Modern Italian Poets - William Dean Howells

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purify

       The heavy atmosphere, and banish thence

       All lingering traces of the feast.—Ye sick

       And poor, whom misery or whom hope perchance

       Has guided in the noonday to these doors,

       Tumultuous, naked, and unsightly throng,

       With mutilated limbs and squalid faces,

       In litters and on crutches, from afar

       Comfort yourselves, and with expanded nostrils

       Drink in the nectar of the feast divine

       That favorable zephyrs waft to you;

       But do not dare besiege these noble precincts,

       Importunately offering her that reigns

       Within your loathsome spectacle of woe!

       —And now, sir, 'tis your office to prepare

       The tiny cup that then shall minister,

       Slow sipped, its liquor to thy lady's lips;

       And now bethink thee whether she prefer

       The boiling beverage much or little tempered

       With sweet; or if perchance she like it best

       As doth the barbarous spouse, then, when she sits

       Upon brocades of Persia, with light fingers

       The bearded visage of her lord caressing.

      With the dinner the second part of the poem, entitled The Noon, concludes, and The Afternoon begins with the visit which the hero and his lady pay to one of her friends. He has already thought with which of the husband's horses they shall drive out; he has suggested which dress his lady shall wear and which fan she shall carry; he has witnessed the agonizing scene of her parting with her lap-dog,—her children are at nurse and never intrude,—and they have arrived in the palace of the lady on whom they are to call:

       And now the ardent friends to greet each other

       Impatient fly, and pressing breast to breast

       They tenderly embrace, and with alternate kisses

       Their cheeks resound; then, clasping hands, they drop

       Plummet-like down upon the sofa, both

       Together. Seated thus, one flings a phrase,

       Subtle and pointed, at the other's heart,

       Hinting of certain things that rumor tells,

       And in her turn the other with a sting

       Assails. The lovely face of one is flushed

       With beauteous anger, and the other bites

       Her pretty lips a little; evermore

       At every instant waxes violent

       The anxious agitation of the fans.

       So, in the age of Turpin, if two knights

       Illustrious and well cased in mail encountered

       Upon the way, each cavalier aspired

       To prove the valor of the other in arms,

       And, after greetings courteous and fair,

       They lowered their lances and their chargers dashed

       Ferociously together; then they flung

       The splintered fragments of their spears aside,

       And, fired with generous fury, drew their huge,

       Two-handed swords and rushed upon each other!

       But in the distance through a savage wood

       The clamor of a messenger is heard,

       Who comes full gallop to recall the one

       Unto King Charles, and th' other to the camp

       Of the young Agramante. Dare thou, too,

       Dare thou, invincible youth, to expose the curls

       And the toupet, so exquisitely dressed

       This very morning, to the deadly shock

       Of the infuriate fans; to new emprises

       Thy fair invite, and thus the extreme effects

       Of their periculous enmity suspend.

      Is not this most charmingly done? It seems to me that the warlike interpretation of the scene is delightful; and those embattled fans—their perfumed breath comes down a hundred years in the verse!

      The cavalier and his lady now betake them to the promenade, where all the fair world of Milan is walking or driving, with a punctual regularity which still distinguishes Italians in their walks and drives. The place is full of their common acquaintance, and the carriages are at rest for the exchange of greetings and gossip, in which the hero must take his part. All this is described in the same note of ironical seriousness as the rest of the poem, and The Afternoon closes with a strain of stately and grave poetry which admirably heightens the desired effect:

       Behold the servants

       Ready for thy descent; and now skip down

       And smooth the creases from thy coat, and order

       The laces on thy breast; a little stoop,

       And on thy snowy stockings bend a glance,

       And then erect thyself and strut away

       Either to pace the promenade alone,—

       'T is thine, if 't please thee walk; or else to draw

       Anigh the carriages of other dames.

       Thou clamberest up, and thrustest in thy head

       And arms and shoulders, half thyself within

       The carriage door. There let thy laughter rise

       So loud that from afar thy lady hear,

       And rage to hear, and interrupt the wit

       Of other heroes who had swiftly run

       Amid the dusk to keep her company

       While thou

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