TWO marvellous singers of old had the city of Florence,—
She that is loadstar of pilgrims, Florence the beautiful,—
Who sang but thro’ bitterest envy their exquisite music,
Each for o’ercoming the other, as fierce as the seraphs
At the dread battle pre-mundane, together down-wrestling.
And once when the younger, surpassing the best at a festival,
Thrilled the impetuous people, O singing so rarely!
That up on their shoulders they raised him, and carried him straightway
Over the threshold, ’mid ringing of belfries and shouting,
Till into his pale cheek mounted a color like morning
(For he was Saxon in blood) that made more resplendent
The gold of his hair for an aureole round and above him,
Seeing which, called his adorers aloud, thanking Heaven
That sent down an angel to sing for them, taking their homage;—
While this came to pass in the city, one marked it, and harbored
A purpose which followed endlessly on, like his shadow.
Therefore at night, as a vine that aye clambering stealthily
Slips by the stones to an opening, came the assassin,
And left the deep sleeper by moonlight, the Saxon hair dabbled
With red, and the brave voice smitten to death in his bosom.
Now this was the end of the hate and the striving and singing.
But the Italian thro’ Florence, his city familiar,
Fared happily ever, none knowing the crime and the passion,
Winning honor and guerdon in peaceful and prosperous decades,
Supreme over all, and rejoiced with the cheers and the clanging.
Carissima! what? and you wonder the world did not loathe him?
Child, he lived long, and was lauded, and died very famous.