Dante.
I wait, in patience, and in trembling hope,The last sands in my glass; a few brief grainsDivide me from the Angel in yon cope,Whose studded azure never sheltered painsKeener than mine! But, from my mount of years,I look on my past life, as one whose chainsHave fall’n, saint-touched; and thro’ the mist of tearsSweet glimmerings of the Empyrean comeAthwart the troubled vale of doubts and fears;And as a child, who, wandered from his home,Sees, suddenly, with speechless joy, his cot,Thus seems the hour, when I no more shall roam,But, in a blessed, and abiding lot,Merge my long exile. Florence! when these eyes,So long athirst! shall gaze upon the spot,This atom-earth, in space, with ken more wiseThan erring nature would permit to clay,Methinks that sorrow, for thy destinies,Will yet pursue me to the realms of day;For, wert not thou the life-hope of my breast?Altho’, my grief-schooled spirit gave not wayTo its deep yearning, so, at thy behest,To tread thy streets once more: I could not bendTruth to the shameless compromise! Unrest,Want, banishment, were better, than to lendMyself to falsehood! More thou neededst meThan I thee. So, I know, unto the end,How hard ’tis to climb others’ stairs; to seeAnarchy’s gory reign; to beg my breadIn alien courts, midst lewd society;At times without a shelter for the headA price was set on! Centuries follow this,When thou shalt think upon thy Dante dead,And his poor tomb; which ever the abyssOf waves shall moan to: Yes, my Florence, then,When bright Italia, ’neath the brutal kissOf the barbarian ravishers, shall plain,In useless struggles, growing faint to death!How shalt thou wish thy Dante back again!But, even then, an echo of my breathThrough the long years, with trumpet inspiration,Shall lead thy Best to victory, or death!And, if no more they may be called a Nation,Shall teach them how to fall with Samson-wrath;Yea! fall in triumph, midst the desolationOf throne, and rostrum, altar, and of hearth!Nor, where the blessed corn-crop fail, to leaveTo poisonous weeds the heirship of the earth.Oh! well these tried and aged eyes may grieve,To read, in spirit, this fore-acted doom;Which others neithercansee, nor believe!But laugh upon the threshold of the tomb;As sports the summer-fly, whilst spiders weaveTheir fateful nets! Well, let the earth resumeThis failing garment of my flesh; I feelMy present life has not been without bloom,Or fruits: Due time their flavour will reveal!And if the Statesman’s sole reward hath beenLong years of wandering, seeking to concealA forfeit life: If spoken words, like windHave passed away! My fame seared, in its green;I leave, at least,onetestament behind,Of which my Florence shall not say, I ween(However callous, and unjustly blind),It dies, along with the old Ghibelline!No: with Italia’s land my Book shall live;Her thoughts, and very language be of mine!Yes, what myCitywas too false to give,Aworldwill yet award me! So, I end:My strength hath been in patience, whose close sieve,Well-used, the Garner’s labour will befriend.Florence, my mighty wrongs I can forgive!Honour me in my ashes; this thoumust!Now, Sainted Name, in whose pure memories liveThe all, that shall make glorious my—dust;My sole thoughts turn with speechless love to thee!Thou wert my Alpha and Omega: FirstAnd Last! Let me return to liberty;I found it but in Paradise—with Thee!
