have 
 
 time 
 To quite grow well by then." 
 
ANGELO. 93 
 
 " And I will come 
 To say farewell, ere I depart to-morrow." 
 
 He found her on that morrow as he left her 
 The day before, — not feebler nor yet stronger, 
 But sweet and brave and cheerful as of old, 
 And full of hope and confidence. Only 
 When after but brief stay he rose to go. 
 She said, a tremor in her gentle voice, 
 A tearful tendeirness in the deep eyes 
 That rested long on him, — 
 
 "And Angelo, 
 So you will surely hasten back to me ? 
 I shall much miss your face, friend, and some- 
 times " — 
 
 " Madonna, ah, you make me passing happy ! " 
 He cried, not hearing in his too great ardor. 
 The last faint word, the broken phrase unfin- 
 ished, — 
 "Aye, surely I will pray kind Heaven to lend 
 Wings to my hands and feet ! Nay, say the word, 
 And I go not at all, throw up this work. 
 And send some other in my stead ! " 
 
 "No, no, friend, 
 Pray you have no such thought ! " she said, most 
 bravely. 
 
94 ANGELO. 
 
 But when he kissed her hands, the hands, he 
 
 fancied. 
 Had grown more slender and more lily-white, 
 Even since he last had held them yesterday, — 
 He felt how she bent forward, touched her lips 
 An instant to his brow. And glancing up, 
 A look of doubting rapture on his face, 
 Saw that her eyes were brimming o'er with 
 
 tears. 
 
 " Madonna — tears — from you — for me ! " he 
 cried, 
 
 All his whole soul convulsed with sudden tu- 
 mult. 
 
 Scarce knowing his own words. 
 
 "You see," she said, 
 
 " I am yet weak and foolish from my illness ; 
 
 I shall be strong and well when you return!" 
 
 And when he would have answered, waved him off, 
 
 With a half smile upon her quivering lips. 
 
 And so, her face turned toward him, but remem- 
 bering 
 
 That smile, and her last hopeful words, and 
 happy 
 
 In the unwonted tenderness she showed him, 
 
ANGELO. 95 
 
 He left her, with no secret, warning voice 
 To whisper aught of fear unto his soul. 
 Ignorant, suspecting not, that while he tarried, 
 Delayed but for a day beyond his hope. 
 Three times a breathless servant was dispatched 
 To bid him haste and come, if he would see her, 
 That at her door the dark-winged messenger 
 Had knocked and entered in. 
 
 It was late dusk, 
 When, travel-stained and weary, he returned. 
 And from Matteo heard he had been called. 
 Without a pause for rest, scarce taking breath, 
 He sped along the quiet streets, his feet 
 Forgetting all fatigue, now winged in truth. 
 And yet sore clogged and clinging to the earth 
 With dragging, leaden weight — and reached her 
 
 house. 
 •'T was chill and dark, windows and hall and 
 
 stairs. 
 And a thick, fearful silence reigned, unbroken 
 By but a whisper or a muffled footfall. 
 Only from somewhere in the night he fancied 
 Sounds of low weeping came. 
 
 He groped his way, 
 Helped by swift arrows of sharp, ■ painful light, 
 
96 ANGELO. 
 
 That seemed to dart from out his whirling brain 
 And light his path, up to her well-known cham- 
 ber, 
 Whose door stood open wide. From floor to 
 
 ceiling 
 He saw it hung with black, and in its midst. 
 Tall tapers burning round, — two figures clad 
 In mourning, keeping watch at head and foot, — 
 Stood a high bier. 
 
 A piercing sword of fire, 
 That rent his soul in twain, — a sense as though 
 His quivering heart-strings burst with one wild jar. 
 Shook Angelo, and a mad cry of anguish 
 Sprang to his lips, but yet no sound came from 
 
 them j 
 All reeling senses seemed to swoon an instant, 
 A sudden darkness gathered round his sight, 
 And, helpless, he threw out his hands against 
 The wall, lest he should sink. Then in a moment 
 With staggering step drew near. As in a dream 
 He dimly saw how the two figures moved, 
 And one — he had a feeble consciousness 
 It was her loving little maid Marietta, 
 Whose eyes were red with weeping — glanced at 
 
 him. 
 And mutely made a sign to her companion. 
 
ANGELO. 97 
 
 Then they both glided noiseless from the room, 
 Left him alone there. 
 
