Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Thomas WilliamParsons390 On a Bust of Dante
S
Whom Arno shall remember long,
How stern of lineament, how grim,
The father was of Tuscan song:
There but the burning sense of wrong,
Perpetual care and scorn, abide;
Small friendship for the lordly throng;
Distrust of all the world beside.
No dream his life was,—but a fight!
Could any Beatrìce see
A lover in that anchorite?
To that cold Ghibelline’s gloomy sight
Who could have guessed the visions came
Of Beauty, veiled with heavenly light,
In circles of eternal flame?
The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin,
The rigid front, almost morose,
But for the patient hope within,
Declare a life whose course hath been
Unsullied still, though still severe,
Which, through the wavering days of sin,
Kept itself icy-chaste and clear.
When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed,
With no companion save his book,
To Corvo’s hushed monastic shade;
Where, as the Benedictine laid
His palm upon the convent’s guest,
The single boon for which he prayed
Was peace, that pilgrim’s one request.
Betrays no spirit of repose;
The sullen warrior sole we trace,
The marble man of many woes.
Such was his mien when first arose
The thought of that strange tale divine,
When hell he peopled with his foes
Dread scourge of many a guilty line.
The tyrant canker-worms of earth;
Baron and duke, in hold and hall,
Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth;
He used Rome’s harlot for his mirth;
Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime;
But valiant souls of knightly worth
Transmitted to the rolls of Time.
The only righteous judge art thou;
That poor old exile, sad and lone,
Is Latium’s other Virgil now:
Before his name the nations bow;
His words are parcel of mankind,
Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow,
The marks have sunk of Dante’s mind.