“Dante in Exile 1844” in “Of Sunken Islands and Pestilence”
Dante in Exile 1844
I
It was the hush of golden eventide;
And Santa Crocé’s holy valley lay
In deepest silence. Worn and heavy-eyed,
As with long woes, a stranger wound his way,
Along the undulating mountainside.
—Oh, loftiest singer of that triple Lay
Whose glory fills the universe, what sway
Of hard oppression or vindictive pride
Constrains thee now? Oh! for some pitying hand
To wipe away the dew of suffering
From his most mournful brow! Prophet and king
Of human hearts and passions, thou must roam
Far from thy own bright Florentine home,
Death-doomed and exiled, homeless, friendless, banned!
II
And many passed him on that mountain road,
Unknowing who he was. But the tall trees,
The impending crags, and shady privacies
Of glen and grove, where formerly abode
Old Tuscan sybils and haruspices,
These knew him well. At once a murmur flowed
Through all the air, of ‘Dante!—he that trod
‘The spirit-world! that sang its mysteries!’
Such murmur soothed his anguish. Journeying thus,
He reached the monastery: wonder-stirred,
Gazed he that had the portal in his keeping
On Dante’s face: ‘What seek’st thou here of us?’
‘Peace!’ said the wanderer, and with that one word
His great heart burst in agony of weeping.
E.T.F.
Montreal, 23 August [1844]
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