The Battle-Day and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Round Florence the tempests are clouding;
The mountains a deluge have hurled;
For the tyrants of nations are crowding
To blot that fair light from the world.

Like vultures that sweep from the passes
To come to the feast of the dead,
In black, heavy, motionless masses
Their mighty battalions are spread.

'Tis eve: and the soldiers of Florence
To meet them are marching amain;
The foe stand like Ocean awaiting
The streamlet that glides o'er the plain.

Then the blood of the best and bravest
Had poured like the rain on the sod,—
But the spirit of night stood between them,
Proclaiming the truce of their God.

It touches the heart of the tyrant—
It gives him the time to repent:—
The morn on the mountain has risen!
The hour of salvation is spent!

The multitudes break into motion,
The trumpets are stirring the flood:—
An islet surrounded by ocean,
The ranks of the citizens stood.

But the vanguard is Valour and Glory;
The phalanx is Freedom and Right;
The leaders are Honour and Duty:
Are they soldiers to fail in the fight?

Then, hail to thee! Florence the fearless
And, hail to thee! Florence the fair!
Ere the mist from the mountain has faded,
What a triumph of arms shall be there!

The day that in heaven is burning,
Is the brightest a hero may know—
For it lights back the soldier returning
To the home he has saved from the foe.

'Tis the day that a recompence renders
For service past recompence great—
And proud to its gallant defenders
Thus speak the elect of the state:

“The hearts that now greet thee, shall moulder;
“The breath that now hails thee, shall fleet;
“Leaf by leaf, from thy garland, the laurel
“Shall mix with the dust at thy feet;

“But poesy, painting, and sculpture
“Survive with imperishing charms—
“Then glory to glory!—a triumph
“Of art to the triumph of arms.

“Three years for the task shall be granted,
“And great be the victor's reward;
“Praises, and riches, and honour
“To painter, and sculptor, and bard.”

Then loudly cheered the applauding throng,
And thrilled each child of art and song:
But 'mid the crowd was one, whose soul
Had long sighed vainly for a goal;
Men counted him a dreamer;—dreams
Are but the light of clearer skies,
Too dazzling for our naked eyes;
And when we catch their flashing beams,
We turn aside and call them dreams!

Oh! trust me!—every truth that yet
In greatness rose and sorrow set,
That time to ripening glory nurst,
Was called an idle dream at first!

And so he passed thro' want and ill,
And lived neglected and unknown:
Courage he lacked not—neither skill—
But that fixed impulse of the will
That guides to fame, and guides alone.
And opportunity ne'er smiled,
Without which, genius' royal child
Is but a king without a throne.

And sad, indeed, his youth had been,
Had love not wound its flowers between
And helped him life's harsh griefs to bear,
By grafting them on a gentler care.
Shall art's own votaries live unloving?
Docile to an impulse true,

He, who thinks the beautiful
Shall feel it too.

And thus the poor young artist loved
And wooed a loving maid:
Her father was an artisan
Who plied a steady trade,
And bowed before no mortal man,
For he lived by what he made;
Altho' his labour's price began
To shrink as his strength decayed.

He sought not riches, rank, or fame:
But too much he himself had borne
In hunger, withering pain and scorn,
To let his daughter feel the same;
And he had said that very morn,
When timidly the suitor came,—
“To the ranks of the brave in the marches go!
“And carve a fortune from the foe!

“Or let me see thee at the loom
“When the shuttle rings in the merry room!
“Do anything!—but hang no more
“Like an idle soul at my daughter's door.
“Go! and God speed! and make thy way!
“Return in happier hour and say:
“‘I strove the strife, and I won the day.’
“And with my child 'mid blessings dwell—
“But now—till then, or for ever—farewell!”

He heard the words with reverence due;
He owned them wise, and felt them true:
But his arm's too weak to grasp the blade;
Nor can he stoop to a plodding trade:
Why blame him?—we're what God has made!
And he turned him, sick in heart and will
That fortune and he had been matched so ill.

'Twas then he heard the state's decree,
Like the trumpet that sounds to a victory:

He starts from the spot an altered man,
For the gaol's revealed and the race began!

Then ardours new illume his eyes,
And visions proud come thronging fast;
In dreams he sees his labour rise;
In dreams he grasps his labour's prize;
Alas! in dreams time's treasure flies,
And the first short year has past.

He trembles at the new-year chime,
And tries to grasp its fleeting prime:
In feverish haste
An outline's traced,—
Each new-born fancy seems sublime:
He rushes burning in the air,
To vent the expanding ardour there:
But doubt comes on and brings despair,
And all that morning-promise fair
Has left the cancelled canvas bare

Ere evening's shadows climb.
As swift the rapid sketches rise,
As swift the glowing triumph dies,
As light and shade alternate hies
O'er skies of April time.
And moments come, when cold dismay
Had bade for aye the labour stay:
But the thought of his love like a golden chain,
Drew him back, ever back, to his task again.

And, as they pass, each Sabbath-day,
By the spot where he waits on the churchward way,
Colder and colder the father grew;
The maiden smiled on a love so true,—
But her tears were many, her smiles were few.
And weeks roll on, and months flit o'er,
And still the mighty work's to do:
While fever, eating to the core,
Shines his transparent pulses thro',
And paints insidious, streak by streak,
With death's romance his flushing cheek.

'Twas on an eve of autumn pale
That first he felt his strength to fail.
The sun o'er Spain had shone its last;
The leaves around were falling fast;
The western clouds were turning grey;
And Earth and Heaven seemed to say:
“Passing away! Passing away!”

