Like living creeping things
      That writhe but have no stings
  To scare adulterers from the imperial bed
      Bowed with its load of lust,
      Or chill the ravenous gusts
  That made her body a fire from heel to head;
    Or change her high bright spirit and clear,
For all its mortal stains, from taint of fraud or fear.

43.

As light that blesses, hallowing with a look;
  He saw the godhead in Vittoria’s face
Shine soft on Buonarroti’s, till he took,
  Albeit himself God, a more godlike grace,
A strength more heavenly to confront and brook
  All ill things coiled about his worldly race,
From the bright scripture of that present book
  Wherein his tired grand eyes got power to trace
      Comfort more sweet than youth,
      And hope whose child was truth,
  And love that brought forth sorrow for a space,
      Only that she might bear
      Joy:  these things, written there,
  Made even his soul’s high heaven a heavenlier place,
    Perused with eyes whose glory and glow
Had in their fires the spirit of Michael Angelo.

44.

With balms and dews of blessing he consoled
  The fair fame wounded by the black priest’s fang,
Giovanna’s, and washed off her blithe and bold
  Boy-bridegroom’s blood, that seemed so long to hang
On her fair hand, even till the stain of old
  Was cleansed with healing song, that after sang
Sharp truth by sweetest singers’ lips untold
  Of pale Beatrice, though her death-note rang
      From other strings divine
      Ere his rekindling line
  With yet more piteous and intolerant pang
      Pierced all men’s hearts anew
      That heard her passion through
  Till fierce from throes of fiery pity sprang
    Wrath, armed for chase of monstrous beasts,
Strong to lay waste the kingdom of the seed of priests.

45.

He knew the high-souled humbleness, the mirth
  And majesty of meanest men born free,
That made with Luther’s or with Hofer’s birth
  The whole world worthier of the sun to see: 
The wealth of spirit among the snows, the dearth
  Wherein souls festered by the servile sea
That saw the lowest of even crowned heads on earth
  Thronged round with worship in Parthenope. 
      His hand bade Justice guide
      Her child Tyrannicide,
  Light winged by fire that brings the dawn to be;
      And pierced with Tyrrel’s dart
      Again the riotous heart
  That mocked at mercy’s tongue and manhood’s knee: 
    And oped the cell where kinglike death
Hung o’er her brows discrowned who bare Elizabeth.

46.