Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/21

 The weary face of Dante;—to this day,

Here in his place of resting, far away

From Arno's yellow waters, rushing down

Through the wide bridges of that fairy town,

Where the tall tower of Giotto seems to rise

A marble lily under sapphire skies!

Alas! my Dante! thou hast known the pain

Of meaner lives,—the exile's galling chain,

How steep the stairs within kings' houses are,

And all the petty miseries which mar

Man's nobler nature with the sense of wrong.

Yet this dull world is grateful for thy song;

Our nations do thee homage,—even she,

That cruel queen of vine-clad Tuscany,

Who bound with crown of thorns thy living brow,

Hath decked thine empty tomb with laurels now,

And begs in vain the ashes of her son.

O mightiest exile! all thy grief is done:

Thy soul walks now beside thy Beatrice;

Ravenna guards thine ashes: sleep in peace.

How lone this palace is; how grey the walls!

No minstrel now wakes echoes in these halls.

The broken chain lies rusting on the door, 7