THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. CANTO I. ONCE more in man's frail world! which I had left My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies From star to star to reach the almighty throne. Oh Beatrice! whose sweet limbs the sod So long hath prest, and the cold marble stone, That nought on earth could more my bosom move, That without which my soul, like the arkless dove, Had wander'd still in search of, nor her feet Relieved her wing till found; without thy light Thou wert my life, the essence of my thought, By tyrannous faction, and the brawling crowd; Of me, can I return, though but to die, The world hath left me, what it found me, pure, I sought it not by any baser lure; Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name And make men's fickle breath the wind that blows I would have had my Florence great and free: (3) Wept over, "but thou wouldst not ;" as the bird Gathers its young, I would have gather'd thee Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard My voice; but as the adder, deaf and fierce, Against the breast that cherish'd thee was stirr'd Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce, And doom this body forfeit to the fire. Alas! how bitter is his country's curse To him who for that country would expire, But did not merit to expire by her, And loves her, loves her even in her ire. Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume Forsooth is over, and repeal'd her doom; No, she denied me what was mine-my roof, And shall not have what is not hers-my tomb. Too long her armed wrath hath kept aloof The breast which would have bled for her, the heart That beat, the mind that was temptation proof, The man who fought, toil'd, travell'd, and each part Of a true citizen fulfill'd, and saw For his reward the Guelf's ascendant art Pass his destruction even into a law. These things are not made for forgetfulness, Florence shall be forgotten first; too raw The wound, too deep the wrong, and the distress Of such endurance too prolong'd to make My pardon greater, her injustice less, Though late repented; yet-yet for her sake I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine, My own Beatrice, I would hardly take Vengeance upon the land which once was mine, And still is hallow'd by thy dust's return, Which would protect the murderess like a shrine, And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn. Though, like old Marius from Minturnæ's marsh And Carthage ruins, my lone breast may burn At times with evil feelings hot and harsh, And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe Writhe in a dream before me, and o'erarch My brow with hopes of triumph,-let them go ! Such are the last infirmities of those Who long have suffer'd more than mortal woe, And yet being mortal still, have no repose But on the pillow of Revenge-Revenge, Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking glows With the oft-baffled, slakeless thirst of change, When we shall mount again, and they that trod Be trampled on, while Death and Até range O'er humbled heads and sever'd necks Great God! Take these thoughts from me-to thy hands I yield My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod Will fall on those who smote me,-be my shield! As thou hast been in peril, and in pain, In turbulent cities, and the tented fieldIn toil, and many troubles borne in vain For Florence.-I appeal from her to Thee! And live was never granted until now, The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack, On the lone rock of desolate Despair To lift my eyes more to the passing sail Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare; Nor raise my voice-for who would heed my wail? |