A Medal

Rimini's Lord, Vicar and Podestate:—
His hawked profile, clearly or vaguely seen
In tawny glimmer as of day's last sheen,
Lives in this medal de' Fastis did create.

Of all the tyrants whom a people hate,
Count, Duke or Marquis, Prince or Princeling e'en,—
Galeas, Hercules, Can or Ezzelin,—
None can the haughty Malatesta mate.

This one, the best, this Sigismond Pandolf,
Laid waste Romagna, Marches and the Gulf,
A temple built, made love, and sang the while;

And e'en their loveliest lack refinement's crown,
For on the bronze that sees Isotta smile
The Elephant triumphal tramps the primrose down.