Poems (Sackville)/Lorenzo dei Medici

by Margaret Sackville

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 come
To 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 spread
Around 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, wise
In 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 when
The 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 sound
Poets 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 be
Quiescent, every care supprest
 In absolute felicity—
 A shadow watches over me.

Though I am arbiter and lord
 Of Florence, and before mine eyes
Throng 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 torn
In 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 though
The 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 hear
My 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 passed
Thwarted; 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 gain
The 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.'