DANTE.
He wore an honest hatred on his sleeve,Of red oppression and inhuman wrong;Brief pause he made to question or to grieve,But, singing his incomparable song,Wove each great stanza of his life along.
His hands were pure from gold, his heart from guile,—Could the fixed features deign to wear a smile,It must have been the gala of some deedWhose doer's guerdon rested in that meedMost, tho' approving angels wept the while.
In his immortal heart such virtue liesOf Love, that builds the shrine it consecrates,That who pursues the passion to the gatesWhose music shuts out the uncertain Fates,Beholds it, deathless, in his Lady's eyes.
