[10] The famous prophecy of the Cumaean Sibyl, very early applied to

the coming of Christ:—

Magnus ab integro saeclorum nascitur ordo.

Jam redit et virgo, redeunt Saturnia regna:

Jam nova progenies caelo demittitur alto.—Ecloga, iv. 5-7.

[11] Where love too slack is punished.

[12] Parnassus.

[13] The Muses.

[14] The people celebrated in thy poems.

[15] Two pairs of sisters, and, of the four, Ismene, sister of

Antigone, had the hardest lot.

[16] Hypsipyle, who showed the fountain Langia to Adrastus, and the

other kings, when their army was perishing with thirst.

[17] Manto is the only daughter of Tiresias, who is mentioned by

Statius; but Manto is in the eighth circle in Hell. See Canto XX.

Now both the poets became silent, once more intent on looking around,

free from the ascent and from the walls; and four of the handmaids of

the day were now remaining behind,[1] and the fifth was at the pole,[2]

directing still upward its burning horn, when my Leader, “I think that

it behoves us to turn our right shoulders to the outer edge, circling

the Mount as we are wont to do.” Thus usage was there our guide, and we

took the way with less doubt because of the assent of that worthy soul.

[1] The first four hours of the day were spent. It was between ten and

eleven o’clock.

[2] Of the car.

They were going on in front, and I solitary behind, and I was listening

to their speech which gave me understanding in poesy. But soon the

pleasant discourse was interrupted by a tree which we found in the mid

road, with apples sweet and pleasant to the smell. And as a fir-tree

tapers upward from branch to branch, so downwardly did that, I think in

order that no one may go up. On the side on which our way was closed, a

clear water fell from the high rock and spread itself over the heaves

above. The two poets approached the tree, and a voice from within the

heaves cried: “Of this food ye shall have want.” Then it said, “Mary

thought more, how the wedding[1] should be honorable and complete, than

of her mouth,[2] which answers now for you; and the ancient Roman women

were content with water for their drink; and Daniel despised food and

gained wisdom. The primal age, which was beautiful as gold, with hunger

made acorns savory, and with thirst every streamlet nectar. Honey and

locusts were the viands that nourished the Baptist in the desert,

wherefore he is in glory, and so great as by the Gospel is revealed to

you.

[1] At Cana.

[2] Than of gratifying her appetite.

CANTO XXIII.

Sixth Ledge: the Gluttonous.—Forese Donati.—Nella.—Rebuke of the women

of Florence.

While I was fixing my eyes upon the green leafage, just as he who

wastes his life following the little bird is wont to do, my more than

Father said to me, “Son, come on now, for the time that is assigned to

us must be parcelled out more usefully.” I turned my face, and no less

quickly my step after the Sages, who were speaking so that they made

the going of no cost to me; and ho! a lament and song were heard,

“Labia mea, Domine,”[1] in such fashion that it gave birth to delight

and pain. “O sweet Father, what is that which I hear?” I began, and he,

“Shades which go, perhaps loosing the knot of their debt.”

[1] “Lord, open thou my lips.”—Psalm li. 15.

Even as do pilgrims rapt in thought, who, overtaking on the road

unknown folk, turn themselves to them, and stay not; so behind us,

moving more quickly, coming up and passing by, a crowd of souls, silent

and devout, gazed at us. Each was dark and hollow in the eyes, pallid

in the face, and so wasted that the skin took its shape from the bones.

I do not think that Erisichthon[1] was so dried up to utter rind by

hunger, when he had most fear of it. I said to myself in thought,

“Behold the people who lost Jerusalem, when Mary struck her beak into

her son.”[2] The sockets of their eyes seemed rings without gems. Whoso

in the face of men reads OMO,[3] would surely there have recognized the

M. Who would believe that the scent of an apple, begetting longing, and

that of a water, could have such mastery, if he knew not how?

[1] Punished for sacrilege by Ceres with insatiable hunger, so that at

last he turned his teeth upon himself. See Ovid, Metam.,viii. 738 sqq.

[2] The story of this wretched woman is told by Josephus in his

narrative of the siege of Jerusalem by Titus: De Bello Jud., vi. 3.

[3] Finding in each eye an O, and an M in the lines of the brows and

nose, making the word for “man.”

I was now wondering what so famished them, the cause of their

meagreness and of their wretched husk not yet being manifest, and lo!

from the depths of its head, a shade turned his eyes on me, and looked

fixedly, then cried out loudly, “What grace to me is this!” Never

should I have recognized him by his face; but in his voice that was

disclosed to me which his aspect in itself had suppressed.[1] This

spark rekindled in me all my knowledge of the altered visage, and I

recognized the face of Forese.[2]

[1] His voice revealed who he was, which his actual aspect concealed.

