Do new stars bud while I but search for old, And fill all gaps i' the glory, and grow him-Him I now see make the shine everywhere. Even at the last when the bewildered flesh, The cloud of weariness about my soul Clogging too heavily, sucked down all sense, Still its last voice was, "He will watch and care; "Let the strength go, I am content: he stays!" I doubt not he did stay and care for all 10 From that sick minute when the head swam round, And the eyes looked their last and died on As in his arms he caught me, and, you say, And are since then a solid fire to me, Broke, and I saw him, master, by hell's right, 20 And saw my angel helplessly held back By guards that helped the malice lamb prone, The serpent towering and triumphant then the Came all the strength back in a sudden swell, I did for once see right, do right, give tongue The adequate protest: for a worm must turn If it would have its wrong observed by God. The neutraliser of all good and truth. 30 If I sinned so, - never obey voice more O' the Just and Terrible, who bids us "Bear!" Not"Stand by, bear to see my angels bear!" I am clear it was on impulse to serve God Had I else waited patiently till now? - Cheated, brow-beaten, stripped and starved, cast out Into the kennel: I remonstrated, 40 Then sank to silence, for, their woes at end, Themselves gone, only I was left to plague. If only I was threatened and belied, What matter? I could bear it and did It was a comfort, still one lot for all: And found the old adversary athwart the Not my hand simply struck from the angel's, but The very angel's self made foul i' the face That only I resisted! So, my first I must have prayed a man as he were God The Archbishop, did I clasp his feet Hide my face hotly on them, while I told More than I dared make my own mother know? The profit was -- compassion and a jest. This time, the foolish prayers were done with, right Used might, and solemnised the sport at With the quiet nuns, the good! God recompense Who said and sang away the ugly past. And, when my final fortune was revealed, What safety while, amid my parents' arms, My babe was given me! Yes, he saved my babe: It would not have peeped forth, the birdlike thing, Through that Arezzo noise and trouble: back Had it returned nor ever let me see! But the sweet peace cured all, and let me live 10 And give my bird the life among the leaves God meant him! Weeks and months of quietude, I could lie in such peace and learn so Begin the task, I see how needful now, All has been right; I have gained my gain, As well as suffered, too nay, got foretaste Of better life beginning where this ends 20 All through the breathing-while allowed me thus, Which let good premonitions reach my Unthwarted, and benignant influence flow unkind. nay, For, as the weakness of my time drew nigh, I lay in the arms of, till my boy was born, 30 A whole long fortnight: in a life like mine A fortnight filled with bliss is long and much. All women are not mothers of a boy, Though they live twice the length of my whole life, And, as they fancy, happily all the same. There I lay, then, all my great fortnight long, We shall not meet in this world nor the next, But where will God be absent? In His Is light, but in His shadow healing too: May my evanishment for evermore As if it would continue, broaden out heaven: Christmas before me, - was not that a I never realised God's birth before- He burned that garment spotted by the flesh. Whatever he touched is rightly ruined: plague It caught, and disinfection it had craved Still but for Guido; I am saved through him Even for my babe, my boy, there's safety thence From the sudden death of me, I mean: we poor Weak souls, how we endeavour to be strong! I was already using up my life, -- The day-star stopped its task that makes O lover of my life, O soldier-saint, This portion, now, should do him such a My weak hand in thy strong hand, strong good, This other go to keep off such an ill! To Shall not God stoop the kindlier to His His marvel of creation, foot would crush, weeks It is through God who knows I am not by. Who is it makes the soft gold hair turn black, And sets the tongue, might lie so long at rest, 20 Trying to talk? Let us leave God alone! Why should I doubt He will explain in time 30 What I feel now, but fail to find the words? known! Ah! Friends, I thank and bless you every one! No more now: I withdraw from earth and man To my own soul, compose myself for God. Well, and there is more! Yes, my end of Shall bear away my soul in being true! me. Ever with Caponsacchi! Otherwise From giving life, love locked from love's for that! Tell him that if I seem without him now, Mere imitation of the inimitable: sure. 'Tis there they neither marry nor are given In marriage but are as the angels: right, Oh how right that is, how like Jesus Christ To say that! Marriage-making for the earth, With gold so much, - birth, power, repute so much, Or beauty, youth so much, in lack of these! Married, but marry never, no, nor give There's cookery in a certain dwelling place 6 Gossips, too, each with keepsake in his poke, Will pick the way, thrid lane by lanternlight, And so find door, put galligaskin off 3 Corderius: Mathurin Cordier, author of the most popular Latin school-book of the sixteenth century, the Colloquia Scholastica. • Papinianian: from Papinius, a Roman jurist of the beginning of the third century. 10 Just so much play as lets the heart expand, Honouring God and serving man, I say, These are reality, and all else, fluff, Nutshell and naught, thank Flaccus for the phrase! Suppose I had been Fisc, yet bachelor! Why, work with a will, then! Wherefore lazy now? Turn up the hour-glass, whence no sandgrain slips But should have done its duty to the saint O' the day, the son and heir that's eight years old! Let law come dimple Cinoncino's cheek, 20 And Latin dumple Cinarello's chin, The while we spread him fine and toss him flat This pulp that makes the pancake, trim 1 kills Not sneakingly but almost with parade Pro Milone: Cicero's great speech in defence Flaccus: Horace, Sat. II. 5, 35, quassa of Milo on a charge of murder. nuce, a proverbial expression for something worthless. 3 Hortensius: the great Roman orator, contemporary with Cicero. |