I wait, in patience, and in trembling hope,The last sands in my glass; a few brief grainsDivide me from the Angel in yon cope,Whose studded azure never sheltered painsKeener than mine! But, from my mount of years,I look on my past life, as one whose chainsHave fall’n, saint-touched; and thro’ the mist of tearsSweet glimmerings of the Empyrean comeAthwart the troubled vale of doubts and fears;And as a child, who, wandered from his home,Sees, suddenly, with speechless joy, his cot,Thus seems the hour, when I no more shall roam,But, in a blessed, and abiding lot,Merge my long exile. Florence! when these eyes,So long athirst! shall gaze upon the spot,This atom-earth, in space, with ken more wiseThan erring nature would permit to clay,Methinks that sorrow, for thy destinies,Will yet pursue me to the realms of day;For, wert not thou the life-hope of my breast?Altho’, my grief-schooled spirit gave not wayTo its deep yearning, so, at thy behest,To tread thy streets once more: I could not bendTruth to the shameless compromise! Unrest,Want, banishment, were better, than to lendMyself to falsehood! More thou neededst meThan I thee. So, I know, unto the end,How hard ’tis to climb others’ stairs; to seeAnarchy’s gory reign; to beg my breadIn alien courts, midst lewd society;At times without a shelter for the headA price was set on! Centuries follow this,When thou shalt think upon thy Dante dead,And his poor tomb; which ever the abyssOf waves shall moan to: Yes, my Florence, then,When bright Italia, ’neath the brutal kissOf the barbarian ravishers, shall plain,In useless struggles, growing faint to death!How shalt thou wish thy Dante back again!But, even then, an echo of my breathThrough the long years, with trumpet inspiration,Shall lead thy Best to victory, or death!And, if no more they may be called a Nation,Shall teach them how to fall with Samson-wrath;Yea! fall in triumph, midst the desolationOf throne, and rostrum, altar, and of hearth!Nor, where the blessed corn-crop fail, to leaveTo poisonous weeds the heirship of the earth.Oh! well these tried and aged eyes may grieve,To read, in spirit, this fore-acted doom;Which others neithercansee, nor believe!But laugh upon the threshold of the tomb;As sports the summer-fly, whilst spiders weaveTheir fateful nets! Well, let the earth resumeThis failing garment of my flesh; I feelMy present life has not been without bloom,Or fruits: Due time their flavour will reveal!And if the Statesman’s sole reward hath beenLong years of wandering, seeking to concealA forfeit life: If spoken words, like windHave passed away! My fame seared, in its green;I leave, at least,onetestament behind,Of which my Florence shall not say, I ween(However callous, and unjustly blind),It dies, along with the old Ghibelline!No: with Italia’s land my Book shall live;Her thoughts, and very language be of mine!Yes, what myCitywas too false to give,Aworldwill yet award me! So, I end:My strength hath been in patience, whose close sieve,Well-used, the Garner’s labour will befriend.Florence, my mighty wrongs I can forgive!Honour me in my ashes; this thoumust!Now, Sainted Name, in whose pure memories liveThe all, that shall make glorious my—dust;My sole thoughts turn with speechless love to thee!Thou wert my Alpha and Omega: FirstAnd Last! Let me return to liberty;I found it but in Paradise—with Thee!
I wait, in patience, and in trembling hope,The last sands in my glass; a few brief grainsDivide me from the Angel in yon cope,Whose studded azure never sheltered painsKeener than mine! But, from my mount of years,I look on my past life, as one whose chainsHave fall’n, saint-touched; and thro’ the mist of tearsSweet glimmerings of the Empyrean comeAthwart the troubled vale of doubts and fears;And as a child, who, wandered from his home,Sees, suddenly, with speechless joy, his cot,Thus seems the hour, when I no more shall roam,But, in a blessed, and abiding lot,Merge my long exile. Florence! when these eyes,So long athirst! shall gaze upon the spot,This atom-earth, in space, with ken more wiseThan erring nature would permit to clay,Methinks that sorrow, for thy destinies,Will yet pursue me to the realms of day;For, wert not thou the life-hope of my breast?Altho’, my grief-schooled spirit gave not wayTo its deep yearning, so, at thy behest,To tread thy streets once more: I could not bendTruth to the shameless compromise! Unrest,Want, banishment, were better, than to lendMyself to falsehood! More thou neededst meThan I thee. So, I know, unto the end,How hard ’tis to climb others’ stairs; to seeAnarchy’s gory reign; to beg my breadIn alien courts, midst lewd society;At times without a shelter for the headA price was set on! Centuries follow this,When thou shalt think upon thy Dante dead,And his poor tomb; which ever the abyssOf waves shall moan to: Yes, my Florence, then,When bright Italia, ’neath the brutal kissOf the barbarian ravishers, shall plain,In useless struggles, growing faint to death!How shalt thou wish thy Dante back again!But, even then, an echo of my breathThrough the long years, with trumpet inspiration,Shall lead thy Best to victory, or death!And, if no more they may be called a Nation,Shall teach them how to fall with Samson-wrath;Yea! fall in triumph, midst the desolationOf throne, and rostrum, altar, and of hearth!Nor, where the blessed corn-crop fail, to leaveTo poisonous weeds the heirship of the earth.Oh! well these tried and aged eyes may grieve,To read, in spirit, this fore-acted doom;Which others neithercansee, nor believe!But laugh upon the threshold of the tomb;As sports the summer-fly, whilst spiders weaveTheir fateful nets! Well, let the earth resumeThis failing garment of my flesh; I feelMy present life has not been without bloom,Or fruits: Due time their flavour will reveal!And if the Statesman’s sole reward hath beenLong years of wandering, seeking to concealA forfeit life: If spoken words, like windHave passed away! My fame seared, in its green;I leave, at least,onetestament behind,Of which my Florence shall not say, I ween(However callous, and unjustly blind),It dies, along with the old Ghibelline!No: with Italia’s land my Book shall live;Her thoughts, and very language be of mine!Yes, what myCitywas too false to give,Aworldwill yet award me! So, I end:My strength hath been in patience, whose close sieve,Well-used, the Garner’s labour will befriend.Florence, my mighty wrongs I can forgive!Honour me in my ashes; this thoumust!Now, Sainted Name, in whose pure memories liveThe all, that shall make glorious my—dust;My sole thoughts turn with speechless love to thee!Thou wert my Alpha and Omega: FirstAnd Last! Let me return to liberty;I found it but in Paradise—with Thee!
