He came to Florence long ago,
And painted here these walls, which shone
For Raphael and for Angelo
With secrets deeper than his own;
Then shrank into the dark again,
And died, we know not how or when.
The shadows deepened, and I turned
Half-sadly from the fresco grand;
And is this, mused I, all ye earned,
High-vaunted brain and cunning hand,
That we who wonder here should know
This single word—Masaccio?
And who were they, I mused, that wrought
Through pathless wilds, through hate and wrong,
The highways of our daily thought?
Who built those towers of eldest song
That lift us o'er the world to peace,
Remote, 'mid starry silences?
Out clangod the Ave-Mary bells,
And to my heart this message came:
"Each clamorous throat among us tells
What strong-souled martyrs died in flame
To make it possible that thou
Shouldst here with brother-sinners bow.
"Thoughts that great hearts once brake for, ye
Breathe painless now as common air;
The dust ye trample heedlessly
Is that of saints and heroes rare
Who perished, opening for their race
Paths now so tame and common-place."
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
Shall silently be drained to you!