Classic Poem

Ballad of the Golden Boy

Da VINCI'S brow in curious lines
Of contemplation deep was knit.
Fair dreams before his eyes alit
Like water when the moonlight shines,
Or amber bees that come and flit:
How to make rare and exquisite
A pageant for the Florentines.

He beckoned to his page, a lad
Whose lips were like two crimson spots,
Eyes had he like forget-me-nots.
Yet all his boyhood sweet and glad
In frock of homely-spun was clad.

And of his multi-colored whims
The strangest thus the master told:
“Child, I shall crown thy head with gold,
And stain with gold thy lovely limbs.
For once in this sad age uncouth
The bloom of boyhood and of youth
Shall be with splendour aureoled.”
The boy's heart leaped in one great bound.
“Thy gracious will,” said he, “be done!”
And ere the lad was disengowned
The eager painter had begun
To clothe his hair with glory round
And make his visage like the sun.

Then, seven stars upon his breast,
And in his hands a floral horn,
Like a young king or like a guest
From heaven, riding on the morn,
Splendid and nude, the boy was borne
In triumph on the pageant's crest.

Like the sea surging on the beach,
Reverberant murmurs rise to greet
The masqueraders on the street.
But what is this? A learned leech
Hatless, dishevelled, runs to meet
The train. White terror halts his speech.

“Poor lad, my lad, for Heaven's pity,”
Shakes on the air a father's cry,
“Strip from thy flesh this gilded lie,
Else, for the pleasure of the city,
A self-slain Midas, thou must die!”

And terror smote the revelry.
The master's features white and sad
Twitched, yet no single word spake he,
But full and straight rose up the lad,
Upon his lips curled wistfully
The smile that Mona Lisa had.

“Good Sir,” said he, “what mortal power
In all the dark-winged years and fleet,
Could me, a lowly lad, endower
With any boon more great, more sweet,
Than to have felt one epic hour
A city's homage at my feet?

“By the slow tooth of time uneaten,
And all the foul things that destroy,
From Life's mad game I rise unbeaten,
Drenched with the wine of youth and joy,
Great Leonardo's Golden Boy.

“Let this be told in song and story,
Until the eyes of the world grow dim,
Till the sun's rays are wan, and hoary
The ringlets of the cherubim,
That in my boyhood's glow and glory
I died for Florence and for him.

“And when the damp and dreary mould
Full soon my little limbs shall hold,
Let Leonardo's finger write
Upon my grave, in letters bold:
‘His life was as a splash of gold
Against the plumage of the night.’”
Thus spake the lad; and onward rolled
The world's great pageant fierce and bright,English