The old red, towered walls climb round the hills
On which Siena stands in lonely state,
Scanning the ridgy plain, where gleam no rills
And loom no towns, but only endless lines
Of livid furrowed hillocks which the great
White, ploughing bullocks speck. From gate to gate
A few tall cypresses and scattered pines
Climb too, where, guarding streets that silence fills,
The old red, towered walls climb round the hills.
Silent and empty in the August glare
The old depopulated city sleeps;
Its dizzy belfry climbs the fiery air
Into the sky’s inexorable blue;
Across its great scooped shell-shaped square there creeps
No living soul, nor up the high paved steeps
That be its streets; perhaps some carts sway through
Its dusty gates, behind a huge-horned pair,
Creaking and empty in the August glare.
O for the pageantry of olden days,
Thou silent square--ye palaces that wind
Up to the still cathedral, where the rays,
Now gentler, kiss the marble and the gold!
O for the throngs that Time has left behind,
Ye buttressed lanes, ye lofty archways lined
With faded saints; show those ye used to hold
When the strong prosperous city loved displays
And gaudy pageantry in olden days.
I hear a hum of men, a tramp and tread;
The city’s Districts muster. First appears
The District of the Panther--white and red
Its men-at-arms and pages, fifes and drums;
And next the yellow-liveried troop that bears
The Ghibelline standard of the Eagle nears;
Then Tortoise, Hedgehog, Snail and Glowworm come;
And the Guelf She-Wolf, with her arms ahead
All black and silver, comes with tramp and tread.
The Districts muster for the August race,
And take their glossy racers to be blessed,
Each in its own rich church, where, held in trace
Of gold, the startled barb with hoof-steps loud
Is led through flaunting banner, shield and crest
To the high altar’s rail, where kneel close pressed
The pages and the soldiers and the crowd,
Who scan the gleaming limbs that shall efface
Last year’s defeat and win the August race.
The huge old square scooped like a palmer’s shell,
Siena’s forum and its hippodrome,
Echoes a roar that drowns the mighty bell
From battlemented belfry in the sky;
The ring of olden palaces, become
Ablaze with crimson hangings, looks like some
Enchanted Coliseum, in which vie
Scutcheon and standard; so you scarce could tell
The strange old square scooped like a palmer’s shell.
In bright procession ere the race is run
The rival Districts wind around the course,
Each with its banner in the evening sun,
Its clarions, and its Captain capped with steel,
Its pages and its men that lead the horse
Caparisoned and guarded by a force
Of gaudy pikemen; while the clarions peal
And the crowd cheers the Panther that has won
Its fickle favour ere the race is run.
And as the standard-bearers one and all
March by in motley blazonry, they cast
Their standards high in air, and as they fall
Catch them above the throng with rapid hand
And twirl and twist them dexterously and fast
In one unceasing play, until at last
The whole vast square is by the bright silk fanned,
And they have marched before the great Town Hall
Where stand the city’s rulers one and all.
Then comes, drawn by six bullocks of huge size
All white as milk, with many-coloured strings
About their horns, broad brows and large black eyes,
The old Republic’s standard-bearing wain,
With its great Martinella bell that rings
Oft o’er the battle’s roar, and whose sound brings
Fear to the heart of her who plots in vain,
Perfidious Florence. From its high mast flies
Siena’s She-Wolf’s standard of huge size.
And now the course is clear, and those who don
The colours of the Panther feel no fear;
A hundred thousand partizans look on
With inborn urban rivalry, and hail
The horses one by one as they appear,
And hoot the Shell, or Wave, or wildly cheer
The Hedgehog, or the Dragon, or the Snail,
Or the great Eagle that so oft has won,
Whose knaves and rider yellow colours don.
At last they start, and at terrific pace
In dreadful crush adown the slope they tear,
The Tortoise leading for a little space;
Then from the crowd the Panther shooting out,
Maintains the lead thrice round the perilous square;
Then suddenly a great shout rends the air:
“The Snail! The Snail!” all cry; and in hushed doubt
All watch the two. The Snail has won the race,
And slowly slackens its terrific pace.
And in the District of the Snail to-night
Is revelry and feasting in the street;
From great wrought-iron torch-holders the light
Falls red and flaring on grim palace walls
Decked with bright banners; boards where all may eat
Who care, are crowded; while the old repeat
Many an oft-told story that recalls
What things the Snail had done in race and fight.
Sleep shuns the District of the Snail to-night.