XV

Call'd Dante's,—a plain flat stone, scarce discerned

From others in the pavement,—whereupon

      He used to bring his quiet chair out, turned

To Brunelleschi's church, and pour alone

The lava of his spirit when it burned—

It is not cold to-day. O passionate

      Poor Dante, who, a banished Florentine,

Didst sit austere at banquets of the great,

      And muse upon this far-off stone of thine,

And think how oft the passers used to wait

      A moment, in the golden day's decline,

With "good night, dearest Dante!"—Well, good night!

      I muse now, Dante, and think, verily,

Though chapelled in Ravenna's byeway, might

      Thy buried bones be thrilled to ecstasy,

Could'st know thy favourite stone's elected right

      As tryst-place for thy Tuscans to foresee

Their earliest chartas from! good night, good morn,

      Henceforward, Dante! now my soul is sure

That thine is better comforted of scorn,

      And looks down from the stars in fuller cure,

Than when, in Santa Croce church, forlorn

      Of any corpse, the architect and hewer

Did pile the empty marbles as thy tomb!

      For now thou art no longer exiled, now

Best honoured!-we salute thee who art come

      Back to the old stone with a softer brow

Than Giotto drew upon the wall, for some

      Good lovers of our age to track and plough

Their way to, through Time's ordures stratified,

      And startle broad awake into the dull

Bargello chamber. Now, thou'rt milder eyed,

And Beatrix might leap up glad to cull

Thy first smile, even in heaven and at her side,

      Like that which, nine years old, looked beautiful

At Tuscan May-game. Foolish words! I meant

      Only that Dante loved his Florence well,

And Florence, now, to love him is content!

      I mean too, certes, that the sweetest smell

Of lovers dear incense, by the living sent

      To find the dead, is not accessible

To your low livers! no narcotic,—not

      Swung in a censer to a sleepy tune,—

But trod out in the morning air, by hot

      Quick spirits, who tread firm to ends foreshown,

And use the name of greatness unforgot,

      To meditate what greatness may be done.