Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Italy: Vols. XI–XIII. 1876–79.
Dante Alighieri
By Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828–1882)O
Servant and singer from of old,
O’er Dante’s heart in youth had tolled
The knell that gave his lady peace;
And now in manhood flew the dart
Wherewith his city pierced his heart.
Was heaven, on earth she filled his soul;
And if his city held control
To cast the body forth to rove,
The soul could soar from earth’s vain throng,
And heaven and hell fulfil the song.
But little light we find that clears
The darkness of the exiled years.
Follow his spirit’s journey,—nay,
What fires are blent, what winds are blown
On paths his feet may tread alone?
In chainless thought and fettered will
Some glimpses reach us,—somewhat still
Of the steep stairs and bitter bread,—
Of the soul’s quest whose stern avow
For years had made him haggard now.
Both heaven and earth had set their hand
Not only at fame’s gate did stand
Knocking to claim the passage through,
But toiled to ope that heavier door
Which Florence shut forevermore.
One last high presage yet fulfil,
And at that font in Florence still
His forehead take the laurel-crown?
O God! or shall dead souls deny
The undying soul its prophecy?
The bitter words he spoke that day
When for some great charge far away
Her rulers his acceptance sought;
“And if I go, who stays?” so rose
His scorn; “and if I stay, who goes?”
The curled lips mutter; “and no star
Is from thy mortal path so far
As streets where childhood knew the way.
To heaven and hell thy feet may win,
But thine own house they come not in.”
To touch the secret things of God,
The deeper pierced the hate that trod
On base men’s track who wrought the wrong;
Till the soul’s effluence came to be
Its own exceeding agony.
From court to court, from land to land,
Like flame within the naked hand
His body bore his burning heart,
That still on Florence strove to bring
God’s fire for a burnt-offering.