countenance had a great air of gravity. Now he and Messer
Brunetto stood in talk, and from where I lay hid I could catch most of
the words these two spoke, and my wit was nimble enough to piece out the
rest at my convenience; and you must take it with a good will that what
I set down was spoken or might be spoken by my friend. And the first I
heard him say was this, in a grave voice, "Forgive me for lingering,
Master; I was listening to the Song of the River."

And Messer Brunetto echoed, in surprise: "The Song of the River! What in
the name of all the ancients is the Song of the River?"

Messer Dante seemed to muse for a while, and then I heard him answer his
master in that strong voice of his, that even then was deep and full,
and always brought to my mind the sound of a bell.

"The Song of the River, the Song of Life. I cannot sing you the Song of
the River. If I could tell you its meaning, I should be a greater poet
than Virgilius."

Messer Brunetto held up his hands in a horror that was only part
pretended. "Do not blaspheme!" he cried. Dante smiled for a moment at
his whimsical vehemence, and then went on with his own thoughts, talking
as one that mused aloud.

"It must be glorious to be a great poet, to weave one's dreams into
wonderful words that live in men's hearts forever. Master, I would
rather be a great poet than be the Emperor of Rome."

Then the elder looked at the younger with a smile and shook his head at
his ambition. "It is given to few to be great poets; there have been
fewer great poets than emperors since the world began."

But my friend was not to be so put off. I knew him ever to be persistent
when once his mind was made up, and it may be that he knew well enough
that such warnings had been addressed idly to all the great poets in
their youth. He answered Messer Brunetto slowly.

"My mother, who died young--I cannot remember her--dreamed a strange
dream of me. She dreamed that I stood a shepherd beneath a laurel-tree,
and strove to gather the leaves thereof, and failed in my strivings and
fell, and rose again, and lo! no longer a man, but a peacock, a glory of
gold and purple."

The youth paused for a moment as if he lingered lovingly over the
bequeathed vision, then he questioned Messer Brunetto. "What could this
dream mean, Master?"

Messer Brunetto looked sour. "Who shall say? Who shall guess?" he
answered, fretfully. "Your peacock is a vain bird with a harsh voice."

Dante seeme