One Of The Four In Song Poem by Alexander Anderson

A down the vista of the fading years,
With solemn step and slow,
Comes one whose brow is dim with inward tears
And long unspoken woe.


Behind him factions with their evil look
Struggle and hiss and cry;
He turns at times with haughty front to brook
Their insults with reply.


Before him in the purer calmer air
The Muses glide and swim,
Holding a simple wreath all fresh and fair,
That seems to be for him.


He stretches out his hand as if to grasp
The laurel, but they cry—
Not yet shall this thy furrow'd brows enclasp,
Wait, wait until thou die.


He passes slowly on till from the swell
And echo of the throng
A voice cries Lo! the man that strode through hell
And came out firm and strong.


Then with a heart within me beating fast,
Knowing the poet now—
Dante, I whisper, and on me at last
He turns his weary brow.


But that which in me rose up to be said
Grows dumb before his look,
And, trembling in my fear, I bow my head
As if at some rebuke.


But while I bow, his footsteps pass away;
And when I look again,
Lo, far off, in the purer, brighter day
He stands without his pain:


And on his brow the Muses place the wreath
He held so dear and sweet;
Then joining fair white hands in tender faith,
Kneel down and clasp his feet.


So stands he in his own all sunny clime
That did him such great wrong;
So stands he unto all for earthly time,
One of the four in song.