“Where is the use of the lip’s red charm,
The heaven of hair, the pride of the brow,
And the blood that blues the inside arm—­

“Unless we turn, as the soul knows how,
The earthly gift to an end divine? 
A lady of clay is as good, I trow.”

But long ere Robbia’s cornice, fine,
With flowers and fruits which leaves enlace,
Was set where now is the empty shrine—­

(And, leaning out of a bright blue space, 190
As a ghost might lean from a chink of sky,
The passionate pale lady’s face—­

Eyeing ever, with earnest eye
And quick-turned neck at its breathless stretch,
Some one who ever is passing by)

The Duke had sighed like the simplest wretch
In Florence, “Youth—­my dream escapes! 
Will its record stay?” And he bade them fetch

Some subtle moulder of brazen shapes—­
“Can the soul, the will, die out of a man 200
Ere his body find the grave that gapes?

“John of Douay shall effect my plan,
Set me on horseback here aloft,
Alive, as the crafty sculptor can,

“In the very square I have crossed so oft: 
That men may admire, when future suns
Shall touch the eyes to a purpose soft,

“While the mouth and the brow stay brave in bronze—­
Admire and say, ’When he was alive
How he would take his pleasure once!’ 210

“And it shall go hard but I contrive
To listen the while, and laugh in my tomb
At idleness which aspires to strive.”

--------------------------------

So!  While these wait the trump of doom,
How do their spirits pass, I wonder,
Nights and days in the narrow room?

Still, I suppose, they sit and ponder
What a gift life was, ages ago,
Six steps out of the chapel yonder.

Only they see not God, I know, 220
Nor all that chivalry of his,
The soldier-saints who, row on row,

Burn upward each to his point of bliss—­
Since, the end of life being manifest,
He had burned his way thro’ the world to this.

I hear you reproach, “But delay was best,
For their end was a crime.”  Oh, a crime will do
As well, I reply, to serve for a test,

As a virtue golden through and through,
Sufficient to vindicate itself 230
And prove its worth at a moment’s view!

Must a game be played for the sake of pelf
Where a button goes, ’twere an epigram
To offer the stamp of the very Guelph.

The true has no value beyond the sham: 
As well the counter as coin, I submit,
When your table’s a hat, and your prize a dram.

Stake your counter as boldly every whit,
Venture as warily, use the same skill,
Do your best, whether winning or losing it, 240

If you choose to play!—­is my principle. 
Let a man contend to the uttermost
For his life’s set prize, be it what it will!