[2] Brother of the famous Corso Donati, and related to Dante, whose

wife was Gemma de’ Donati.

“Ah, strive not[1] with the dry scab that discolors my skin,” he

prayed, “nor with my lack of flesh, but tell me the truth about

thyself; and who are these two souls, who yonder make an escort for

thee: stay not thou from speaking to me.” “Thy face, which once I wept

for dead, now gives me for weeping no less a grief,” replied I, “seeing

it so disfigured; therefore, tell me, for God’s sake, what so despoils

you; make me not speak while I am marvelling; for ill can he speak who

is full of another wish.” And he to me, “From the eternal council falls

a power into the water and into the plant, now left behind, whereby I

become so thin. All this folk who sing weeping, because of following

their appetite beyond measure, here in hunger and in thirst make

themselves holy again. The odour which issues from the apple and from

the spray that spreads over the verdure kindles in us desire to eat and

drink. And not once only as we circle this floor is our pain renewed; I

say pain, and ought to say solace, for that will leads us to the tree

which led Christ gladly to say, ‘Eli,’[2] when with his blood he

delivered us.” And I to him, “Forese, from that day on which thou didst

change world to a better life, up to this time five years have not

rolled round. If the power of sinning further had ended in thee, ere

the hour supervened of the good grief that to God reweds us, how hast

thou come up hither?[3] I thought to find thee still down there below,

where time is made good by time.” And he to me, “My Nella with her

bursting tears has brought me thus quickly to drink of the sweet

wormwood of these torments. With her devout prayers and with sighs has

she drawn me from the shore where one waits, and has delivered me from

the other circles. So much the more dear and more beloved of God is my

little widow, whom I loved so much, as she is the more solitary in good

works; for the Barbagia[4] of Sardinia is far more modest in its women

than the Barbagia where I left her. O sweet brother, what wouldst thou

that I say? A future time is already in my sight, to which this hour

will not be very old, in which from the pulpit it shall be forbidden to

the brazen-faced dames of Florence to go displaying the bosom with the

paps. What Barbarian, what Saracen women were there ever who required

either spiritual or other discipline to make them go covered? But if

the shameless ones were aware of that which the swift heaven is

preparing for them, already would they have their mouths open for

howling. For if foresight here deceives me not, they will be sad ere he

who is now consoled with the lullaby covers his cheeks with hair. Ak

brother, now no longer conceal thyself from me; thou seest that not

only I but all these people are gazing there where thou dost veil the

sun.” Whereon I to him: “If thou bring back to mind what thou wast with

me, and what I was with thee, the present remembrance will even now be

grievous. From that life he who goes before me turned me the other day,

when the sister of him yonder,” and I pointed to the sun, “showed

herself round. Through the deep night, from the truly dead, he has led

me, with this true flesh which follows him. Thence his counsels have

drawn me up, ascending and circling the mountain that sets you straight

whom the world made crooked. So long he says that he will bear me

company till I shall be there where Beatrice will be; there it behoves

that I remain without him. Virgil is he who says thus to me,” and I

pointed to him, “and this other is that shade for whom just now your

realm, which from itself releases him, shook every slope.”

[1] Do not, for striving to see me through my changed look, delay to

speak.

[2] Willingly to accept his suffering, even when he exclaimed, “My God,

my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”—Matthew, xxvii. 46.

[3] If thou didst delay repentance until thou couldst sin no more, how

is it that so speedily thou hast arrived here?

[4] A mountainous district in Sardinia, inhabited by people of

barbarous customs.

CANTO XXIV.

Sixth Ledge: the Gluttonous.—Forese Donati.—Bonagiunta of Lucca—Pope

Martin IV—Ubaldin dalla Pila.—Bonifazio.—Messer Marchese.—Prophecy of

Bonagiunta concerning Gentucca, and of Forese concerning Corso de’

Donati.—Second Mystic Tree.—The Angel of the Pass.

Speech made not the going, nor the going made that more slow; but,

talking, we went on apace even as a ship urged by good wind. And the

shades, that seemed things doubly dead, through the pits of their eyes

drew in wonder at me, perceiving that I was alive.

