TO J. MILSAND, OF DIJON. DEAR FRIEND: Let this poem be introduced by your name, and so repay all trouble it ever cost me. I wrote it twenty-five years ago for only a few, counting even in these on somewhat more care about its subject than they really had. My own faults of expression were many; but with care for a man or book such would be surmounted, and without it what avails the faultlessness of either? I blame nobody, least of all myself, who did my best then and since; for I lately gave time and pains to turn my work into what the many might instead of what the few must like: but after all, I imagined an other thing at first, and therefore leave as I find it. The historical decoration was purposely of no more importance than a background requires; and my stress lay on the incidents in the development of a soul: little else is worth study. I, at least, always thought so, you, with many known and unknown to me, think so, others may one day think so: and whether my attempt remain for them or not, I trust, though away and past it, to continue ever yours, LONDON, June 9, 1863. R. B. SORDELLO. BOOK THE FIRST. A QUIXOTIC ATTEMPT. WHO will, may hear Sordello's story told: With ravage of six long sad hundred years. Appears Verona... Never, I should warn you first, And leaving you to say the rest for him. Since, though I might be proud to see the dim Friends fate accords me? Here they are now view The host I muster! Many a lighted face Foul with no vestige of the grave's disgrace; What else should tempt them back to taste our air My audience! and they sit, each ghostly man Brother by breathing brother; thou art set, A wondrous soul of them, nor move death's spleen The living in good earnest Friends! I mean -ye elect suppose not I reject Judicious praise, who contrary shall peep, To scare me, thus employed, with that pure face! I need not fear this audience, I make free With them, but then this is no place for thee! Would echo like his own sword's griding screech Turn intense as a trumpet sounding in Have I to play my puppets, bear my part Before these worthies? Lo, the Past is hurled |