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the complete poetical works-第264章

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Sculpture is more divine; and more like Nature;

That fashions all her works in high relief;

And that is sculpture。  This vast ball; the Earth;

Was moulded out of clay; and baked in fire;

Men; women; and all animals that breathe

Are statues; and not paintings。  Even the plants;

The flowers; the fruits; the grasses; were first sculptured;

And colored later。  Painting is a lie;

A shadow merely。



MICHAEL ANGELO。

                Truly; as you say;

Sculpture is more than painting。  It is greater

To raise the dead to life than to create

Phantoms that seem to live。  The most majestic

Of the three sister arts is that which builds;

The eldest of them all; to whom the others

Are but the hand…maids and the servitors;

Being but imitation; not creation。

Henceforth I dedicate myself to her。



BENVENUTO。

And no more from the marble hew those forms

That fill us all with wonder?



MICHAEL ANGELO。

                           Many statues

Will there be room for in my work。  Their station

Already is assigned them in my mind。

But things move slowly。  There are hindrances;

Want of material; want of means; delays

And interruptions; endless interference

Of Cardinal Commissioners; and disputes

And jealousies of artists; that annoy me。

But twill persevere until the work

Is wholly finished; or till I sink down

Surprised by death; that unexpected guest;

Who waits for no man's leisure; but steps in;

Unasked and unannounced; to put a stop

To all our occupations and designs。

And then perhaps I may go back to Florence;

This is my answer to Duke Cosimo。





VI



MICHAEL ANGELO'S STUDIO



MICHAEL ANGELO and URBINO。



MICHAEL ANGELO; pausing in his work。

Urbino; thou and I are both old men。

My strength begins to fail me。



URBINO。

                          Eccellenza。

That is impossible。  Do I not see you

Attack the marble blocks with the same fury

As twenty years ago?



MICHAEL ANGELO。

                  'T is an old habit。

I must have learned it early from my nurse

At Setignano; the stone…mason's wife;

For the first sounds I heard were of the chisel

chipping away the stone。



URBINO。

                     At every stroke

You strike fire with your chisel。



MICHAEL ANGELO。

                           Ay; because

The marble is too hard。



URBINO。

                        It is a block

That Topolino sent you from Carrara。

He is a judge of marble。



MICHAEL ANGELO。

                         I remember。

With it he sent me something of his making;

A Mercury; with long body and short legs;

As if by any possibility

A messenger of the gods could have short legs。

It was no more like Mercury than you are;

But rather like those little plaster figures

That peddlers hawk about the villages

As images of saints。  But luckily

For Topolino; there are many people

Who see no difference between what is best

And what is only good; or not even good;

So that poor artists stand in their esteem

On the same level with the best; or higher。



URBINO。

How Eccellenza laughed!



MICHAEL ANGELO。

                     Poor Topolino!

All men are not born artists; nor will labor

E'er make them artists。



URBINO。

                        No; no more

Than Emperors; or Popes; or Cardinals。

One must be chosen for it。  I have been

Your color…grinder six and twenty years;

And am not yet an artist。



MICHAEL ANGELO。

                       Some have eyes

That see not; but in every block of marble

I see a statue;see it as distinctly

As if it stood before me shaped and perfect

In attitude and action。  I have only

To hew away the stone walls that imprison

The lovely apparition; and reveal it

To other eyes as mine already see it。

But I grow old and weak。  What wilt thou do

When I am dead; Urbino?



URBINO。

                       Eccellenza;

I must then serve another master。



MICHAEL ANGELO。

                               Never!

Bitter is servitude at best。  Already

So many years hast thou been serving me;

But rather as a friend than as a servant。

We have grown old together。  Dost thou think

So meanly of this Michael Angelo

As to imagine he would let thee serve;

When he is free from service?  Take this purse;

Two thousand crowns in gold。



URBINO。

              Two thousand crowns!



MICHAEL ANGELO。

Ay; it will make thee rich。  Thou shalt not die

A beggar in a hospital。



URBINO。

                        Oh; Master!



MICHAEL ANGELO。

I cannot have them with me on the journey

That I am undertaking。  The last garment

That men will make for me will have no pockets。



URBINO; kissing the hand of MICHAEL ANGELO。

My generous master!



MICHAEL ANGELO。

                   Hush!



URBINO。

                     My Providence!



MICHAEL ANGELO。

Not a word more。  Go now to bed; old man。

Thou hast served Michael Angelo。  Remember;

Henceforward thou shalt serve no other master。







VII



THE OAKS OF MONTE LUCA



MICHAEL ANGELO; alone in the woods。



MICHAEL ANGELO。

How still it is among these ancient oaks!

Surges and undulations of the air

Uplift the leafy boughs; and let them fall

With scarce a sound。  Such sylvan quietudes

Become old age。  These huge centennial oaks;

That may have heard in infancy the trumpets

Of Barbarossa's cavalry; deride

Man's brief existence; that with all his strength

He cannot stretch beyond the hundredth year。

This little acorn; turbaned like the Turk;

Which with my foot I spurn; may be an oak

Hereafter; feeding with its bitter mast

The fierce wild boar; and tossing in its arms

The cradled nests of birds; when all the men

That now inhabit this vast universe;

They and their children; and their children's children;

Shall be but dust and mould; and nothing more。

Through openings in the trees I see below me

The valley of Clitumnus; with its farms

And snow…white oxen grazing in the shade

Of the tall poplars on the river's brink。

O Nature; gentle mother; tender nurse!

I who have never loved thee as I ought;

But wasted all my years immured in cities;

And breathed the stifling atmosphere of streets;

Now come to thee for refuge。  Here is peace。

Yonder I see the little hermitages

Dotting the mountain side with points of light;

And here St。 Julian's convent; like a nest

Of curlews; clinging to some windy cliff。

Beyond the broad; illimitable plain

Down sinks the sun; red as Apollo's quoit;

That; by the envious Zephyr blown aside;

Struck Hyacinthus dead; and stained the earth

With his young blood; that blossomed into flowers。

And now; instead of these fair deities

Dread demons haunt the earth; hermits inhabit

The leafy homes of sylvan Hamadryads;

And jovial friars; rotund and rubicund;

Replace the old Silenus with his ass。



Here underneath these venerable oaks;

Wrinkled and brown and gnarled like them with ag
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