Page:A masque of dead florentines.djvu/14

2 Yet we count us happier Than are they whose keener star Shone about them while they stayed Here with us; and when they strayed Forbore Death their names to hide: We are they who quietly died.

Here begins that crimson line, Greater none, nor more divine. By thy grimness of achieving, By the scope of thy conceiving, God-creative, Heaven-cleaving, Alighieri! lift thy head From among the sheeted dead. ''Buonarroti! God'' is just; Come thou too to close the trust: Tell the story How the glory Of thy burgh was pash'd in dust.