But there is great interest in the man, as well as in the poem which he made the mirror of his life, and the register of his sorrows and of those speculations in which he sought to banish the remembrance of his misfortunes.  His life, like his poem, is an epic.  We sympathize with his resentments, “which exile and poverty made perpetually fresh.”  “The sincerity of his early passion for Beatrice,” says Hallam, “pierces through the veil of allegory which surrounds her, while the memory of his injuries pursues him into the immensity of eternal light; and even in the company of saints and angels his unforgiving spirit darkens at the name of Florence. . . .  He combines the profoundest feelings of religion with those patriotic recollections which were suggested by the reappearance of the illustrious dead.”

Next to Michael Angelo he was the best of all famous Italians, stained by no marked defects but bitterness, pride, and scorn; while his piety, his patriotism, and elevation of soul stand out in marked contrast with the selfishness and venality and hypocrisy and cruelty of the leading men in the history of his times.  “He wrote with his heart’s blood;” he wrote in poverty, exile, grief, and neglect; he wrote like an inspired prophet of old.  He seems to have been specially raised up to exalt virtue, and vindicate the ways of God to man, and prepare the way for a new civilization.  He breathes angry defiance to all tyrants; he consigns even popes to the torments he created.  He ridicules fools; he exposes knaves.  He detests oppression; he is a prophet of liberty.  He sees into all shams and all hypocrisies, and denounces lies.  He is temperate in eating and drinking; he has no vices.  He believes in friendship, in love, in truth.  He labors for the good of his countrymen.  He is affectionate to those who comprehend him.  He accepts hospitalities, but will not stoop to meanness or injustice.  He will not return to his native city, which he loves so well, even when permitted, if obliged to submit to humiliating ceremonies.  He even refuses a laurel crown from any city but from the one in which he was born.  No honors could tempt him to be untrue unto himself; no tasks are too humble to perform, if he can make himself useful.  At Ravenna he gives lectures to the people in their own language, regarding the restoration of the Latin impossible, and wishing to bring into estimation the richness of the vernacular tongue.  And when his work is done he dies, before he becomes old (1321), having fulfilled his vow.  His last retreat was at Ravenna, and his last days were soothed with gentle attentions from Guido da Polenta, that kind duke who revived his fainting hopes.  It was in his service, as ambassador to Venice, that Dante sickened and died.  A funeral sermon was pronounced upon him by his friend the duke, and beautiful monuments were erected to his memory.  Too late the Florentines begged for his remains, and did justice to the man and the poet; as well they might, since his is the proudest name connected with their annals.  He is indeed one of the great benefactors of the world itself, for the richness of his immortal legacy.