DANTE.

  Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom,
    With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes,
    Stern thoughts and awful from thy thoughts arise,
  Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. 
  Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom;
    Yet in thy heart what human sympathies. 
    What soft compassion glows, as in the skies
  The tender stars their clouded lamps relume! 
    Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks,
      By Fra Hilario in his diocese,
    As up the convent wall, in golden streaks,
      The ascending sunbeams mark the day’s decrease. 
    And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks,
      Thy voice along the cloister whispers, “Peace!”

  JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

  RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE.

  O Mother Earth! upon thy lap
    Thy weary ones receiving,
  And o’er there, silent as a dream,
    Thy grassy mantle weaving,
  Fold softly in thy long embrace
    That heart so worn and broken,
  And cool its pulse of fire beneath
    Thy shadows old and oaken.

  Shut out from him the bitter word
    And serpent hiss of scorning;
  Nor let the storms of yesterday
    Disturb his quiet morning. 
  Breathe over him forgetfulness
    Of all save deeds of kindness,
  And, save to smiles of grateful eyes,
    Press down his lids in blindness.

  There, where with living ear and eye,
    He heard Potomac’s flowing,
  And, through his tall ancestral trees
    Saw autumn’s sunset glowing,
  He sleeps—­still looking to the West,
    Beneath the dark wood shadow,
  As if he still would see the sun
    Sink down on wave and meadow.

  Bard, Sage, and Tribune—­in himself
    All moods of mind contrasting—­
  The tenderest wail of human woe,
    The scorn like lightning blasting;
  The pathos which from rival eyes
    Unwilling tears could summon,
  The stinging taunt, the fiery burst
    Of hatred scarcely human!

  Mirth, sparkling like a diamond shower,
    From lips of life-long sadness;
  Clear picturings of majestic thought
    Upon a ground of madness;
  And over all Romance and Song
    A classic beauty throwing,
  And laureled Clio at his side
    Her storied pages showing.

  All parties feared him:  each in turn
    Beheld its schemes disjointed,
  As right or left his fatal glance
    And spectral finger pointed. 
  Sworn foe of cant, he smote it down
    With trenchant wit unsparing,
  And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand
    The robe Pretense was wearing.

  Too honest or too proud to feign
    A love he never cherished,
  Beyond Virginia’s border line
    His patriotism perished. 
  While others hailed in distant skies
    Our eagle’s dusky pinion,
  He only saw the mountain bird
    Stoop o’er his Old Dominion.