Hanover Browsing
A SINCERE AND HONEST artist, whether poet, painter, composer, or sculptor, expresses in his work his own peculiar _ attitude towards life. Franklin McDufiee was a poet, and a"teacher of English poetry. At his death he was near the pinnacle, both as a writer and a teacher, and he loved poetry with a consuming passion. He was, I think, a perfectionist, as Was the late A. E. Housman, and always chose a qualitative rather than a quantitative standard for his ideal. It is not without significance that his two greatest and best known lyrics were written under the inspiration of the two institutions of learning he deeply loved, Dartmouth and Oxford.
Somehow the "spires of Oxford," and the tradition and quiet beauty there, got under his skin, and became, through an alchemy no one yet understands, part of his spirit, and moved him to write a poem which concerns in the person of a Renaissance painter and sculptor, an artist's relation to beauty, truth, creation, and life itself. This poem Michelangelo (the last printing of which, so far as I know, was for the Dartmouth Alumni Association of Boston's Dinner of February 4, 1925), won Oxford's highest poetry award, the Newgate Prize, in 1924. All Dartmouth men know his Dartmouth Undying, written in 1930 or 1931, inspired by "the gleaming, dreaming walls of Dartmouth," a song which will endure as long as the College endures, and conceivably longer, as it has been well said that "the coin outlasts Tiberius."
No words of mine, nor perhaps of anybody, can express Franklin McDuffee's fine and gentle spirit as well as his own deeply felt poetic creation Michelangelo. I am honored to present in my column for the whole alumni body, Franklin McDuffee's "testament of beauty," which binds him forever to us all, and to those yet to come.
I.
As when some lonely watcher of the moon, . Communing with her beauty through the night, Has searched her face, exploring every crag, Each peak and crater, till the icy dawn Assails him on his western mountain top, Then rubs his eyes, and turns away to sleep,But sleeping, seems to live in that far world On which he looked and pondered—treads its spurs, Its rocky passes, and its barren moors, And sees them in a twilight wonder still; No warmth, no colour, no flecked forest paths, No pools for bathing, no familiar downs And valleys, where the sounding sheep-bells go; Only the twilight, and terrific forms, Forms chiselled by the knotted hand of God, Silent, intent, sublime,—and wakes, and starts Half fearful, half reluctant, soul-enthralled, By thoughts engendered in that austere land Haunted perpetually, thoughts resolved never: As he among the mountains of the moon, So felt I, Michelangelo, when first, A pilgrim to the cities of the south, I came one day into a foreign star— The land of thy creation, O thou god. This is the wonder of time, That out of a handful of dust, Out of the ashes of death, Out of the mire and the slime,
Suddenly flowers are thrust, Ruin rebuked by their breath.
Rome and her Caesars had perished, Greece and her sunlight were darkened, Chaos prevailed through the lands; The palm and the laurel were cherished No more, for the spirit had hearkened And yielded to-evil commands.
In her cathedral and tomb Europe lay lifeless, cold, The fires in her temples untended: What could be left in time's womb? Surely the story was told, Surely the glory was ended!
This is the wonder of time, That out of the glories forgotten, Out of the faded and rotten, Out of the mire and the slime, Sudden a god is begotten— He whom I sing in my rime!
II.
Where green Caprese draws the summer out, Breathed on by winds that walk the Apennine, Time travailed, and brought forth her god-born son. When did the spirit, dropping like a dove, Suffuse him with its flooding power and pain? When was the godhead planted in his breasts, How guarded, how revealed? I have heard it said This naked baby cried, and sucked, and slept, Turned its bright eyes in wonder on the world, And babbled nothings to its mother's breast. Where were the wings of inspiration then, The birds of fire, that brood upon the heart?
Drop, birds of fire, and warm This baby's rosy form. Cover with soft white feather From blight of frost or weather The unborn thoughts that sleep Within this cradle deep. Be instant, birds of song, The nest has waited long. And when you stoop at last With wings together cast, When to your passionate breast The unborn thought is pressed, A bird, a burning wing, A living flame shall spring, To scatter through our night A comet's trail of light!
