Michael Angelo. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

a noble creature,

       Which Michael Angelo, who is a lover

       Of all things beautiful, especially

       When they are Arab horses, much admired,

       And could not praise enough.

      IPPOLITO, to an attendant.

       Hassan, to-morrow,

       When I am gone, but not till I am gone,--

       Be careful about that,--take Barbarossa

       To Messer Michael Angelo, the sculptor,

       Who lives there at Macello dei Corvi,

       Near to the Capitol; and take besides

       Some ten mule-loads of provender, and say

       Your master sends them to him as a present.

      FRA SEBASTIANO.

       A princely gift. Though Michael Angelo

       Refuses presents from his Holiness,

       Yours he will not refuse.

      IPPOLITO.

       You think him like

       Thymoetes, who received the wooden horse

       Into the walls of Troy. That book of Virgil

       Have I translated in Italian verse,

       And shall, some day, when we have leisure for it,

       Be pleased to read you. When I speak of Troy

       I am reminded of another town

       And of a lovelier Helen, our dear Countess

       Julia Gonzaga. You remember, surely,

       The adventure with the corsair Barbarossa,

       And all that followed?

      FRA SEBASTIANO.

       A most strange adventure;

       A tale as marvellous and full of wonder

       As any in Boccaccio or Sacchetti;

       Almost incredible!

      IPPOLITO.

       Were I a painter

       I should not want a better theme than that:

       The lovely lady fleeing through the night

       In wild disorder; and the brigands' camp

       With the red fire-light on their swarthy faces.

       Could you not paint it for me?

      FRA SEBASTIANO.

       No, not I.

       It is not in my line.

      IPPOLITO.

       Then you shall paint

       The portrait of the corsair, when we bring him

       A prisoner chained to Naples: for I feel

       Something like admiration for a man

       Who dared this strange adventure.

      FRA SEBASTIANO.

       I will do it.

       But catch the corsair first.

      IPPOLITO.

       You may begin

       To-morrow with the sword. Hassan, come hither;

       Bring me the Turkish scimitar that hangs

       Beneath the picture yonder. Now unsheathe it.

       'T is a Damascus blade; you see the inscription

       In Arabic: La Allah illa Allah,--

       There is no God but God.

      FRA SEBASTIANO.

       How beautiful

       In fashion and in finish! It is perfect.

       The Arsenal of Venice can not boast

       A finer sword.

      IPPOLITO.

       You like it? It is yours.

      FRA SEBASTIANO.

       You do not mean it.

      IPPOLITO.

       I am not a Spaniard,

       To say that it is yours and not to mean it.

       I have at Itri a whole armory

       Full of such weapons. When you paint the portrait

       Of Barbarossa, it will be of use.

       You have not been rewarded as you should be

       For painting the Gonzaga. Throw this bauble

       Into the scale, and make the balance equal.

       Till then suspend it in your studio;

       You artists like such trifles.

      FRA SEBASTIANO.

       I will keep it

       In memory of the donor. Many thanks.

      IPPOLITO.

       Fra Bastian, I am growing tired of Rome,

       The old dead city, with the old dead people;

       Priests everywhere, like shadows on a wall,

       And morning, noon, and night the ceaseless sound

       Of convent bells. I must be gone from here;

       Though Ovid somewhere says that Rome is worthy

       To be the dwelling-place of all the Gods,

       I must be gone from here. To-morrow morning

       I start for Itri, and go thence by sea

       To join the Emperor, who is making war

       Upon the Algerines; perhaps to sink

       Some Turkish galleys, and bring back in chains

       The famous corsair. Thus would I avenge

       The beautiful Gonzaga.

      FRA SEBASTIANO.

       An achievement

       Worthy of Charlemagne, or of Orlando.

       Berni and Ariosto both shall add

       A canto to their poems, and describe you

       As Furioso and Innamorato.

       Now I must say good-night.

      IPPOLITO.

       You must not go;

       First you shall sup with me. My seneschal

       Giovan Andrea dal Borgo a San Sepolcro,--

       I like to give the whole sonorous name,

       It sounds so like a verse of the Aeneid,--

       Has brought me eels fresh from the Lake of Fondi,

       And Lucrine oysters cradled in their shells:

       These, with red Fondi wine, the Caecu ban

       That Horace speaks of, under a hundred keys

       Kept safe, until the heir of Posthumus

       Shall stain the pavement with it, make a feast

       Fit for Lucullus, or Fra Bastian even;

       So we will go to supper, and be merry.

      FRA SEBASTIANO.

       Beware! I Remember that Bolsena's eels

       And Vernage wine once killed a Pope of Rome!

      IPPOLITO.

       'T was a French Pope; and then so long ago;

       Who knows?--perhaps the story is not true.