XXXI

And near him Dante bends above his urn,
His thoughtful head upon his hand reclined:
On that austerest forehead, high, and stern,
The lip compressed, and cheeks with furrows lined,
Is graved the eternal record of the mind
That, raised above humanity, drew down
Storms robbing it of rest; that still doth find
Envy and hate within fame's iron crown,
Scorching the brow that seeks man's wreath of vain renown.

XXXII

Look on his face, that tablet worn, but still,
By the quick stamp of fiery passions traced,
Commandments of the over-mastering will;
Wrath that the life-blood fevers, revenge based
On sleepless purpose, scorn whose blight doth waste
The heart that, lightning-like, its foe would fell;
These the familiar fiends that love effaced
From his closed breast; hate bodying there the hell
Where o'er his tortured foes his spirit loved to dwell.

XXXIII

For persecution, on the exile wrought,
Called up the avenging Nemesis of rhyme,
Dooming his foes to pangs, by feverish thought
Gendered, grotesque and base; yet with the slime
And dregs of passion mingled, lights sublime
Of a descended spirit, glimpses shown
Of the auguster mind that later time
Had softened, grief the ordeal proved, to tone
The will that agony made succumb before its throne.

XXXIV

But his song, comet-like, went on its path,
Wreaking on foes the vengeance of the hour,
Embodied by a minister of wrath;
Throes of volcanic passion and of power,
Awhile to endure; not with those lays whose dower
Is worship of the heart, by time entailed,
But lowering as the oppressive thunder-shower;
Records of wrong or hate whose source has failed,
Sought by the ardent eye through murkiest meanings veiled.

XXXV

Unlike thee, first as mightiest, whose closed eyes
Through Vallombrosa's bowers didst behold
The vistas of unfolding Paradise;
Who midst the roar of torrents uncontrolled
Heard'st surging hell, and, in the scathed pines rolled
Beneath thee, saw'st the Archangel's shapes unawed;
No bestial forms in worn-out fable told,
But such as on their clouds all glorious trod,
Ray-like creations formed, each centering to a god.

XXXVI

No mind perturbed, no fallen spirit thine,
Thou poised Titan! on thy shoulders heaven
And hell uplifting, nor o'erfraught; divine
Vision was to thy sightless eye-balls given.
Thou, borne on seraph-wing, thy earth-bonds riven,
Didst rise to God, who touched thy living tongue;
On thy calm heights, from earthlier passion shriven,
Angel and demon-forms alike were sung
To thy great harp of truth by inspiration strung.

XXXVII

Dark Vallombrosa! thy Etrurian shade
Is hallowed by the Spirit that a shrine
Has of thy solemn sanctuary made;
Here Milton lives in his majestic line.
An immortality doth man consign
To earth, his signet on her brows impressed.
Memnonian Idol! as, with touches fine,
Morn's fingers music from thy bosom pressed,
So genius kindles life from her responsive breast.

XXXVIII

Doubt'st thou her inspirations? — lo, yon peaks
Titanic, burying their spears in heaven
As if they dared the thunder; or where breaks
Through mist and foam yon torrent headlong driven,
Hurled over trees and precipices riven,
Hark! to their roar in yon Tartarean dell,
Ravings as of the tortured unforgiven;
Symbols of elder faiths, do they not tell
The strife of powers opposed, the war of heaven and hell?

XXXIX

Lo! round the mountain's scathed sides, like a wall,
Pines, lightning-blasted, wear such forms as bore
The thunder-stricken Angels; like a pall
The seething mists rise shrouding white and hoar,
Forests all crushed, upraising from the roar
Of waters their wild branches red and sere,
Thick as the weeds on ocean's surf-heaped shore.
This is the vale of shadow, pause thou here;
Where deathless Milton trod, the sacred ground revere!

XL

Oh! while these autumn leaves are round me lying,
While thy Etrurian shades o'erarched ensphere,
While the wind seems thy voice to mine replying,
Bard of lost Paradise, I call thee! Hear,
Thou power that liv'st among us still, appear!
While the leaves mount the whirlwind, I would be
Conscious that thou in thy great life art near:
I would behold thee, like the prophet, flee
Heavenward, but left on earth thy robe of prophecy.