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]
When this sublime and touching poem was composed we have no means of knowing, but it can hardly have been long before the end. When that end came, Dante can barely have completed his great life work, he can barely have written the last lines of the 'Divine Comedy.' He had been on an unsuccessful mission in the service of his last protector, Guido da Polenta of Ravenna. On his return he was seized with a fatal illness, and died at Ravenna in 1321, at the age of fifty-six.
Who can grudge him his rest? As we read the four tracts of the 'Convito,' which were to have been the first of fourteen, but must now remain alone, as we are brought to a sudden stand at the abrupt termination of his unfinished work on the dialects and poetry of Italy,[29] as we ponder on the unexhausted treasures that still lay in the soul of him who could write as Dante wrote even to the end, we can hardly suppress a sigh to think that our loss purchased his rest so soon. But his great work was done; he had told his vision, that men might go with him to Hell, to Purgatory, and to Heaven, and be saved from all things base. Then his weary head was laid down in peace, and his exile was at an end. 'That fair fold in which, a lamb, he lay'[30] was never opened to him again, but he went home, and the blessings of the pure in heart and strong in love go with him.
The thoughts with which we turn from the contemplation of Dante's life and work find utterance in the lines of Michael Angelo. 'The works of Dante were unrecognised, and his high purpose, by the ungrateful folk whose blessing rests on all—except the just. Yet would his fate were mine! For his drear exile, with his virtue linked, glad would I change the fairest state on earth.'