DANTE.
149
Dante was lovelorn in his youthful days,With amorous wanderers fain to pass his time;Nor only thus knew he those devious waysSet in the glory of his antique rhyme,—So much at least, his Legendary says,
Seeking excuse. But this is further said:He was no Wanton—Eager Beauty laidHer ambush for him, from the laurel groveShe darted, with his solemn traits in love,And in his breast her glorious capture made.
Or swifter, Sorrow, with her eyes on fire,Their red glow ravished from her hollow breast,Laid her thin grasp upon the Poet's vest,Till, at her tale of agony confessed,Fainted the heart, and fell the wailing lyre.
Rest, mid sepulchral marbles, dim and cold,Setting the lamp that saw thee over-wroughtWith thine unearthly subject—labour fraughtWith distant blessing, since our ages holdTheir mirror to the greatness of thy thought.