And I, continuing my discourse, said, “He[1] goeth up perchance for

another’s sake more slowly than he would do. But, tell me, if thou

knowest, where is Piccarda[2] tell me if I see person of note among

this folk that so gazes at me.” “My sister, who, between fair and good,

was I know not which the most, triumphs rejoicing in her crown already

on high Olympus.” So he said first, and then, “Here it is not forbidden

to name each other, since our semblance is so milked away by the

diet.[3] This,” and he pointed with his finger, “is Bonagiunta,[4]

Bonagiunta of Lucca; and that face beyond him, more sharpened than the

others, had the Holy Church in his arms:[5]from Tours he was; and by

fasting he purges the eels of Bolsena, and the Vernaccia wine.” Many

others he named to me, one by one, and at their naming all appeared

content; so that for this I saw not one dark mien. For hunger using

their teeth on emptiness, I saw Ubaldin dalla Pila, and Boniface,[6]

who shepherded many people with his crook. I saw Messer Marchese, who

once had leisure to drink at Forum with less thirst, and even so was

such that he felt not sated. But as one does who looks, and then makes

account more of one than of another, did I of him of Lucca, who seemed

to have most cognizance of me. He was murmuring; and I know not what,

save that I heard “Gentucca” there[7] where he felt the chastisement of

the justice which so strips them. “O soul,” said I, “who seemest so

desirous to speak with me, do so that I may hear thee, and satisfy both

thyself and me by thy speech.” “A woman is born, and wears not yet the

veil,”[8] he began, “who will make my city pleasant to thee, however

men may blame it.[9] Thou shalt go on with this prevision: if from my

murmuring thou hast received error, the true things will yet clear it

up for thee. But say, if I here see him, who drew forth the new rhymes,

beginning, ‘Ladies who have intelligence of Love’?”[10] And I to him,

“I am one, who, when Love inspires me, notes, and in that measure which

he dictates within, I go revealing.” “O brother, now I see,” said he,

“the knot which held back the Notary,[11] and Guittone,[12] and me

short of the sweet new style that I hear. I see clearly how your pens

go on close following the dictator, which surely befell not with ours.

And he who most sets himself to look further sees nothing more between

one style and the other.”[13] And, as if contented, he was silent.

[1] Statius; more slowly, for the sake of remaining with Virgil.

[2] The sister of Forese, whom Dante meets in Paradise (Canto III.).

[3] Recognition by the looks being thus impossible.

[4] Bonagiunta Urbiciani; he lived and wrote in the last half of the

thirteenth century.

[5] Martin IV., Pope from 1281 to 1284.

[6] Archbishop of Ravenna.

[7] Upon his lips.

[8] Of a married woman.

[9] This honorable and delightful reference to the otherwise unknown

maiden, Gentucca of Lucca, has given occasion to much worthless and

base comment. Dante was at Lucca during his exile, in 1314. He himself

was one of those who blamed the city; see Hell, Canto XXI.

[10] The first verse of the first canzone of The New Life.

[11] The Sicilian poet, Jacopo da Lentino.

[12] Guittone d’ Arezzo, commonly called Fra Guittone, as one of the

order of the Frati Gaudenti. Dante refers to him again in Canto XXVI.

[13] He who seeks for other reason does not find it.

As the birds that winter along the Nile sometimes make a flock in the

air, then fly in greater haste, and go in file, so all the folk that

were there, light both through leanness and through will, turning away

their faces, quickened again their pace. And as the man who is weary of

running lets his companions go on, and himself walks, until he vents

the panting of his chest, so Forese let the holy flock pass on and came

along behind, with me, saying, “When shall it be that I see thee

again?” “I know not,” I replied to him, “how long I may live; but truly

my return will not be so speedy, that I shall not in desire he sooner

at the shore;[1] because the place where I was set to live, denudes

itself more of good from day to day, and seems ordained to wretched

ruin.” “Now go,” said he, “for I see him who hath most fault for

this[2] dragged at the tail of a beast, toward the valley where there

is no disculpation ever. The beast at every step goes faster,

increasing always till it strikes him, and leaves his body vilely

undone. Those wheels have not far to turn,” and he raised his eyes to

heaven, “for that to become clear to thee which my speech cannot

further declare. Now do thou stay behind, for time is so precious in

this kingdom, that I lose too much coming thus at even pace with thee.”

[1] Of Purgatory.

[2] Corso de’ Donati, the leader of the Black Guelphs and chief cause

of the evils of the city. On the 15th September, 1308, his enemies

having risen against him, he was compelled to fly from Florence. Near

the city he was thrown from his horse and dragged along, till he was

overtaken and killed by his pursuers.