A wild conviction smote his mind:
And if unbidden sorrows blind,
One moment, eyes that still descry
In life so much that's worth a sigh,
The weaker mood remained not long,
And left him strangely calm and strong.

The second year has flown away,
And shorter grows the wintry day:
But ever-toiling, unremitting,
At his task the painter's sitting;
Undisturbed by hope or fear;
Steady, conscious, calm, and clear;

For angels warn him every night
To labour while 'tis still life-light.
And is it Death, whose solemn hand,
Fettering fancy's rebel-band
And lifting up his spirit high,
Has touched it with sublimity?
Oh! say not so! the young are strong,
And bravely speeds the work along,
And Love's soft thrill and fame's proud feeling
Possess a wondrous power of healing.
And weeks roll on,—and months flit o'er;
The work is speeding more and more;
And rivals who, with smiling eye
Had watched the lost time hurrying by,
Now croak their raven prophecy
And, sneering, of his progress ask:
But pain and grief their magic trying,
Faith and fame his heart inspiring,
Love its godlike power supplying,
Sit by the canvas untiring:

They deepen the shade, and they heighten the light,
They force on the work with invincible might;
They toil through the day and they think through the night:
Are they workmen to fail at the task?

Then, hail to thee! Florence the great!
And, hail to thee! Florence the fair!
Ere the last sheaf of autumn is gathered,
What a triumph of Art shall be there!

The bells in Florence are ringing all;
The third year has come to its close;
The Elders have met in the judgment-hall,
And swelling the sound of their festival,
Thro' the city the multitude flows,

Within his narrow chamber high
The student waits the fated hour:
'Tis long since 'neath a freer sky
He felt the sun or braved the shower;

Toil kept him there—and now 'twas o'er
He had the heart and strength no more.

From the casement might be seen,
The o'erhanging houses' breach between,
A distant span of country green:
And on that strip of earth and sky
Unswerving hung his lightless eye;
And as the hours, slow-wandering by,
With heavy stroke returning came,
They shook thro' his thin and tremulous frame
As autumn blasts, with boisterous call,
May shake the leaf that is near its fall.
Their iron tongues seemed all to say:
“Hie thee away! Hie thee away!
“Thou hast landed thy treasure secure from the wave;
“Thyself, thou bold swimmer! thou shalt not save.”

But ere the morning's midward hour
Had brought the sun round the eastern hill

To touch the pale unopened flower,
That drooped upon his window sill,
A gentle hand tapped on his chamber door—
And a soft voice called:—'tis the voice of Lenore!
Spirit of Light! before passing the grave!
Angel of Life! art thou come to save?

She knew the hours were hard to bear,
That the heart will fail and the spirit break
When life, and more than life's at stake—
And had won on her father to bring her there:
But he sat him down
With a silent frown,
Half angered to deem he had been so weak.

The painter's face with a smile is bright,
As he reads his hope in the maiden's eyes;
But her cheek turns pale as the lustre dies,
Till it hangs on his lip like the mournful light
On a wreck that may sink ere the proud sunrise.

And his fancy was busy again within
To think how much better his work might have been
With a light brought there, and a shade thrown here:—
'Twas well that he had not the canvas near,
For the painters, then, were Despair and Fear.

But hark! a sound on the silence steals!
'Tis a shout—a shout in the distance peals!
It gathers—it deepens—it rolls this way!—
“Lenora!—Haste to the casement—say!—
“'Tis finished!—but—who has won the day?”

Near and more near
Is the loud acclaim:
You could almost hear
The victorious name:
“They come! by the beat
“Of their flooding feet!
“Now!—now—they are reaching the end of the street!”

The maiden's heart is fluttering wild—
And even the father arose from his seat
And stood by his child,
But incredulous smiled:
“There's a way to the left. They will turn to the square.”
“No! onward!—right onward!—they pause not there!
“And the senators pass
“Thro' the multitude's mass!
“Scarce three doors off-they come!—they come!”

The maiden has sunk from the window-side:—
'Tis past a fear!—'tis past a doubt!
There's a stir within—there's a rush without—
They mount the stair—the door flies wide—
Oh! joy to the lover! and joy to the bride!
The eldest of the train advances:
In his hand the garland glances;
Gold—precious—glittering to the sight;
Pledge of hopes that are still more bright,
For love is wreathed in its leaves of light!

They call him:—is their voice unheard?
He rose not—as in duty bound;
He bowed not—as they gathered round;
They placed the garland on his head:—
He gave no thanks—he spoke no word—
But slowly sank like a drooping flower
Beneath the weight of too full a shower:
The Painter of Florence was dead!

To the altar high they bore him;
And they hung his labour o'er him,
That in one short triumph's breath
Gave immortality and death.

The curious crowd soon melt away;
But evening dusk and morning grey
Behold one constant votary there:
Does she come for praise? does she stay for prayer?
Alas! she joins not the choral strain,
And the rosary hangs by her side in vain.

Long years passed by, and thro' them all
The painting hung on the old church wall.
Long years!—but few of their sum had flown
When the maiden sunk 'neath the cold churchstone.

And when Florence had fallen and bowed the knee
To the golden pride of the Medici,
Then princes and bishops and cardinals tore
From her temples and trophies their coveted store;
And hung on the wall
Of their selfish hall,
What was meant for the eyes and the hearts of all.
Thus passed the picture from hand to hand,
Till it wandered away to a cloudy land,
And I found it lost in the barren gloom
Of a country gentleman's dining-room.