 Robed in stainless white, 
 Her golden hair unbound and streaming down 
 In gleaming flood about her, the clasped hands 
 Folding a lily-stem, whose shining flowers 
 Nestled unmoved and still against her heart, 
 She lay before him. On her placid brow, — 
 Oh, now in truth to be dimmed nevermore 
 By faintest cloud ! — a calm unspeakable, 
 A peace so deep, it beamed like to a light; 
 Upon the lips, wherein the rosy life-blood 
 Seemed still to linger warm, a faint, glad smile. 
 And something on that brow and lip struck like 
 A sudden chill and hush, an icy dumbness 
 To the wild agony, that throbbed and flamed 
 In every flying, fiery pulse of him 
 Who stood down-gazing at her. 
 
 He long stood thus, 
 With burning, tearless eyes, and firm-set lips. 
 Immovable, as turned to rigid stone. 
 As though all power of life were dead within 
 
 him j 
 Unconscious of or thought, or sense, or breath. 
 Feeling alone each fibre of his being 
 Drank in that image there, with a mad thirst 
 7 
 
98 ANGELO. 
 
 No longest gaze could quench. Then suddenly 
 He knelt, and leaning over kissed her hands. 
 But at that one swift, clinging touch, that seemed 
 Death-chill and yet as living flame in one, 
 All the sealed fountains of his anguish burst, 
 The bloody tears sprang gushing in his soul ; 
 And suddenly remembering how the last time 
 He thus had touched her hands, she had bent 
 
 o'er him 
 And pressed her lips upon his brow, he rose, 
 And covering up his face, fled from the room, 
 From her mute presence, never looking back, — 
 Sped from the house into the silent street. 
 
 " Madonna, O Madonna ! " now at length 
 Burst a great cry from his white, groaning lips, 
 As he tossed up his arms in fierce despair 
 Towards the wide skies. The quiet stars shone 
 
 there, — 
 He would not see them, they looked like her 
 
 eyes. 
 Her eyes that smilingly gazed down from out 
 A thousand gleaming places in the heavens. 
 Her eyes that nevermore should open on him. 
 " Madonna, O Madonna ! mine no more 
 Even in such slender part of thy sweet self, 
 
ANGELO. 99 
 
 As once was lent me for a little while ! 
 Vittoria, — friend, — beloved, — oh, my own, 
 Ever so gentle, passing kind and courteous, 
 Thou hast gone from me ! Oh, how couldst thou 
 
 deal 
 Such merciless blow! My God, my God, what 
 
 may 
 Come after this, if it be aught but death, — 
 And death were so unutterably sweet, 
 I know it is not that waits in reserve ! — 
 Shall find me fortified ! In this, fierce Fate 
 Spent her last shaft j there is no more can wound 
 
 me. 
 No drop of wormwood more now left to drain. 
 In all this cup of gall ! Death, Death, thou too ! 
 Have I not called thee friend, and loved thee well. 
 And thou hast come and stabbed me in the back 
 Like a foul traitor ! " 
 
 Thus, his brain afire 
 With thousand whirling thoughts, he wandered on 
 Swiftly from street to street and place to place, 
 He knew not, cared not whither, following blindly 
 Where'er his fitful steps might bear him. Some- 
 times 
 There filtered, like a single drop of sweet 
 Through all this sea of woe, whose bitter tides 
 Rolled o'er his struggling soul, the recollection, 
 
100 ANGELO. 
 
 " But I yet saw her, kissed her hands ! Her 
 
 hands ! 
 And wherefore but her hands, and wherefore not 
 Her brow, her eyes, her lips ? " His step grew 
 
 slower, 
 Then halted. Aye, he would haste back e'en now, 
 To kiss her lips, this one, this only time ! 
 Oh, this one kiss in truth, should be a treasure 
 To bear forever! And he turned about. 
 Yet no, no, no, 't were better thus ! Perchance 
 That it might break the peace upon her brow, 
 Quench the sweet smile upon her lips, — the lips 
 That nor in life nor death were ever his. 
 Oh how they smiled ! How all the mists and 
 
 shadows 
 Of late had gathered o'er that face, were rent 
 By that great radiance ! She was far away. 
 And she could smile ! — she was with him, that 
 
 other 
 Her soul had ever held more dear than all things 
 Of earth or heaven ! 
 
 Slowly he moved again, 
 And wandered further, ever on and on. 
 Aimless, but without pause, until at length 
 He felt the street no longer 'neath his feet, 
 But grass, and broken stones, and barren stub- 
 ble. 
 
