Say who be these light-bearded, sunburnt faces In negligent and travel-stain'd array, That in the city of Dante come to-day, Haughtily visiting her holy places? O these be noble men that hide their graces, True England's blood, her ancient glory's stay, By tales of fame diverted on their way Home from the rule of oriental races.
Life-trifling lions these, of gentle eyes And motion delicate, but swift to fire For honour, passionate where duty lies, Most loved and loving: and they quickly tire Of Florence, that she one day more denies The embrace of wife and son, of sister or sire.
Where San Miniato's convent from the sun At forenoon overlooks the city of flowers I sat, and gazing on her domes and towers Call'd up her famous children one by one: And three who all the rest had far outdone, Mild Giotto first, who stole the morning hours, I saw, and god-like Buonarroti's powers, And Dante, gravest poet, her much-wrong'd son.
Is all this glory, I said, another's praise? Are these heroic triumphs things of old, And do I dead upon the living gaze? Or rather doth the mind, that can behold The wondrous beauty of the works and days, Create the image that her thoughts enfold?
Rejoice, ye dead, where'er your spirits dwell, Rejoice that yet on earth your fame is bright; And that your names, remember'd day and night, Live on the lips of those that love you well. 'Tis ye that conquer'd have the powers of hell, Each with the special grace of your delight: Ye are the world's creators, and thro' might Of everlasting love ye did excel.
Now ye are starry names, above the storm And war of Time and nature's endless wrong Ye flit, in pictured truth and peaceful form, Wing'd with bright music and melodious song,-- The flaming flowers of heaven, making May-dance In dear Imagination's rich pleasance.
THE world still goeth about to shew and hide, Befool'd of all opinion, fond of fame: But he that can do well taketh no pride, And see'th his error, undisturb'd by shame: So poor's the best that longest life can do, The most so little, diligently done; So mighty is the beauty that doth woo, So vast the joy that love from love hath won.
God's love to win is easy, for He loveth Desire's fair attitude, nor strictly weighs The broken thing, but all alike approveth Which love hath aim'd at Him: that is heaven's praise: And if we look for any praise on earth, 'Tis in man's love: all else is nothing worth.