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| OF Florence and of Beatrice | |
| Servant and singer from of old, | |
| O’er Dante’s heart in youth had tolled | |
| The knell that gave his lady peace; | |
| And now in manhood flew the dart | 5 |
| Wherewith his city pierced his heart. | |
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| Yet if his lady’s home above | |
| Was heaven, on earth she filled his soul; | |
| And if his city held control | |
| To cast the body forth to rove, | 10 |
| The soul could soar from earth’s vain throng, | |
| And heaven and hell fulfil the song. | |
| |
| Follow his feet’s appointed way,— | |
| But little light we find that clears | |
| The darkness of the exiled years. | 15 |
| Follow his spirit’s journey,—nay, | |
| What fires are blent, what winds are blown | |
| On paths his feet may tread alone? | |
| |
| Yet of the twofold life he led | |
| In chainless thought and fettered will | 20 |
| Some glimpses reach us,—somewhat still | |
| Of the steep stairs and bitter bread,— | |
| Of the soul’s quest whose stern avow | |
| For years had made him haggard now. | |
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| Alas! the sacred song whereto | 25 |
| Both heaven and earth had set their hand | |
| Not only at fame’s gate did stand | |
| Knocking to claim the passage through, | |
| But toiled to ope that heavier door | |
| Which Florence shut forevermore. | 30 |
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| Shall not his birth’s baptismal town | |
| One last high presage yet fulfil, | |
| And at that font in Florence still | |
| His forehead take the laurel-crown? | |
| O God! or shall dead souls deny | 35 |
| The undying soul its prophecy? | |
| |
| Ay, ’t is their hour. Not yet forgot | |
| The bitter words he spoke that day | |
| When for some great charge far away | |
| Her rulers his acceptance sought; | 40 |
| “And if I go, who stays?” so rose | |
| His scorn; “and if I stay, who goes?” | |
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| “Lo! thou art gone now, and we stay,” | |
| The curled lips mutter; “and no star | |
| Is from thy mortal path so far | 45 |
| As streets where childhood knew the way. | |
| To heaven and hell thy feet may win, | |
| But thine own house they come not in.” | |
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| Therefore, the loftier rose the song | |
| To touch the secret things of God, | 50 |
| The deeper pierced the hate that trod | |
| On base men’s track who wrought the wrong; | |
| Till the soul’s effluence came to be | |
| Its own exceeding agony. | |
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| Arriving only to depart, | 55 |
| From court to court, from land to land, | |
| Like flame within the naked hand | |
| His body bore his burning heart, | |
| That still on Florence strove to bring | |
| God’s fire for a burnt-offering. * * * * * | 60 |
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