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With gladness such as Death alone

Should purchase; and such power confers,

That every sigh turns to a prayer,

And flies, appealing, where

My lady is, for that dear grace of hers,

In mood so humble that 'tis strange to me;

And this befalls whene'er her face I see"—

So far had he got, untroubled, when all at once the strain breaks off, like a snapped thread, and a solemn line of Latin, abrupt and sorrowful, strikes across the fantastic sweetness of the mood, hushing alike the love and the song. "Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo! facta est quasi vidua domina gentium! How doth the city sit solitary that was full of people! how is she become a widow, she that was great among the nations!" Beatrice was dead.

This is the tennination on earth of Dante's love-tale. His raptures, his tears, his ineffable youthful anguishes and consolations—all end under this overwhelming blow. The city is desolate that was full of people—that lovely, silent figure, neither with smile of gracious greeting, nor sweet sternness of angelical reproof, to be seen there any more for ever—the earth bereaved of her, and Florence, and her poet. This is the end of it; and yet not the end, but the beginning, as the discerning heart will see, and as time has proved. But against the grip of such a