Slade, ‘Since this must be my final’ 25/10/2011
Posted by florencecapital in Uncategorized.Tags: 1900-1920, Poems, Vernon Arnold Slade
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Vernon Arnold Slade’s seventh poetical epistle: Florence, 10 March 1908
Since this must be my final ere we meet
In London on Good Friday, you shall come
And gaze your last on Florence from the hill
Where ‘David’s’ bronze replica, dominant,
Stares out intrepid on his unseen foes
Past tower, tree, and villa unabashed.
There’s surely no man born could frown him down,
Or move his calm and kingly arrogance
From its fell purpose.
Florence lies below
Like scattered shingle on a desert strand
Where waves have flung their pearl and amber down,
So bright the houses gleam below the hills.
If it’s a sunny day and clear, you’ll view
Fiesole perched high and looped about
With spiral roads that make the way seem long
So often do you turn and turn about
Before you reach the tall lean tower that tolls
The hours for labour and the church’s call.
Then further to your right there’s Ripoli;
A snowy-terraced mountain lies beyond
That tells of air too chilly for the vines;
And to your left tall Mount Morello tilts
A bare grey shoulder into the blue sky.
It’s only half a minute you’ll stay so
Before a tout comes wheedling with his wares.
You fly him like the pest he is, and leap
The steps alternate on the steep stone way
That slants through trees precipitously down
To Porta San Miniato where they tax
All dutiable produce passing through.
Keep on due north and soon you’ll cross a Bridge
Over the river romping to its bourne;
On the green edge gay petticoats a-gleam
Where Arno serves as wash-tub for the wives.
From a high window in a neighbouring palace
A grey-garbed signorina lures your eye
With such a growth of bronze hair in thick braids
Not needing ribbon to maintain it so
In all its wiry vigour freshly coiled,
And such a poise of figure as she leans
Her bare arms on a faded balcony.
Above, a half-obliterated bust
Struck from the stone to mark some ancient triumph,
Looks down on the plebeian multitude
Crowned with vain laurel garlands that acclaim
To all the world its futile arrogance.
I haunt this bridge at nightfall for the sake
Of serenaders with their mandolines
Who, with their trilling, snare light coins that
Fall from blazing hotel windows opened wide,
Along the Arno all the lamps a-row
Shoot down long spears of light into the stream.
The plaintive music swells and ebbs and dies;
Lights twinkle; and the water tremulous
Reflects the thousand lamps like truant stars
Drawn earthward from their chilly altitudes
By the long-wailing music’s amorous tone.
From the far bank the vesper chimes float down
To flout these chants of pagan minstrelsy,
From belfries where the priest-like cypress trees
Keep their eternal vigil night and day.
Here is an echo of a plaintive song,
Song in high tenor there a week ago
English dims its native colouring.
Lovely and strong, now man at his labour
Yearns for his bride.
One that waits for him only I am forsaken.
Now is the vintage come and the vintners
Work in the sun,
Red blood swift in its ferment
Feeding their sinews.
Singing they move in line, and the trellis
Yieldeth its fruit.
Young boys swift to the wine-press
Bear it in baskets.
Laden twixt arm and hip, they are moving
Downward the slope,
One arm wide and the other
Crooked to the burden.
Yonder the brook runs swift, and the cresses
Shake to its song.
Girls spread over the willows
Newly-rinsed linen.
White as the snow it gleams or the lilies
White in the fields;
White swan’s down is not whiter
Cast on the river.
Lovely and strong now man at his labour
Yearns for his bride,
One that waits for him only
I am forsaken.
Wandering last night among the gloomy bow’rs
That crest Mount Oliveto, 1 was moved
By a most gaunt old cypress tree that seemed
The spirit of my darker self that leant
His cheek to mine and whispered ‘All is ill.
The earth is grown too old and topples downward
Into that sunless chaos whence she rose
Because the elder gods are all forgot’.
His cone was a black finger on the sky
Where thunder muttered; and the scared wind smote
The pliant boughs into a hymn of praise
In honour of gods forgotten utterly.
The rain fell downward, hissing in my ears;
Frayed birds fled homeward; and I shut my
Eyes enchaining so the phantom images
Raised by the thunder’s riot; and I heard
Hard breathing and the hurried beat of hooves
From men and beasts, as in an earlier day,
Battling anew for mastery of the world
The cypress sang another song of old.
When grief was sin and strength was bom of joy,
All trees that flourished were as ministers
To hearten and console; their boughs conspired
In benediction round the homes of men.
Well, that’s my fancy. Here the thing’s worked out
Into a chant slow sung reproachfully
By hidden dryads to complaining boors
In times when these lacked trains and telephones,
Three posts a day and pensions from the state,
And yet perchance were happier. Who shall say?
Are things uncouth?
There shall be loveliness if you be kind.
Fear draws a veil o’er beauty,
Death’s own shadow.
Fear not your kin;
For if all men be watchers who shall toil!
Chill hearts among the sowers
Chill earth’s bosom.
O, soft and brave
Are men who earn our favour, maiming naught.
Mindful are they and cherish
Newt and fledgling;
And when these pass,
Or a frayed squirrel scampers up the bole,
Clap not their hands nor gather
Mirth from terror.
Who snare or slay
Snare their own spirit, clip the wings of joy;
Nor shall the earth for slayers
Yield her plenty.
All things that live
Share of their loveliness with them that love.
Our breath shall shape their nostrils,
Fan their pulses.
Farewell till Friday week, I’m loth to leave
My lair among the house-tops with its view
Of Giotto’s bell-tower leaping to the sky
Most like a froz’n cascade, all iridescent,
My uncompleted canvas, and my hosts
So prompt and sedulous to all my needs.
But other things a-tugging at my heart
Make call peremptory – my village home.
Green fields, trim hedgerows and my mother tongue
From voices that I love among the Downs.