Part 8 (1/2)

IV

(_Celeste writes to her father in his imprisonment at Siena_.)

Dear father, it will seem a thousand years Until I see you home again and well.

I would not have you doubt that all this time I have prayed for you continually. I saw A copy of your sentence. I was grieved; And yet it gladdened me, for I found a way To be of use, by taking on myself Your penance. Therefore, if you fail in this, If you forget it--and indeed, to save you The trouble of remembering it--your child Will do it for you.

Ah, could she do more!

How willingly would your Celeste endure A straiter prison than she lives in now To set you free.

”A prison,” I have said; And yet, if you were here, 'twould not be so.

When you were pent in Rome, I used to say, ”Would he were at Siena!” G.o.d fulfilled That wish. You are at Siena; and I now say Would he were at Arcctri.

So perhaps Little by little, angels can be wooed Each day, by some new prayer of mine or yours, To bring you wholly back to me, and save Some few of the flying days that yet remain.

You see, these other Nuns have each their friend, Their patron Saint, their ever near _devoto_, To whom they tell their joys and griefs; but I Have only you, dear father, and if you Were only near me, I could want no more.

Your garden looks as if it missed your love.

The unpruned branches lean against the wall To look for you. The walks run wild with flowers.

Even your watch-tower seems to wait for you; And, though the fruit is not so good this year (The vines were hurt by hail, I think, and thieves Have climbed the wall too often for the pears), The crop of peas is good, and only waits Your hand to gather it.

In the dovecote, too, You'll find some plump young pigeons. We must make A feast for your return.

In my small plot, Here at the Convent, better watched than yours, I raised a little harvest. With the price I got for it, I had three Ma.s.ses said For my dear father's sake.

V

_(Galileo writes to his friend Castelli, after his return to Arcetri.) _

Castelli, O Castelli, she is dead.

I found her driving death back with her soul Till I should come.

I could not even see Her face.--These useless eyes had spent their power On distant worlds, and lost that last faint look Of love on earth.

I am in the dark, Castelli, Utterly and irreparably blind.

The Universe which once these outworn eyes Enlarged so far beyond its ancient bounds Is henceforth shrunk into that narrow s.p.a.ce Which I myself inhabit.

Yet I found Even in the dark, her tears against my face, Her thin soft childish arms around my neck, And her voice whispering ... love, undying love; Asking me, at this last, to tell her true, If we should meet again.

Her trust in me Had shaken her faith in what my judges held; And, as I felt her fingers clutch my hand, Like a child drowning, ”Tell me the truth,” she said, ”Before I lose the light of your dear face”-- It seemed so strange that dying she could see me While I had lost her,--”tell me, before I go.”

”Believe in Love,” was all my soul could breathe.

I heard no answer. Only I felt her hand Clasp mine and hold it tighter. Then she died, And left me to my darkness. Could I guess At unseen glories, in this deeper night, Make new discoveries of profounder realms, Within the soul? O, could I find Him there, Rise to Him through His harmonies of law And make His will my own!

This much, at least, I know already, that--in some strange way-- His law implies His love; for, failing that All grows discordant, and the primal Power Ign.o.bler than His children.

So I trust One day to find her, waiting for me still, When all things are made new.

I raise this torch Of knowledge. It is one with my right hand, And the dark sap that keeps it burning flows Out of my heart; and yet, for all my faith, It shows me only darkness.

Was I wrong?

Did I forget the subtler truth of Rome And, in my pride, obscure the world's one light?

Did I subordinate to this moving earth Our swiftlier-moving G.o.d?

O, my Celeste, Once, once at least, you knew far more than I; And she is dead, Castelli, she is dead.

VI

(_Viviani, many years later, writes to a friend in England_)

I was his last disciple, as you say I went to him, at seventeen years of age, And offered him my hands and eyes to use, When, voicing the true mind and heart of Rome, Father Castelli, his most faithful friend, Wrote, for my master, that compa.s.sionate plea; _The n.o.blest eye that Nature ever made Is darkened; one so exquisitely dowered, So delicate in power that it beheld More than all other eyes in ages gone And opened the eyes of all that are to come._ But, out of England, even then, there shone The first ethereal promise of light That crowns my master dead. Well I recall That day of days. There was no faintest breath Among his garden cypress-trees. They dreamed Dark, on a sky too beautiful for tears, And the first star was trembling overhead, When, quietly as a messenger from heaven, Moving unseen, through his own purer realm, Amongst the shadows of our mortal world, A young man, with a strange light on his face Knocked at the door of Galileo's house.

His name was Milton.

By the hand of G.o.d, He, the one living soul on earth with power To read the starry soul of this blind man, Was led through Italy to his prison door.

He looked on Galileo, touched his hand ...

_O, dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, Irrecoverably dark .... _ In after days, He wrote it; but it pulsed within him then; And Galileo rising to his feet And turning on him those unseeing eyes That had searched heaven and seen so many worlds, Said to him, ”You have found me.”

Often he told me in those last sad months Of how your grave young island poet brought Peace to him, with the knowledge that, far off, In other lands, the truth he had proclaimed Was gathering power.