I wait, in patience, and in trembling hope,
The last sands in my glass; a few brief grains
Divide me from the Angel in yon cope,
Whose studded azure never sheltered pains
Keener than mine! But, from my mount of years,
I look on my past life, as one whose chains
Have fall’n, saint-touched; and thro’ the mist of tears
Sweet glimmerings of the Empyrean come
Athwart the troubled vale of doubts and fears;
And as a child, who, wandered from his home,
Sees, suddenly, with speechless joy, his cot,
Thus seems the hour, when I no more shall roam,
But, in a blessed, and abiding lot,
Merge my long exile. Florence! when these eyes,
So long athirst! shall gaze upon the spot,
This atom-earth, in space, with ken more wise
Than erring nature would permit to clay,
Methinks that sorrow, for thy destinies,
Will yet pursue me to the realms of day;
For, wert not thou the life-hope of my breast?
Altho’, my grief-schooled spirit gave not way
To its deep yearning, so, at thy behest,
To tread thy streets once more: I could not bend
Truth to the shameless compromise! Unrest,
Want, banishment, were better, than to lend
Myself to falsehood! More thou neededst me
Than I thee. So, I know, unto the end,
How hard ’tis to climb others’ stairs; to see
Anarchy’s gory reign; to beg my bread
In alien courts, midst lewd society;
At times without a shelter for the head
A price was set on! Centuries follow this,
When thou shalt think upon thy Dante dead,
And his poor tomb; which ever the abyss
Of waves shall moan to: Yes, my Florence, then,
When bright Italia, ’neath the brutal kiss
Of the barbarian ravishers, shall plain,
In useless struggles, growing faint to death!
How shalt thou wish thy Dante back again!
But, even then, an echo of my breath
Through the long years, with trumpet inspiration,
Shall lead thy Best to victory, or death!
And, if no more they may be called a Nation,
Shall teach them how to fall with Samson-wrath;
Yea! fall in triumph, midst the desolation
Of throne, and rostrum, altar, and of hearth!
Nor, where the blessed corn-crop fail, to leave
To poisonous weeds the heirship of the earth.
Oh! well these tried and aged eyes may grieve,
To read, in spirit, this fore-acted doom;
Which others neithercansee, nor believe!
But laugh upon the threshold of the tomb;
As sports the summer-fly, whilst spiders weave
Their fateful nets! Well, let the earth resume
This failing garment of my flesh; I feel
My present life has not been without bloom,
Or fruits: Due time their flavour will reveal!
And if the Statesman’s sole reward hath been
Long years of wandering, seeking to conceal
A forfeit life: If spoken words, like wind
Have passed away! My fame seared, in its green;
I leave, at least,onetestament behind,
Of which my Florence shall not say, I ween
(However callous, and unjustly blind),
It dies, along with the old Ghibelline!
No: with Italia’s land my Book shall live;
Her thoughts, and very language be of mine!
Yes, what myCitywas too false to give,
Aworldwill yet award me! So, I end:
My strength hath been in patience, whose close sieve,
Well-used, the Garner’s labour will befriend.
Florence, my mighty wrongs I can forgive!
Honour me in my ashes; this thoumust!
Now, Sainted Name, in whose pure memories live
The all, that shall make glorious my—dust;
My sole thoughts turn with speechless love to thee!
Thou wert my Alpha and Omega: First
And Last! Let me return to liberty;
I found it but in Paradise—with Thee!