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| THERE ’s a palace in Florence, the world knows well, | |
| And a statue watches it from the square, | |
| And this story of both do the townsmen tell. | |
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| Ages ago, a lady there, | |
| At the furthest window facing the east, | 5 |
| Asked, “Who rides by with the royal air?” | |
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| The bridesmaids’ prattle around her ceased: | |
| She leaned forth, one on either hand; | |
| They saw how the blush of the bride increased. | |
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| They felt by its beats her heart expand, | 10 |
| As one at each ear, and both in a breath, | |
| Whispered, “The Great-Duke Ferdinand.” | |
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| That selfsame instant, underneath, | |
| The Duke rode past in his idle way, | |
| Empty and fine like a swordless sheath. | 15 |
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| Gay he rode, with a friend as gay, | |
| Till he threw his head back,—“Who is she?” | |
| “A bride the Riccardi brings home to-day.” | |
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| Hair in heaps laid heavily | |
| Over a pale brow spirit-pure,— | 20 |
| Carved like the heart of the coal-black tree, | |
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| Crisped like a war-steed’s encolure,— | |
| Which vainly sought to dissemble her eyes | |
| Of the blackest black our eyes endure. | |
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| And lo, a blade for a knight’s emprise | 25 |
| Filled the fine empty sheath of a man,— | |
| The Duke grew straightway brave and wise. | |
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| He looked at her, as a lover can; | |
| She looked at him, as one who awakes,— | |
| The past was a sleep, and her life began. | 30 |
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| As love so ordered for both their sakes, | |
| A feast was held that selfsame night | |
| In the pile which the mighty shadow makes. | |
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| (For Via Larga is three-parts light, | |
| But the palace overshadows one, | 35 |
| Because of a crime which may God requite! | |
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| To Florence and God the wrong was done, | |
| Through the first republic’s murder there | |
| By Cosimo and his cursed son.) | |
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| The Duke (with the statue’s face in the square) | 40 |
| Turned in the midst of his multitude | |
| At the bright approach of the bridal pair. | |
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| Face to face the lovers stood | |
| A single minute and no more, | |
| While the bridegroom bent as a man subdued,— | 45 |
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| Bowed till his bonnet brushed the floor,— | |
| For the Duke on the lady a kiss conferred, | |
| As the courtly custom was of yore. | |
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| In a minute can lovers exchange a word? | |
| If a word did pass, which I do not think, | 50 |
| Only one out of the thousand heard. | |
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| That was the bridegroom. At day’s brink | |
| He and his bride were alone at last | |
| In a bedchamber by a taper’s blink. | |
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| Calmly he said that her lot was cast, | 55 |
| That the door she had passed was shut on her | |
| Till the final catafalk repassed. | |
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| The world, meanwhile, its noise and stir, | |
| Through a certain window facing the east | |
| She might watch like a convent’s chronicler. | 60 |
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| Since passing the door might lead to a feast, | |
| And a feast might lead to so much beside, | |
| He, of many evils, chose the least. * * * * * | |
| Meanwhile, worse fates than a lover’s fate | |
| Who daily may ride and lean and look | 65 |
| Where his lady watches behind the grate! | |
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| And she—she watched the square like a book | |
| Holding one picture, and only one, | |
| Which daily to find she undertook. | |
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| When the picture was reached the book was done, | 70 |
| And she turned from it all night to scheme | |
| Of tearing it out for herself next sun. | |
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| Weeks grew months, years,—gleam by gleam | |
| The glory dropped from youth and love, | |
| And both perceived they had dreamed a dream, | 75 |
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| Which hovered as dreams do, still above, | |
| But who can take a dream for truth? | |
| O, hide our eyes from the next remove! | |
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| One day, as the lady saw her youth | |
| Depart, and the silver thread that streaked | 80 |
| Her hair, and, worn by the serpent’s tooth, | |
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| The brow so puckered, the chin so peaked,— | |
| And wondered who the woman was, | |
| So hollow-eyed and haggard-cheeked, | |
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| Fronting her silent in the glass,— | 85 |
| “Summon here,” she suddenly said, | |
| “Before the rest of my old self pass, | |
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| “Him, the carver, a hand to aid, | |
| Who moulds the clay no love will change, | |
| And fixes a beauty never to fade. | 90 |
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| “Let Robbia’s craft so apt and strange | |
| Arrest the remains of young and fair, | |
| And rivet them while the seasons range. | |
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| “Make me a face on the window there | |
| Waiting as ever, mute the while, | 95 |
| My love to pass below in the square!” * * * * * | |
| But long ere Robbia’s cornice, fine | |
| With flowers and fruits which leaves enlace, | |
| Was set where now is the empty shrine, | |
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| (With, leaning out of a bright blue space, | 100 |
| As a ghost might from a chink of sky, | |
| The passionate pale lady’s face, | |
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| Eying ever with earnest eye | |
| And quick-turned neck at its breathless stretch, | |
| Some one who ever passes by,) | 105 |
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| The Duke sighed like the simplest wretch | |
| In Florence, “So my dream escapes! | |
| Will its record stay?” And he bade them fetch | |
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| Some subtle fashioner of shapes,— | |
| “Can the soul, the will, die out of a man | 110 |
| Ere his body find the grave that gapes? | |
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| “John of Douay shall work my plan, | |
| Mould me on horseback here aloft, | |
| Alive, (the subtle artisan!) | |
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| “In the very square I cross so oft! | 115 |
| That men may admire, when future suns | |
| Shall touch the eyes to a purpose soft, | |
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| “While the mouth and the brow are brave in bronze,— | |
| Admire and say, ‘When he was alive, | |
| How he would take his pleasure once!’ | 120 |
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| “And it shall go hard but I contrive | |
| To listen meanwhile and laugh in my tomb | |
| At indolence which aspires to strive.” * * * * * | |
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