Dante in Exile

Is it thus you call back to your city
The exile of years?
Is it thus you reward with false pity
His wrongs and his tears?
I stood for the truth when, unhandsome,
You fouled it with lies:
Shall I now, in your likeness, seek ransom —
Grasp perjured, the prize?
Nay! if without honor, I may not
Come back to my own,
Your voice of recall I obey not,
But wander alone.
Though footsore I fare, and still fail
Through life to find rest;
Here Florence, unsold to betrayal,
Stands safe in my breast!