 | Imaginary Sonnets |  |
32
SAVONAROLA TO HIS FATE.
(1498.)
I dreamt I drifted on an oarless raft,
And that I knew the stream I was upon
Was whirling on to join the Phlegethon
As straight and certain as a cross-bow shaft;
And that I knew the stream I was upon
Was whirling on to join the Phlegethon
As straight and certain as a cross-bow shaft;
And in my agony I sobbed and laughed,
Till, far in front, the fiery river shone
With dancing runs of flame. But on and on,
Until it caught and shrivelled up my craft.
Till, far in front, the fiery river shone
With dancing runs of flame. But on and on,
Until it caught and shrivelled up my craft.
O Florence, Florence, am I on the stream
That leads directly to a fiery death,
And is that flaming river not a dream?
That leads directly to a fiery death,
And is that flaming river not a dream?
I see it dance; I feel its scorching breath;
The sky is filling with a lurid gleam;
Too quick, O God, I craved the martyr's wreath.
The sky is filling with a lurid gleam;
Too quick, O God, I craved the martyr's wreath.
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