DANTE. TUSCAN, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes, Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom; Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks, By Fra Hilario in his diocese, As up the convent-walls, 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!' |