Poems (Sackville)/Lorenzo dei Medici
LORENZO DEI MEDICI
I who have wrought for Italy This casket holding many a gem—Florence, whose beauty forms for me So marvellous a diadem— Sweet blossom of a fruitful stem,
Hold in my hand supremest right Of conquest over all who comeTo kneel within my sovran sight; The very eloquence of Rome Sinks at my feet disused and dumb.
Yet no mere court of shining lords, No mere barbaric splendours spreadAround me—not with spears and swords Is my rich progress carpeted, A more enduring path I tread.
Great poets—great philosophers Have bowed to me, and called me great;With the rich wisdom of old years I mingle and participate, And gauge steep gulfs of human Fate.
Once more, hid long by monkish spite, Plato awakes from sleep, and, wiseIn loveliness, his words invite Weak man's obliterated eyes To contemplate new worlds and skies.
The ancient fires and flames of Greece Rise clear from out the fettering years.Beauty impetuous release Has claimed and freed her worshippers From chains of ignominious fears.
And at my side stands many a one Who works with dreams grown visible,Coloured with lights of moon and sun, Sweet words which night and morning spell In shades and hues intangible.
And many more from the dumb stone Bring forth divinest forms as whenThe gods, from chaos pregnant grown, Brought forth the world with subtle pain, And first conceived the lives of men.
Lorenzo, the Magnificent— Thus have men called me, and the soundPoets in songs sublime have blent, And throbbing echoes spread around This name wherewith my worth is crowned.
Yet since no man can wholly rest— Nay scarce the gods themselves can beQuiescent, every care supprest In absolute felicity— A shadow watches over me.
Though I am arbiter and lord Of Florence, and before mine eyesThrong splendid hosts of song and sword, All things desirable and wise Which the high gods immortalise,
Yet there is one who answered not, Though I, Lorenzo, went to him—His soul revolves a subtle plot, A strong reality and grim, Conceived 'mongst dreams and visions dim,
To overthrow my power. Accurst, He holds this Florence changed and tornIn shameful depths of sin immersed— 'Beware!' he cries, 'the judgment born, Oh, slaves, with the approaching morn.'
A ruined people, from whose tears God forms strong hosts to burn and scathe,He sees, and from afar he hears A visioned army strong to save, Re-risen from dead Freedom's grave.
I heed him not, and yet would I For anger at his stubbornness,Hear him arise and testify His love for me, and his lips bless, Which now are stamped with bitterness.
The more because his soul contains Live germs of that consuming fire,Which turned to strength subdues and reins Nations, or nourishes their ire— Doing whate'er it may desire.
Thus were it well if he with me (Since yet I hate him not) should stand,And weave such webs of subtlety That I might hold this difficult land Safe in the hollow of my hand.
Yet I, Lorenzo, at whose nod Princes might kneel who care not thoughThe Papal messenger of God Should rise in wrath and call me foe, In vain descended, stooping low,
To seek this Savonarola, yet He with proud speech refused to hearMy words, as though his brows were set With fairer gems and princelier Than these imperious gems I wear.
This monk, this vassal lowly born, Lorenzo, the Magnificent,Received with insolence and scorn— A pestilent beggar crazed and bent Had found him scarce so insolent
As I; from that same convent there, Even of St Marco's, twice I passedThwarted; no third time will I bear To have my pleasure backward cast; His neck shall surely bend at last.
Lest men shall mock: 'Behold, how small Lorenzo—seeing he sought to gainThe friendship of a monk—but all His proffered favours fell in vain, Cast back into his face again.'
Nay, this shall not be—I will rise— Supreme in power and magnitude,Nor rest until this proud monk lies Conquered—until his lips have sued Even for my beatitude.
Yet were it well a while to wait, This stubborn monk perchance may be,Once snapped those links of wrath and hate Which hold him from my amity, A worthy instrument to me.
And this shall be, for am not I Lorenzo, the Magnificent!Of whom all men shall testify 'The greatest and the wisest bent Beneath his will obedient.'