Dante. I wait, in patience, and in trembling hope, The last sands in my glass ; a few brief grains Divide me from the Angel in yon cope, Whose studded azure never sheltered pains Keener than mine ! But, from my mount of years, I look on my past life, as one whose chains Have fall’n, saint-touched ; and thro’ the mist of tears Sweet glimmerings of the Empyrean come Athwart the troubled vale of doubts and fears ; And as a child, who, wandered from his home, Sees, suddenly, with speechless joy, his cot, Thus seems the hour, when I no more shall roam, But, in a blessed, and abiding lot, Merge my long exile. Florence ! when these eyes, So long athirst ! shall gaze upon the spot, This atom-earth, in space, with ken more wise Than erring nature would permit to clay, Methinks that sorrow, for thy destinies, Will yet pursue me to the realms of day ; For, wert not thou the life-hope of my breast ? Altho’, my grief-schooled spirit gave not way To its deep yearning, so, at thy behest, To tread thy streets once more : I could not bend Truth to the shameless compromise ! Unrest, Want, banishment, were better, than to lend Myself to falsehood ! More thou neededst me Than I thee. So, I know, unto the end, How hard ’tis to climb others’ stairs ; to see Anarchy’s gory reign ; to beg my bread In alien courts, midst lewd society ; At times without a shelter for the head A price was-set on ! Centuries follow this, When thou shalt think upon thy Dante dead, And his poor tomb ; which ever the abyss Of waves shall moan to : Yes, my Florence, then, When bright Italia, ’neath the brutal kiss Of the barbarian ravishers, shall plain, In useless struggles, growing faint to death ! How shalt thou wish thy Dante back again ! But, even then, an echo of my breath Through the long years, with trumpet inspiration, Shall lead thy Best to victory, or death ! And, if no more they may be called a Nation, Shall teach them how to fall with Samson-wrath ; Yea ! fall in triumph, midst the desolation Of throne, and rostrum, altar, and of hearth ! Nor, where the blessed corn-crop fail, to leave To poisonous weeds the heirship of the earth. Oh ! well these tried and aged eyes may grieve, To read, in spirit, this fore-acted doom ; Which others neither can see, nor believe ! But laugh upon the threshold of the tomb ; As sports the summer-fly, whilst spiders weave Their fateful nets ! Well, let the earth resume This failing garment of my flesh ; I feel My present life has not been without bloom, Or fruits : Due time their flavour will reveal ! And if the Statesman’s sole reward hath been Long years of wandering, seeking to conceal A forfeit life : If spoken words, like wind Have passed away ! My fame seared, in its green : I leave, at least, one testament behind, Of which my Florence shall not say, I ween (However callous, and unjustly blind), It dies, along with the old Ghibelline ! No : with Italia’s land my Book shall live ; Her thoughts, and very language be of mine ! Yes, what my City was too false to give, A world will yet award me ! So, I end : My strength hath been in patience, whose close sieve, Well-used, the Garner’s labour will befriend. Florence, my mighty wrongs I can forgive ! Honour me in my ashes; this thou must ! Now, Sainted Name, in whose pure memories live The all, that shall make glorious my—dust ; My sole thoughts turn with speechless love to thee Thou wert my Alpha and Omega : First And Last ! Let me return to liberty ; I found it but in Paradise—with Thee !