University of Virginia Library

Between swart Pluto and bronze Polypheme,
Stands my white angel carved in alabaster;
A delicate art-fancy, looking most
Like petrified pure Alpine snow, transformed,
By some strange elemental witchery,
Into a spirit's fair similitude.
Swart Pluto eyes her grimly, 'neath the thick,
Black pent-house of his overhanging brows,
As if he marvelled through what unknown air,
From what far region o'er Olympian calms,
Such vision had descended. Polypheme—
Huge bulk, but with a tender heart informed,
Full of old loves and haunting memories,
Looks sadly at her . . looks beyond her, where
Death-pale, in the drear past, by ocean's verge,
A goddess-maiden, beautiful as she,
Sits wailing evermore beneath the moon.
Thanks Luigi, thanks, my sprightly Florentine!
Gay neighbour, in the rambling palace home,
Where once, in my fresh youth, I dreamed away
Three long, bright, glowing summer months of bliss.
Ah, Luigi! how we lived in those old days!
How we felt life!—you, in your studio, perched
High up amongst the roofs, on the shady side
Of the great grass-grown court—working betimes
In the cool morning;—in my idlesse, I,
Loitering and looking on, or listening
To the glad under current of the song
That seemed to float your fancies into life,
With magical impulsion. How you sang,
The day you finished my white angel there!
Some snatches of that pleasant melody,
Ring in mine ears e'en yet—a dulcet strain,
A love-lay for two voices, was it not?
For little Bice, poor Arlotto's child,
Who came that morning from the farm, with grapes
And water-melons for our thirsty noon,
Blent her clear tones with yours, and unawares,
It may be, left some record of herself
In the rare cunning of your handiwork.
Dear little Bice! how she stared, the while
She watched your chisel tripping lightly o'er
The exquisite fair face—coaxing a smile
To hover round the lips—outshedding calm
On the high forehead—waving the broad stream
Of floating hair, or adding, plume on plume,
To the white glory of the folded wings,
Drooped meekly, earthward. We all sang . . ay, all,
When, the last touch bestowed, your statue stood
In its perfected grace:—we sang till walls
And windows thrilled, and Bice's childish voice,
Swelling, exulting, like a lark's up-borne
Over the topmost cloud beneath the sky,
Poured its sweet silver treble through the storm,
Till it seemed to stir the down on the snowy vans
Of the immaculate angel, and uplift
The light transparent folds of drapery.

'Twas holyday, the rest of that bright day,—
And the hot noon o'erpast, we loosed our boat
And down the Arno, in the golden light,
Cheerily floated; store of wine we took,
With little Bice for our cup-bearer—
With little Bice for our singing bird—
And merry were the tales we told, and brave
The plans we planned, and as each amber flask
Poured gurglingly its hoarded treasure out,
Our hearts leaped up to the flowery heights of joy
And the jests sparkled on our laughing lips.
On, on, we drifted, far adown the stream,
Till the red radiance of the setting sun
Paled in the west, and with a steadfast front,
Majestical in its tranquillity,
Sank nobly to his rest the dying day;
And the shades crept and deepened, till at last
The purple twilight melted into night,
And all the cloudless heaven grew white with stars.
Then homeward, homeward, with an altered song,
An altered converse,—our brave plans pulled down
A little from the skiey eminence,
That with their Monte-Pulciano wings
They had scaled so boldly—Bice's Ave sounding
Like the low plaintive cooing of a dove
Over the quiet water. So at length,—
Exchanging happy thoughts, or roaming through
The labyrinthine paths of silent dreams,
We reached the landing-place—reached presently,
With loitering steps, our home; and how it fell
Upon our hearts, my Luigi, like spring dew,
When climbing our steep stair, and looking in
Through the deserted studio's open door,
We saw the first pale moonbeams shining full
On the uplifted, glorified calm brow
Of our new angel on its pedestal.
So like a spirit in the gloom it looked,
I could have bowed my forehead to the dust,
In adoration Little Bice said,
Half in a whisper,—“The good angels there—”
Pointing with upward finger to the sky,—
“Have owned their fair white sister here below.”
Ah, Luigi! how we lived in those old days!
Lived!