But we must hasten to a close. Let us turn from the consideration of
Dante's work to a picture of personal character drawn by his own hand.
It is his ideal of a life inspired by that 'gentleness' for which,
since the days of chivalry, we have had no precise equivalent in
language, and which is itself too rare in every age.
The soul that this celestial grace adorns
In secret holds it not;
For from the first, when she the body weds,
She shows it, until death:
Gentle, obedient, and alive to shame,
Is seen in her first age,
Adding a comely beauty to the frame,
With all accomplishments:
In youth is temperate and resolute,
Replete with love and praise of courtesy,
Placing in loyalty her sole delight:
And in declining age
Is prudent, just, and for her bounty known;
And joys within herself
To listen and discourse for others' good:
Then in the fourth remaining part of life
To God is re-espoused,
Contemplating the end that draws a-nigh,
And blesseth all the seasons that are past:
--Reflect now, how the many are deceived![27]
Cherishing such an ideal, Dante wandered from court to court of Italy,
finding here and there a heart of gold, but for the most part moving
amongst those to whom grace and purity and justice were but names. Can
we wonder that sometimes the lonely exile felt as if his own
sorrow-laden heart were the sole refuge upon earth of love and
temperance?
Three noble dames, he tells us--noble in themselves but in nought else,
for their garments were tattered, their feet unshod, their hair
dishevelled, and their faces stained with tears--came and flung
themselves at the portal of his heart, for they knew that Love was
there. Moved with deep pity, Love came forth to ask them of their
state. They were Rectitude, Temperance, and Generosity, once honoured
by the world, now driven out in want and shame, and they came there for
refuge in their woe. Then Love, with moistened eyes, bade them lift up
their heads. If they were driven begging through the world, it was for
men to weep and wail whose lives had fallen in such evil times; but not
for them, hewn from the eternal rock--it was not for them to grieve. A
race of men would surely rise at last whose hearts would turn to them
again. And hearing thus how exiles great as these were grieved and
comforted, the lonely poet thought his banishment his glory.
Yet when he looked for his sweet home and found it not, the agony that
could not break his spirit fast destroyed his flesh, and he knew that
death had laid the key upon his bosom.[28]