Page:Prometheus Bound, and other poems.djvu/208

 He sits in stone, and hardens by a charm Into the marble of his throne high-placed! Mild benediction, waves his saintly arm— So good! but what we want's a perfect man, Complete and all alive: half travertine Half suits our need, and ill subserves our plan. Feet, knees, nerves, sinews, energies divine Were never yet too much for men who ran In such exalted ways as this of thine, Deliverer whom we seek, whoe'er thou art, Pope, prince, or peasant! If, indeed, the first, The noblest, therefore! since the heroic heart Within thee must be great enough to burst Those trammels buckling to the baser part Thy saintly peers in Rome, who crossed and cursed With the same finger.

Come, appear, be found, If pope or peasant, come! we hear the cock, The courtier of the mountains when first crowned With golden dawn; and orient glories flock To meet the sun upon the highest ground. Take voice and work! we wait to hear thee knock At some one of our Florentine nine gates, On each of which we imaged a sublime Face of a Tuscan genius, which, for hate's And love's sake both, our Florence in her prime Turned boldly on all comers to her states, As heroes turned their shields in antique time, Blazoned with honourable acts. And though The gates are blank now of such images, And Petrarch looks no more from Nicolo Toward dear Arezzo, 'twixt the acacia trees,