"Fame tells us that Verona’s court Was a fair place. The feet might still Wander forever at their will In many ways of sweet resort; And still in many a heart around The poet’s name due honor found.Watch we his steps. He comes upon The women at their palm-playing. The conduits round the gardens sing And meet in scoops of milk-white stone, Where wearied damsels rest and hold Their hands in the wet spurt of gold.One of whom, knowing well that he, By some found stern, was mild with them, Would run and pluck his garment’s hem, Saying, “Messer Dante, pardon me,”— Praying that they might hear the song Which first of all he made, when young.“Donne che avete!” ... Thereunto Thus would he murmur, having first Drawn near the fountain, while she nursed His hand against her side: a few Sweet words, and scarcely those, half said; Then turned, and changed, and bowed his head.* * * * *So you may read and marvel not That such a man as Dante—one Who, while Can Grande’s deeds were done, Had drawn his robe round him and thought— Now at the same guest-table fared Where keen Uguccio wiped his beard.Through leaves and trellis-work the sun Left the wine cool within the glass. They feasting where no sun could pass; And when the women, all as one, Rose up with brightened cheeks to go, It was a comely thing, we know.But Dante recked not of the wine; Whether the women stayed or went, His visage held one stern intent: And when the music had its sign To breathe upon them for more ease, Sometimes he turned and bade it cease.And as he spared not to rebuke The mirth, so oft in council he To bitter truth bore testimony: And when the crafty balance shook Well poised to make the wrong prevail, Then Dante’s hand would turn the scale.And if some envoy from afar Sailed to Verona’s sovereign port For aid or peace, and all the court Fawned on its lord, “the Mars of war, Sole arbiter of life and death,”— Be sure that Dante saved his breath.And Can La Scala marked askance These things, accepting them for shame And scorn, till Dante’s guestship came To be a peevish sufferance: His host sought ways to make his days Hateful; and such have many ways.There was a Jester, a foul lout Whom the court loved for graceless arts; Sworn scholiast of the bestial parts Of speech; a ribald mouth to shout In folly’s horny tympanum Such things as make the wise man dumb.Much loved, him Dante loathed. And so, One day when Dante felt perplexed If any day that could come next Were worth the waiting for or no, And mute he sat amid their din, Can Grande called the Jester in.Rank words, with such, are wit’s best wealth. Lords mouthed approval; ladies kept Twittering with clustered heads, except Some few that took their trains by stealth And went. Can Grande shook his hair And smote his thighs and laughed i’ the air.Then, facing on his guest, he cried,— “Say, Messer Dante, how it is I get out of a clown like this More than your wisdom can provide.” And Dante: “’Tis man’s ancient whim That still his like seems good to him.”Also a tale is told, how once, At clearing tables after meat, Piled for a jest at Dante’s feet Were found the dinner’s well-picked bones; So laid, to please the banquet’s lord, By one who crouched beneath the board.Then smiled Can Grande to the rest:— “Our Dante’s tuneful mouth indeed Lacks not the gift on flesh to feed!” “Fair host of mine,” replied the guest, “So many bones you’d not descry If so it chanced the dog were I.”"