"The muse a poet never fand her,
Till by himself he learned to wander
Adown a flowing burn's meander."
Dante, musing along the pleasant way, with the clear stream singing by him, found the key-note he wanted; and thus began, in melodious sublimation of the theme, through which, consciously or not, the forebodings of great love—always so near the heart when its passion is deepest—steal in like a solemn second, deepening and enriching the happier strain:—
"Ladies who have intelligence in love,
I would speak of my lady to your ear,
Though well I know her sum of praise could ne'er
Be ended; but to give some utterance meet
To ease the mind—I say her worth above
All other greatness fills me with such fire
Of love, that did not failing forces tire
Speaking, I should bring all men to her feet
Not now in such a lofty guise I treat;
Lest all too mean for song so high I prove,
But rather of the gentle state I love,
With softer tones will sing, oh ladies sweet,
Ladies and maidens gentle-souled, as who
Could speak on such a theme to only you.
An angel of divine intelligence
Lifts up his voice and says, 'Sire, on this earth
Such wondrous light from one of mortal birth
Shines forth that all below resplendent glows.
Heaven nothing lacks but this, nor can dispense
With her; and thus upon the Lord we call
To grant her to us, saints and angels all.'
Pity alone some pleading for us shows,
And God replies, who best my lady knows,
