L CASTAGNO--1460.)

I.

Threescore and ten!
I wish it were all to live again.
Doesn't the Scripture somewhere say,
By reason of strength men oft-times may
Even reach fourscore? Alack! who knows?
Ten sweet, long years of life! I would paint
Our Lady and many and many a saint,
And thereby win my soul's repose.
Yet, Fra Bernardo, you shake your head:
Has the leech once said
I must die? But he
Is only a fallible man, you see:
Now, if it had been our father the pope,
I should _know_ there was then no hope.
Were only I sure of a few kind years
More to be merry in, then my fears
I'd slip for a while, and turn and smile
At their hated reckonings: whence the need
Of squaring accounts for word and deed
Till the lease is up?... How? hear I right?
No, no! You could not have said, _To-night_!

II.

Ah, well! ah, well!
"Confess"--you tell me--"and be forgiven."
Is there no easier path to heaven?
Santa Maria! how can I tell
What, now for a score of years and more,
I've buried away in my heart so deep
That, howso tired I've been, I've kept
Eyes waking when near me another slept,
Lest I might mutter it in my sleep?
And now at the last to blab it clear!
How the women will shrink from my pictures! And worse
Will the men do--spit on my name, and curse;
But then up in heaven I shall not hear.

I faint! I faint!
Quick, Fra Bernardo! The figure stands
There in the niche--my patron saint:
Put it within my trembling hands
Till they are steadier. So!
My brain
Whirled and grew dizzy with sudden pain,
Trying to span that gulf of years,
Fronting again those long laid fears.
_Confess_? Why, yes, if I must, I must.
Now good Sant' Andrea be my trust!
But fill me first, from that crystal flask,
Strong wine to strengthen me for my task.
(That thing is a gem of craftsmanship:
Just mark how its curvings fit the lip.)

Ah, you, in your dreamy, tranquil life,
How can _you_ fathom the rage and strife,
The blinding envy, the burning smart,
That, wor