The Bishop Orders His Tomb At Saint Praxeds Church Rome

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!     Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?     Nephews, sons mine . . . ah God, I know not! Well,     She, men would have to be your mother once,     Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was!     Whats done is done, and she is dead beside,     Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since,     And as she died so must we die ourselves,     And thence ye may perceive the worlds a dream.     Life, how and what is it? As here I lie     In this state-chamber, dying by degrees,     Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask     Do I live, am I dead? Peace, peace seems all.     Saint Praxeds ever was the church for peace;     And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought     With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know:     Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care;     Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South     He graced his carrion with, God curse the same!     Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence     One sees the pulpit o the epistle-side,     And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats,     And up into the aery dome where live     The angels, and a sunbeams sure to lurk:     And I shall fill my slab of basalt there,     And neath my tabernacle take my rest,     With those nine columns round me, two and two,     The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands:     Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe     As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse.     Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone,     Put me where I may look at him! True peach,     Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize!     Draw close: that conflagration of my church     What then? So much was saved if aught were missed!     My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig     The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood,     Drop water gently till the surface sink,     And if ye find . . . Ah God, I know not, I! . . .     Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft,     And corded up in a tight olive-frail,     Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli,     Big as a Jews head cut off at the nape,     Blue as a vein oer the Madonnas breast . . .     Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all,     That brave Frascati villa with its bath,     So, let the blue lump poise between my knees,     Like God the Fathers globe on both His hands     Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay,     For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst!     Swift as a weavers shuttle fleet our years:     Man goeth to the grave, and where is he?     Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black,     Twas ever antique-black I meant! How else     Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath?     The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me,     Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance     Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so,     The Saviour at his sermon on the mount,     Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan     Ready to twitch the Nymphs last garment off,     And Moses with the tables . . . but I know     Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee,     Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope     To revel down my villas while I gasp     Bricked oer with beggars mouldy travertine     Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at!     Nay, boys, ye love me, all of jasper, then!     Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve.     My bath must needs be left behind, alas!     One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut,     Theres plenty jasper somewhere in the world,     And have I not Saint Praxeds ear to pray     Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts,     And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs?     Thats if ye carve my epitaph aright,     Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tullys every word,     No gaudy ware like Gandolfs second line,     Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need!     And then how I shall lie through centuries,     And hear the blessed mutter of the mass,     And see God made and eaten all day long,     And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste     Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!     For as I lie here, hours of the dead night,     Dying in state and by such slow degrees,     I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook,     And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point,     And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop     Into great laps and folds of sculptors-work:     And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts     Grow, with a certain humming in my ears,     About the life before I lived this life,     And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests,     Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount,     Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes,     And new-found agate urns as fresh as day,     And marbles language, Latin pure, discreet,     Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend?     No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best!     Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage.     All lapis, all, sons! Else I give the Pope     My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart?     Ever your eyes were as a lizards quick,     They glitter like your mothers for my soul,     Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze,     Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase     With grapes, and add a vizor and a Term,     And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx     That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down,     To comfort me on my entablature     Whereon I am to lie till I must ask     Do I live, am I dead? There, leave me, there!     For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude     To death, ye wish it, God, ye wish it! Stone,     Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweat     As if the corpse they keep were oozing through,     And no more lapis to delight the world!     Well, go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there,     But in a row: and, going, turn your backs     Ay, like departing altar-ministrants,     And leave me in my church, the church for peace,     That I may watch at leisure if he leers,     Old Gandolf, at me, from his onion-stone,     As still he envied me, so fair she was!