Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Italy: Vols. XI–XIII. 1876–79.
Dante at Verona
By Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828–1882)Was a fair place. The feet might still
Wander forever at their will
In many ways of sweet resort;
And still in many a heart around
The poet’s name due honor found.
The women at their palm-playing.
The conduits round the gardens sing
And meet in scoops of milk-white stone,
Where wearied damsels rest and hold
Their hands in the wet spurt of gold.
By some found stern, was mild with them,
Would run and pluck his garment’s hem,
Saying, “Messer Dante, pardon me,”—
Praying that they might hear the song
Which first of all he made, when young.
Thus would he murmur, having first
Drawn near the fountain, while she nursed
His hand against her side: a few
Sweet words, and scarcely those, half said;
Then turned, and changed, and bowed his head.
So you may read and marvel not
That such a man as Dante—one
Who, while Can Grande’s deeds were done,
Had drawn his robe round him and thought—
Now at the same guest-table fared
Where keen Uguccio wiped his beard.
Left the wine cool within the glass.
They feasting where no sun could pass;
And when the women, all as one,
Rose up with brightened cheeks to go,
It was a comely thing, we know.
Whether the women stayed or went,
His visage held one stern intent:
And when the music had its sign
To breathe upon them for more ease,
Sometimes he turned and bade it cease.
The mirth, so oft in council he
To bitter truth bore testimony:
And when the crafty balance shook
Well poised to make the wrong prevail,
Then Dante’s hand would turn the scale.
Sailed to Verona’s sovereign port
For aid or peace, and all the court
Fawned on its lord, “the Mars of war,
Sole arbiter of life and death,”—
Be sure that Dante saved his breath.
These things, accepting them for shame
And scorn, till Dante’s guestship came
To be a peevish sufferance:
His host sought ways to make his days
Hateful; and such have many ways.
Whom the court loved for graceless arts;
Sworn scholiast of the bestial parts
Of speech; a ribald mouth to shout
In folly’s horny tympanum
Such things as make the wise man dumb.
One day when Dante felt perplexed
If any day that could come next
Were worth the waiting for or no,
And mute he sat amid their din,
Can Grande called the Jester in.
Lords mouthed approval; ladies kept
Twittering with clustered heads, except
Some few that took their trains by stealth
And went. Can Grande shook his hair
And smote his thighs and laughed i’ the air.
“Say, Messer Dante, how it is
I get out of a clown like this
More than your wisdom can provide.”
And Dante: “’T is man’s ancient whim
That still his like seems good to him.”
At clearing tables after meat,
Piled for a jest at Dante’s feet
Were found the dinner’s well-picked bones;
So laid, to please the banquet’s lord,
By one who crouched beneath the board.
“Our Dante’s tuneful mouth indeed
Lacks not the gift on flesh to feed!”
“Fair host of mine,” replied the guest,
“So many bones you ’d not descry
If so it chanced the dog were I.”