Slade, ‘I’ve been to the Certosa’ 27/09/2011
Posted by florencecapital in Uncategorized.Tags: 1900-1920, Poems, Vernon Arnold Slade
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Vernon Arnold Slade’s sixth poetical epistle: Florence, 28 February 1908
I’ve been to the Certosa. On a mount
The Abbey perches amid cypress trees
Slim-shaped as needles set the wrong end up
To spear the cloud-wrack that goes drifting by.
A white-robed friar with a shining pate
Close-shaven, for a fee will pilot you,
And speak in slow French in your ear’s unused
To bear the torrent of Italian.
They’ve Brunelleschi cloisters, panels wrought
By Andrea della Robbia in his prime;
And one pale slab shows Michael’s prentice hand
At work upon the mitre of a priest
In death’s last sleep recumbent All around
The mountains rise like billows; and, from thence,
Far belfries peer like sunken masts at sea
And toll the hour to shepherds. The warm air
Has more of languor than your Scotch hills know
Besieged by dark battalions of tall pines
Whose vanguard’s lost in cloud like battlesmoke
About their hidden summits. Here the vines
And olives fledge the hillsides in long files
To the remotest vistas of the south;
And northward past Galuzzo where the line
Curves into Gelsomino – such a sight!
On this same highway you may pass to Rome
By gaunt Siena and a hundred hills
Still bearing on their breasts the unhealing scars
Of that inhuman tempest in whose broils
Proud Florence battened on her weaker peers
It was a grey day when I went. The wind
Snatched up the clouds and would not let them pause
To comfort the dry vales; in sudden puffs
It smote the roadway dust into a steam
Like water on red embers loth to die.
About the Abbey’s base there ran a brook
In merry ripples that the sun made dance
Thro’ slits in the grey cloud. A gipsy camp
With three rude shanties set on aching wheels
Was pitched beside it; and about the fire
Two boys, a monkey, and a shaggy mule
Tied by his fetlock to a stump of wood
A picture ready for the hand of Claude.
From Christian World to Pagan’s but a span
In that long bridge that links eternal time.
I’ve been to the museum where a store
Of shattered remnants from Etruria
Crowd the low rooms; above Egyptian runes
Press close on antique vases, urns, and rings,
And Greek and Roman bronzes turned to green;
Helmets and armour from the loot of Kings
Once crowned in cities now depopulate;
Rams’ heads with hollow eyes, and mouths agape;
A war-steed’s head and neck all creased to show
The bridle’s sudden tension in the mouth.
The stress upon the haunches, and the snort
That spread his eager nostrils gaping wide;
Blurred hand-mirrors that brightly once gave back
The proud glance of some beauty in her prime;
Snapped spears, cracked bucklers, all things that attest
Dead valour, futile beauty, fill the mind
With dust of chariots and the shout of men
Defiant on the far dim verge of time.
Well, well, I fall to ranting. To be brief
For all these marvels – for the owls, storks, bulls,
And long-horned antelopes that haunted once
The reedy waters of old Father Nile,
I care but little – more remote to me
Than the Chimera whose long tail becomes
A serpent self-devouring at the tip.
Two things I treasured; one, a weeping girl
And one, a scornful peasant gazing back.
I chose, in fancy, to connect the two
And call the girl abandoned, whence there came
The three-versed poem that I here append.
Sung to a reed-pipe when the world was younger.
O! lover passing in the night
Beneath my window, hear my cry!
I cannot see the lantern’s light
For bitter tears fast flowing by
O! help me, help me ere I die.
By day thou reapest in the field
My dear brown god amid the grain;
And I by night to thee would yield
This virgin body without stain.
Ah me! Ah me! the bitter pain!
Come to me ere the harvest goes,
Ere all the hot sun’s golden shine
Suck dry the full heart of the rose,
Ere all my sweetness turn to brine.
Ah! lover dear for whom I pine!
I’m well and working hard, but I can give
No details of my painting, for, alas!
I find my rhymed lament has filled the quire.