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]