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148
DANTE.
He wore an honest hatred on his sleeve,
Of red oppression and inhuman wrong;
Brief pause he made to question or to grieve,
But, singing his incomparable song,
Wove each great stanza of his life along.
Of red oppression and inhuman wrong;
Brief pause he made to question or to grieve,
But, singing his incomparable song,
Wove each great stanza of his life along.
His hands were pure from gold, his heart from guile,—
Could the fixed features deign to wear a smile,
It must have been the gala of some deed
Whose doer's guerdon rested in that meed
Most, tho' approving angels wept the while.
Could the fixed features deign to wear a smile,
It must have been the gala of some deed
Whose doer's guerdon rested in that meed
Most, tho' approving angels wept the while.
In his immortal heart such virtue lies
Of Love, that builds the shrine it consecrates,
That who pursues the passion to the gates
Whose music shuts out the uncertain Fates,
Beholds it, deathless, in his Lady's eyes.
Of Love, that builds the shrine it consecrates,
That who pursues the passion to the gates
Whose music shuts out the uncertain Fates,
Beholds it, deathless, in his Lady's eyes.
149
Dante was lovelorn in his youthful days,
With amorous wanderers fain to pass his time;
Nor only thus knew he those devious ways
Set in the glory of his antique rhyme,—
So much at least, his Legendary says,
With amorous wanderers fain to pass his time;
Nor only thus knew he those devious ways
Set in the glory of his antique rhyme,—
So much at least, his Legendary says,
Seeking excuse. But this is further said:
He was no Wanton—Eager Beauty laid
Her ambush for him, from the laurel grove
She darted, with his solemn traits in love,
And in his breast her glorious capture made.
He was no Wanton—Eager Beauty laid
Her ambush for him, from the laurel grove
She darted, with his solemn traits in love,
And in his breast her glorious capture made.
Or swifter, Sorrow, with her eyes on fire,
Their red glow ravished from her hollow breast,
Laid her thin grasp upon the Poet's vest,
Till, at her tale of agony confessed,
Fainted the heart, and fell the wailing lyre.
Their red glow ravished from her hollow breast,
Laid her thin grasp upon the Poet's vest,
Till, at her tale of agony confessed,
Fainted the heart, and fell the wailing lyre.
Rest, mid sepulchral marbles, dim and cold,
Setting the lamp that saw thee over-wrought
With thine unearthly subject—labour fraught
With distant blessing, since our ages hold
Their mirror to the greatness of thy thought.
Setting the lamp that saw thee over-wrought
With thine unearthly subject—labour fraught
With distant blessing, since our ages hold
Their mirror to the greatness of thy thought.
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