Santa Croce

Not chiefly for thy storied towers and halls,
For the bright wonders of thy pictured walls;
Not for the olive's wealth, the vineyard's pride,
That crown thy hills, and teem on Arno's side,
Dost thou delight me, Florence! I can meet
Elsewhere with halls as rich, and vales as sweet;
I prize thy charms of nature and of art,
But yield them not the homage of my heart.
Rather to Santa Croce I repair,
To breathe her peaceful monumental air;
The age, the deeds, the honours to explore,
Of those who sleep beneath her marble floor;
The stern old tribunes of the early time,
The merchant lords of Freedom's stormy prime;
And each great name, in every after age,
The praised, the wise; the artist, bard, and sage.
I feel their awful presence; lo, thy bust,
Thy urn, Oh! Dante, not alas thy dust.
Florence, that drove thee living from her gate,
Waits for that dust, in vain, and long shall wait.
Ravenna! keep the glorious exile's trust,
And teach remorseless factions to be just,
While the poor Cenotaph, which bears his name,
Proclaims at once his praise, — his country's shame.
Next, in an urn, not void, though cold as thine,
Moulders a godlike spirit's mortal shrine.
Oh! Michael, look not down so still and hard,
Speak to me, Painter, Builder, Sculptor, Bard!
And shall those cunning fingers, stiff and cold,
Crumble to meaner earth than they did mould?
Art thou, who form and force to clay couldst give,
And teach the quarried adamant to live,
Bid, — in the vaultings of thy mighty dome, —
Pontifical, outvie imperial Rome,
Portray unshrinking, to the dazzled eye,
Creation, Judgment, Time, Eternity,
Art thou so low, and in this narrow cell
Doth that Titanic genius stoop to dwell;
And, while thine arches brave the upper sky,
Art thou content in these dark caves to lie?
And thou, illustrious sage! thine eye is closed,
To which their secret paths new stars exposed.
Haply thy spirit, in some higher sphere,
Soars with the motions which it measured here.
Soft be thy slumbers, Seer, for thanks to thee,
The earth now turns, without a heresy.
Dost thou, whose keen perception pierced the cause
Which gives the pendulum its mystic laws,
Now trace each orb, with telescopic eyes,
And solve the eternal clock-work of the skies;
While thy worn frame enjoys its long repose,
And Santa Croce heals Arcetri's woes If
Nor them alone: on her maternal breast
Here Machiavelli's tortured limbs have rest.
Oh, that the cloud upon his tortured fame
Might pass away, and leave an honest name!
The power of princes o'er thy limbs is stayed,
But thine own "Prince;" that dark spot ne'er shall fade.
Peace to thine ashes; who can have the heart
Above thy grave to play the censor's part.
I read the statesman's fortune in thy doom, —
Toil, greatness, wo; a late and lying tomb;
Aspiring aims, by grovelling arts pursued,
Faction and self, baptized the public good,
A life traduced, a statue crowned with bays,
And starving service paid with funeral praise.
Here too, at length the indomitable will
And fiery pulse of Asti's bardj" are still.
And she, — the Stuart's widow, — rears thy stone,
Seeks the next aisle, and drops beneath her own.
The great, the proud, the fair, — alike they fall;
Thy sickle, Santa Croce, reapeth all!
Yes, reapeth all, or else had spared the bloom
Of that fair bud, now clothed in yonder tomb.
Meek, gentle, pure; and yet to him allied,
Who smote the astonished nations in his pride:
"Worthy his name,"J so saith the sculptured line.
Waster of man, would he were worthy thine!
Hosts yet unnamed — the obscure, the known —
I leave;
What throngs would rise, could each his marble heave!
But we who muse above the famous dead,
Shall soon be silent, as the dust we tread.
Yet not for me, when I shall fall asleep,
Shall Santa Croce's lamps their vigils keep.
Beyond the main, in Auburn's quiet shade,
With those I loved and love my couch be made;
Spring's pendent branches o'er the hillock wave,
And morning's dew-drops glisten on my grave;
While heaven's great arch shall rise above my bed,
When Santa Croce's crumbles on her dead;
Unknown to erring or to suffering fame,
So I may leave a pure though humble name.