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ON DANTE.

THERE is no tongue to speak his eulogy;
Too brightly burned his splendor for our eyes:
Far easier to condemn his injuries,

Than for the tongue to reach his smallest worth.
He to the realms of sinfulness came down,
To teach mankind; ascending then to God,
Heaven unbarred to him her lofty gates,
To whom his country hers refused to ope.
Ungrateful land, to its own injury

Nurse of his fate! Well, too, does this instruct
That greatest ills fall to the perfectest.
And, midst a thousand proofs, let this suffice,
That, as his exile had no parallel,

So never was there man more great than he!

MICHAEL ANGELO BUONAROTTI. Trans

lated by JOHN EDWARD TAYLOR.

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