Dante.
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!
