Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, <br /> With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes, <br /> Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise, <br /> Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. <br />Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom; <br /> Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, <br /> What soft compassion glows, as in the skies <br /> The tender stars their clouded lamps relume! <br />Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks, <br /> By Fra Hilario in his diocese, <br /> As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks, <br />The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease; <br /> And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, <br /> Thy voice along the cloister whispers, "Peace!"<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dante/
