the thunder of the horses, and with hate in my heart I shall search for Bocca degli Abati, the traitor, among the ten thousand dead.  And in the council I shall be by when they plot the destruction of the city, and I shall be afraid:  then I shall hear the heroic, scornful words of Farinata degli Uberti, when in his pride he spared Florence for the sake of his birth.  And I shall watch the banners at Campaldino, I shall hear the intoxicating words of Corso Donati, I shall look into his very face and read the truth.

And at dawn I shall walk with Dante, and I shall know by the softness of his voice when Beatrice passeth, but I shall not dare to lift my eyes.  I shall walk with him through the city, I shall hear Giotto speak to him of St. Francis, and Arnolfo will tell us of his dreams.  And at evening Petrarch will lead me into the shadow of S. Giovanni and tell me of Madonna Laura.  But it will be a morning of spring when I meet Boccaccio, ah, in S. Maria Novella, and as we come into the sunshine I shall laugh and say, “Tell me a story.”  And Charles of Valois will pass by, who sent Dante on that long journey; and Henry VII, for whom he had prayed; and I shall hear the trumpets of Montecatini, and I shall understand the hate Uguccione had for Castracani.  And I shall watch the entry of the Duke of Athens, and I shall see his cheek flush at the thought of a new tyranny.  Then for the first time I shall hear the sinister, fortunate name Medici.  Under the banners of the Arti I shall hear the rumour of their names, Silvestro who urged on the Ciompi, Vieri who once made peace; nor will the death of Gian Galeazzo of Milan, nor the tragedy of Pisa, hinder their advent, for I shall see Giovanni di Bicci de’ Medici proclaimed Gonfaloniere of the city.  Then they will troop by more splendid than princes, the universal bankers, lords of Florence:  Cosimo the hard old man, Pater Patriae, the greatest of his race; Piero, the weakling; Lorenzo il Magnifico, tyrant and artist; and over his shoulder I shall see the devilish, sensual face of Savonarola.  And there will go by Giuliano, the lover of Simonetta; Piero the exile; Giovanni the mighty pope, Leo X; Giulio the son of Guiliano, Clement VII; Ippolito the Cardinal, Alessandro the cruel, Lorenzino his assassin, Cosimo l’Invitto, Grand Duke of Tuscany, bred in a convent and mourned for ever.

So they pass by, and their descendants follow after them, even to poor, unhappy, learned Gian Gastone, the last of his race.

And around them throng the artists; yes, I shall see them all.  Angelico will lead me into his cell and show me the meaning of the Resurrection.  With Lippo Lippi I shall play with the children, and talk with Lucrezia Buti at the convent gate; Ghirlandajo will take me where Madonna Vanna is, and with Baldovinetti I shall watch the dawn.  And Botticelli will lead me into a grove apart:  I shall see the beauty of those three women who pass, who pass like a season, and are neither glad nor sorry; and with him I shall