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.
XVI.
And more remains for doing, all must feel,
Than trysting on his stone from year to year
To shift processions, civic heel to heel,
The town's thanks to the Pitti. Are ye freer
For what was felt that day? A chariot wheel
May spin fast, yet the chariot never roll.
But if that day suggested something good,
And bettered, with one purpose, soul by soul,—
Better means freer. A land's brotherhood
Is most puissant! Men, upon the whole,
Are what they can be,—nations, what they would.
XVII.
Will to be noble! Austrian Metternich
