Book 3 — DANTE.

Ere blasts from northern lands Had covered Italy with barren sands, Rome's Genius, smitten sore, Wail'd on the Danube, and was heard no more. Centuries twice seven had past And crush'd Etruria rais'd her head at last. A mightier Power she saw, Poet and prophet, give three worlds the law. When Dante's strength arose Fraud met aghast the boldest of her foes; Religion, sick to death, Look'd doubtful up, and drew in pain her breath. Both to one grave are gone; Alters still smoke, still is the God unknown. Haste, whoso from above Comest with purer fire and larger love, Quenchest the Stygian torch, And leadest from the Garden and the Porch, Where gales breathe fresh and free, And where a Grace is call'd a Charity, To Him, the God of peace, Who bids all discord in his household cease— Bids it, and bids again, But to the purple-vested speaks in vain. Crying, 'Can this be borne?' The consecrated wine-skins creak with scorn; While, leaving tumult there, To quiet idols young and old repair, In places where is light To lighten day—and dark to darken night.