Whether his heart was kindled in the womb, Or whether that unfathomable power, Inviolate and dark, which dwells afar— Whether that power of impulse uncontrolled Sloped down the trembling starlight, and shone in Upon his heart, I know not: Beauty blows Invisible, like wind, to her fixed goal. Enough that Michelangelo perceived Caresses blown upon his black curled hair And on his cheek, quickening his veins with fire, And plighted Her his faith, to follow her, Though steep the ways, though steep and yet untrod, Through death, through triumph, to her far abode.
III.
It was a summer's purple afternoon When Michelangelo, a brown-limbed boy. Truant from Ghirlandajo's workshop, stole Among the gardens of the Medici. Rose petals fell; the laden wind blew down The cypress lanes; the fountains breathed and stirred. Far off the hammers of the masons rang, At work for the Magnificent; but he, Unheeding, with stern brows and ruffled hair Surveyed a grinning faun's face fixedly. This, from a weathered block of marble, begged As nothing worth from workmen of the Duke's, His hand had carved. And now the work was done. Silent he stood, and gazed, with darkening eyes. What thoughts, what forms, what blinding visions then Blazed up and lapped him in a storm of flame? Did he, erect before this laughing faun. His first created, for a moment gaze Upon the mirrored glories of his prime: The bright cathedral with its floating dome, Mist-girdled; tombs of popes; madonnas; youths With bodies like the fallen seraphim, Unquiet as desire; and that long pomp Of thronging shapes electric and austere- God, Heaven, Creation, cataclysmic Doom- Rising before him, crowned with mystery, In swift procession of supernal form: Did he for one eclipsing moment see These phantoms lift majestic in his soul; Though fathoms deep, emerging—then decline Back to the depths, to bide their destined hour? Who can conceive or shadow? But the joy Ineffable, the rapturous ascent Upon a wind that blows behind the stars, The pause ecstatic in that azure air And cloudless summit of prophetic sight. The slow declension, when the spirit flags, And imperceptibly sinks down to rest In earth's strong arms again—all this he knew And stood transfixed. Thus standing, unaware, The Duke of Florence, the Magnificent, By chance directed, or by destiny, Came on him, and aroused him from his dream; Said, "You have made this grinning rascal old, And left him all his teeth! 'Faith, know you not Old men are toothless?" Michelangelo Looked round, with startled eyes, and saw the Duke, The Lord of Florence, lithe, erect, superb, In scarlet cloak, and jewelled sword at thigh,— A moment gazed—then without answer turned Swiftly, and with three blows so surely cleft A tooth out that Lorenzo smiled, amazed; Asked the boy's name and trade, perceived the seal Of light upon him, bid him dwell thenceforth An inmate of the palace, free to work And study truth with that sky-searching band Of poets, painters, scholars, who shared the board Of the great Duke, but served the arts alone.
This was the way of the golden time At Florence, in the south. When a Duke could bend to a noble rime As well as an upturned mouth.
When the limbs that ripple in polished stone Laid seige to his gaze and heart With the warm-limbed maidens who throbbed and shone At Florence, the crown of art.
A rose-fleshed woman? A flight to woo, Through flesh, to the heights above! A grinning faun's face? If art shines through As sure a claim to our love!
Thus it was in the golden days. But the gods no more endow, And down the world's trim garden ways No great Duke passes now.
IV.