ANGELO. lOI 
 
 And looking vaguely round with feeble wonder, 
 Perceived by the dim twilight of the stars 
 He was in the gray desert plain that stretches 
 Near the Eternal City, here and there 
 Showing some shepherd's poor, low roof amid 
 The broken monuments and scattered fragments 
 Of ancient power and splendor, — the poor shades, 
 Still haunting their old home, of a great glory 
 Long passed and half forgotten. 
 
 ■" It is well ! " 
 He thought, "a fitting emblem of my life, 
 This blasted field, where naught remains but ruin, 
 And every hope is dead ! " 
 
 And then beside 
 A fallen column split from top to base, 
 He dropped upon his knees and cried aloud, — 
 " Christ, — Jesus, — Lord, — Redeemer, — Helper, 
 
 — Saviour ! 
 Help, save me now ! If 'mid the joys of heaven 
 Thy soul now tastes of everlastingly, 
 If sitting at the right hand of Thy Father, 
 Thou still dost guard some aching memory of 
 Thy earthly agony, if Thou rememberest 
 The thirst that tortured Thee, the sun that 
 
 scorched, — 
 The thorns, the nails, the spear that pierced Thy 
 
 flesh, — 
 
102 ANGELO. 
 
 And, sharper than all else, the two-edged sword 
 That rent thy soul, perceiving the ill heart 
 Of those for whom Thou wast prepared to die, 
 For whom Thou gavest Thy blood and life, — 
 
 have mercy 
 Upon the bleeding anguish of my spirit. 
 Bind up this maddening wound ! " 
 
 And he sank down 
 As she had once, on that long other night. 
 His face upon the ground, one arm still clasping 
 The broken pillar round : — lay thus, sometimes 
 Half fancying the cold, still stone beside him 
 Was she, Vittoria, — that they both were dead. 
 And clasped within each other's arms, lay buried 
 Deep underneath the quiet earth, far from 
 The heat and turmoil of the world : — lay thus 
 As in a waking dream, his fevered brow 
 Pressed deep into the new, wet grass, that sprang 
 Among the withered stalks of last year's flowers, — 
 A long eternity : — heard not how from 
 The distant city churches midnight chimed. 
 Then one by one the hours of early morning. 
 In the far eastern heavens began to break 
 The faint, sweet promise of another day. 
 And a cool breath passed over Angelo. 
 He raised his head and gazed around. And then, 
 
ANGELO. 103 
 
 Remembering the last words the Saviour uttered, 
 With parched, white lips, and head bowed down 
 
 in death, — 
 He too cried suddenly out, "It is accomplished! 
 I give her up, my God, to Thee and him ! " 
 But his own voice now sounded loud and strange 
 Unto his ear, and sank into a whisper, — 
 "I do submit me to my Father's will, 
 Shall bid my heart lie still and be content, 
 As surely thou hadst bid it, my beloved ! 
 Thou Angel with the shining lily-rod, 
 Spirit divine of love and light and peace, 
 It was sufficient joy for mortal heart, 
 Sufficient cause for never-ending praise, 
 That thou wast lent me for a little while, — 
 Henceforward thou must be ninto my soul 
 But as the sweetest dream it ever knew ! " 
 Tears gushed from out his eyes, and yet again 
 A thrill of pain went through him, as he thought 
 He had not kissed her lips. 
 
 Those few who met him, 
 As in the gray light of the early dawn 
 He slowly threaded back his weary way 
 Through the long streets, stepped shyly from his 
 
 path. 
 Fancying they beheld one risen from the dead. 
 
I04 ANGELO. 
 
 For three days more no one saw Angelo 
 About the city, none but old Matteo 
 Knew he had yet returned from his long journey. 
 Then he appeared and hastily fell to work 
 On a great block of finest grain, till 'neath 
 His restless hands there grew to life a form 
 That proved a pride and marvel of the world; 
 The image of a dying youth, — reclined, 
 His head thrown back, one arm tossed up above it, 
 The other quivering hand pressed on his breast, 
 Unbroken power in the broad brow, shaded 
 By clustering hair, but yet in the closed eyes. 
 The delicate nostrils, and most beauteous lips 
 Such subtle sense of pain, those who gazed on it 
 Even while their breathless lips o'erflowed with 
 
 praise, 
 Felt the swift tears rush to their eyes. 
 
 But he. 
 The master who had wrought the wondrous work^ 
 Ne'er passed it by in after years, but that 
 He turned his face away, and in his soul 
 Rose up the words he wrote beneath the cross, — 
 " No one hath knowledge how much blood it 
 
 costs ! " 
 
 THE END. 
 
nifi 115 759^