San Miniato, Near Florence.

While slow on Miniato’s height I roam,1
And backward look to Brunelleschi’s dome,2
’Tis strange to think that here on many a day3
Old Michael Angelo has paced his way ;4
And watching Florence, in his bosom found5
A nobler world than that which lies around.6
To him, perhaps, the ghost of Dante came7
At sunset, with his pride of mournful fame.8
By me the twain, the bard and sculptor stand,9
With strong lip gazing and uplifted hand ;10
The great, the sad, fighters in ages past,11
With their full peace fill e’en the weak at last.12