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In the Brancacci Chapel
HE came to Florence long ago, | |
| And painted here these walls, that shone | |
| For Raphael and for Angelo, | |
| With secrets deeper than his own, | |
| Then shrank into the dark again, | 5 |
| And died, we know not how or when. | |
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| The shadows deepened, and I turned | |
| Half sadly from the fresco grand; | |
| “And is this,” mused I, “all ye earned, | |
| High-vaulted brain and cunning hand, | 10 |
| That ye to greater men could teach | |
| The skill yourselves could never reach?” | |
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| “And who were they,” I mused, “that wrought | |
| Through pathless wilds, with labor long, | |
| The highways of our daily thought? | 15 |
| Who reared those towers of earliest song | |
| That lift us from the throng to peace | |
| Remote in sunny silences?” | |
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| Out clanged the Ave Mary bells, | |
| And to my heart this message came: | 20 |
| Each clamorous throat among them tells | |
| What strong-souled martyrs died in flame | |
| To make it possible that thou | |
| Shouldst here with brother-sinners bow. | |
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| Thoughts that great hearts once broke for, we | 25 |
| Breathe cheaply in the common air; | |
| The dust we trample heedlessly | |
| Throbbed once in saints and heroes rare, | |
| Who perished, opening for their race | |
| New pathways to the commonplace. | 30 |
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| Henceforth, when rings the health to those | |
| Who live in story and in song, | |
| O nameless dead, that now repose | |
| Safe in Oblivion’s chambers strong, | |
| One cup of recognition true | 35 |
| Shall silently be drained to you! | |
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