But at this court, peace still must wrench Her chaplet from the teeth of war: By day they held high watch afar, At night they cried across the trench And still, in Dante's path, the fierce Gaunt soldiers wrangled o'er their spears. Like noon-flies They vexed him in the ears and eyes. He'd meet them flushed with easy youth, Hot on their errands. And the court-poets (he, forsooth, A whole world's poet strayed to court!) Had for his scorn their hate's retort.

Perhaps the priests, (exact to span All God's circumference,) if at whiles They found him wandering in their aisles, Grudged ghostly greeting to the man By whom, though not of ghostly guild, With Heaven and Hell men's hearts were fill'd.

The first l in “wall” is missing in line 107. And pages hushed their laughter down, And gay squires stilled the merry stir, When he passed up the dais-chamber With set brows lordlier than a frown And tire-maids hidden among these Drew close their loosened bodices. As that lord's kingly guest awhile His life we follow through the days Which walked in exile's barren ways,- The nights which still beneath one smile Heard through all spheres one songīeatrice.” At Can La Scala's court, no doubt, Due reverence did his steps attend The ushers on his path would ben At ingoing as at going out The penmen waited on his call At council-board, the grooms in hall. Even such was Dante's mood, when now, Mocked for long years with Fortune's sport, He dwelt at yet another court, There where Verona's knee did bow And her voice hailed with all acclaim Can Grande della Scala's name. Arriving only to depart, From court to court, from land to land, Like flame within the naked hand His body bore his burning heart That still on Florence strove to bring God's fire for a burnt offering. In.” Therefore, the loftier rose the song To touch the secret things of God, The deeper pierced the hate that trod On base men's track who wrought the wrong Till the soul's effluence came to be Its own exceeding agony. To Heaven and Hell thy feet may win, But thine own house they come not “and no star Is from thy mortal path so far As streets where childhood knew the way. Who goes?” “Lo! thou art gone now, and we stay”: (The curled lips mutter): Stays?”-so rose His scorn:-“and if I stay, Not yet forgot The bitter words he spoke that day When for some great charge far away Her rulers his acceptance sought. Shall not his birth's baptismal Town One last high presage yet fulfil, And at that font in Florence still His forehead take the laurel-crown? O God! or shall dead souls deny The undying soul its prophecy? Aye, 'tis their hour. Alas! the Sacred Song whereto Both heaven and earth had set their hand Not only at Fame's gate did stand Knocking to claim the passage through, But toiled to ope that heavier door Which Florence shut for evermore. Follow his spirit's journey:-nay, What fires are blent, what winds are blown On paths his feet may tread alone? 1 Yet of the twofold life he led In chainless thought and fettered will Some glimpses reach us,-somewhat still Of the steep stairs and bitter bread,- Of the soul's quest whose stern avow For years had made him haggard now. Follow his feet's appointed way - But little light we find that clears The darkness of the exiled years.

Yet if his Lady's home above Was Heaven, on earth she filled his soul And if his City held control To cast the body forth to rove, The soul could soar from earth's vain throng, And Heaven and Hell fulfil the song. Xxx.) Of Florence and of Beatrice Servant and singer from of old, O'er Dante's heart in youth had toll'd The knell that gave his Lady peace And now in manhood flew the dart Wherewith his City pierced his heart. Xvii.) Behold, even I, even I am Beatrice. Path Who treadeth up and down another's stairs. Yea, thou shalt learn how salt his food who fares Upon another's bread,-how steep his

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