DANTE AT VERONA.
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ut at this court, peace still must wrenchHer chaplet from the teeth of war:By day they held high watch afar, At night they cried across the trench;And still, in Dante’s path, the fierceGaunt soldiers wrangled o’er their spears. But vain seemed all the strength to him,As golden convoys sunk at seaWhose wealth might root out penury :Because it was not, limb with limb,Knit like his heart-strings round the wallOf Florence, that ill pride might fall. Yet in the tiltyard, when the dustCleared from the sundered press of knightsEre yet again it swoops and smites,He almost deemed his longing mustFind force to wield that multitudeAnd hurl that strength the way he would. How should he move them, — fame and gainOn all hands calling them at strife?He still might find but his one life
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