So from her star the spirit worked her will, And in the palace of the Medici Dwelt Michelangelo, and knew the kings Of art and love and poetry. The months Brought crowding honours. Florence, when she saw The naked limbs, the stern tall body bright, The David first revealed—like wind and storm Florence arose with thunder in her voice, And shouted, "Buonarroti the Divine!" Then Rome cast down her mitre at his feet, And Dukes and Princes echoed, "The Divine!" And still he grew in stature and in might, While from his soul colossal visions rose, Like thoughts of God—churches and sepulchres; Gigantic tombs where nature sits enthroned, Inscrutable, profound, with languid eyes; Men with the bodies of the early gods- While still the primal power impetuous Compelled the quarry to his will, assailed The prisoning rock, flinging its fragments far, Shattered and spurned beneath the chisel's stroke As crags by frost are riven, until it set The breathing spirit of the marble free- Yet was their austere master doomed to live Alone forever; an alien god, scarce fit To brave the gusts and gales that sweep the world; Exiled from jovial fellowship, untuned Unto the lights and colours manifold And turbulent splendours of his native land; Living instead, for all that counts as life, In his own world of proud and naked form, A rocky summit, inaccessible To common men, their passions, joys, and fears; For rapture-breathing love, the bitter bliss And glow of young desire, the dusty strife And all the large variety of earth, Its sun and shadow, showers, blossoms, birds, Were there unknown; and never woman's foot Might hope to scale those stern acclivities.
Who would be a god to dwell In a world of men? Sense and passion will rebel, All things earthly will repel Till he seeks his heaven again.
Will the godhead be subdued To the body's sway? Round the god perpetual feud Rages, mood attacking mood, Till time crushes it to clay.
V.
Death, the slow-pacer, by whose still command The stars burn redder nightly, and the gods Attend their destiny, at length has wrought The twilight of another god. From hill And river darkness streams like vapour down,
Creeping by door and window, as he sits, Solitary, in that bare room in Rome, And counts the dying footfall of the hours. Like the fire-shadows, ghosts innumerable Attend him, flitting restless round his head, In his deep heart reviving memories; And beauty's self stoops, though invisible, To brush his rugged brow and kiss his hair.
He felt her touch and knew it as in youth, And his tired heart was stirred, and spoke: "When first I felt thee, spirit implacable and pure, Invade my blood, and leap along my veins, I swore to win thee and to follow thee, Though steep thy mountains and untrod—'My life Is dedicate: no light of wide desire Shall lure me from the pathway where I go. For there are burning sandals on my feet And in my hear a flame'—'twas thus I swore! And for thy sake, thou Mystery, I left The world, and forged a world wherein to dwell: Shut out contentment, and shut out all love: Shut out all love, save love for thee alone. Frugally have I lived, hoarding for thee Each natural power wherewith I was endowed, Scorning to borrow for my body's rest The mintage that for thee alone was gold. I have lived much; and though too weak, alas, Too troubled by the petty fears and dull Suspicions that infest the common air, Yet I have given my best—and now comes death Now must I lose thee, and my gift of soul Be given in vain? I have scarce touched the hem Of thy swift garment: still in space thou standest, Beckoning, and I am old, and cannot go. O me, my world may come in ruin down, And death be all:—no dream of all my dreams Have I wrought truly, nor even dreams of dreams." He spoke, and death and beauty stooped together,
And touched the high indomitable brow; And sudden silence shot across the world.
And the grey eyes grew steadily aware Of light, tremendous twilight, in whose glow The gathered dusk dissolved. Deep moonlight fell Around him, and strange glory filled his soul.
Rome and her noises were no more to him; For with strong steps and happiness unknown, And beauty leading, he had found his star. A twilight world it is; and there the race Of noble forms his soul had brought to life, The Sons of Light that from the Sistine vault Assert God's grandeur, and the eternal truth Of beauty-these, and all the shining throng Of shapes he made and dreamed of, dwell with him, Where moonlight is, and majesty, and peace; Deep peace, and majesty perpetual.
The twilight of the gods draws down apace. Grandeur is dead, and time is very old. Evening with swift foot and averted face Goes homeward, and the roads of life are cold. Come home, all wanderers: Make the doors fast. The long-enduring twilight shuts at last.
I do not know what sunsets may illume, As long night drops, the purple hills of home, Ere man, foiled lover, seeks the little room And everlasting coverlet of loam. Some final pageant yet may be unfurled Before time shuts the hinges of the world.
But, O, the morning and the morning star, The flush of dawn on uplands grey with dew, These come no more; and where the high gods are, Serene and pale, a darkness hovers too. Come home, all wanders: Make the doors fast. The darkness without stars has shut at last.