As a cavalier sometimes sets forth at a gallop from a troop which

rides, and goes to win the honor of the first encounter, so he went

away from us with greater strides; and I remained on the way with only

those two who were such great marshals of the world.[1] And when he had

entered so far before us that my eyes became such followers on him as

my mind was on his words,[2] there appeared to me the laden and lusty

branches of another apple-tree, and not far distant, because only then

had I turned thitherward.[3] I saw people beneath it raising their

hands and crying, I know not what, toward the leaves, like eager and

fond little children who pray, and he they pray to answers not, hut, to

make their longing very keen, holds aloft their desire, and conceals it

not. Then they departed as if undeceived:[4] and now we came to the

great tree that rejects so many prayers and tears. “Pass further

onward, without drawing near; the tree[5] is higher up which was eaten

of by Eve, and this plant has been raised from that.” Thus among the

branches I know not who was speaking; wherefore Virgil and Statius and

I, drawing close together, went onward along the side that rises.[6]

“Be mindful,” the voice was saying, “of the accursed ones,[7] formed in

the clouds, who, when glutted, strove against Theseus with their double

breasts; and of the Hebrews, who, at the drinking, showed themselves

soft,[8] wherefore Gideon wished them not for companions, when he went

down the hills toward Midian.”

[1] “A marshal is a ruler of the court and of the army under the

emperor, and should know how to command what ought to be done, as those

two poets knew what it was befitting to do in the world in respect to

moral and civil life.”—Buti.

[2] Could no longer follow him distinctly.

[3] In the circling course around the mountain.

[4] Having found vain the hope of reaching the fruit.

[5] The tree of knowledge, in the Earthly Paradise: Canto XXXII.

[6] On the inner side, by the wall of the mountain.

[7] The centaurs.

[8] Judges, vii. 4-7.

Thus keeping close to one of the two borders, we passed by, hearing of

sins of gluttony followed, in sooth, by wretched gains. Then going at

large along the lonely road, full a thousand steps and more had borne

us onward, each of us in meditation without a word. “Why go ye thus in

thought, ye three alone?” said a sudden voice; whereat I started as do

terrified and timid beasts. I lifted up my head to see who it might be,

and never were glass or metals seen so shining and ruddy in a furnace

as one I saw who said, “If it please you to mount up, here must a turn

be taken; this way he goes who wishes to go for peace.” His aspect had

taken my sight from me, wherefore I turned me behind my teachers like

one who goes according as he hears.[1] And as, harbinger of the dawn,

the breeze of May stirs and smells sweet, all impregnate with the

herbage and with the flowers, such a wind I felt strike upon the middle

of my forehead, and clearly felt the motion of the plumes which made

mime perceive the odor of ambrosia. And I heard said, “Blessed are they

whom so much grace illumines, that the love of taste inspires not in

their breasts too great desire, hungering always so far as is just.”[2]

[1] Blinded for the instant by the dazzling brightness of the

angel,Dante drops behind his teachers, to follow them as one guided by

hearing only.

[2] “Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after

righteousness.”—Matthew, v.6.

Dante has already cited this Beatitude (Canto XXII.), applying it to

those who are purging themselves from the inordinate desire for riches;

he there omits the word “hunger,” as here he omits the “and thirst.”

CANTO XXV.

Ascent to the Seventh Ledge.—Discourse of Statius on generation, the

infusion of the Soul into the body, and the corporeal semblance of

Souls after death.—The Seventh Ledge: the Lustful.—The mode of their

Purification.

It was the hour in which the ascent allowed no delay; for the meridian

circle had been left by the Sun to the Bull, and by the Night to the

Scorpion;[1] wherefore as the man doth who, whatever may appear to him,

stops not, but goes on his way, if the goad of necessity prick him, so

did we enter through the gap, one before the other, taking the stairway

which by its narrowness unpairs the climbers.

[1] Taurus follows on Aries, so that the hour indicated is about 2 P.M.

The Night here means the part of the Heavens opposite to the Sun.

And as the little stork that lifts its wing through will to fly, and

dares not abandon the nest, and down it drops, so was I, with will to

ask, kindled and quenched, coming even to the motion that he makes who

proposes to speak. Nor, though our going was swift, did my sweet Father

forbear, but he said, Discharge the bow of speech which up to the iron

thou hast drawn.” Then I opened my mouth confidently, and began, “How

can one become thin, where the need of nourishment is not felt?” “If

thou hadst called to mind how Meleager was consumed by time consuming

of a brand this would not be,” he said, “ so difficult to thee; and if

thou hadst thought, how at your quivering your image quivers within the

mirror, that which seems hard would seem easy to thee. But that thou

mayst to thy pleasure be inwardly at ease, lo, here is Statius, and I

call on him and pray that he be now the healer of thy wounds.” “If I

explain to him the eternal view,” replied Statius, “where thou art

present, let it excuse me that to thee I cannot snake denial.”[1]

[1] Here and elsewhere Statius seems to represent allegorically human

philosophy enlightened by Christian teaching, dealing with questions of

knowledge, not of faith.

Then he began, “If, son, thy mind regards and receives my words, they

will be. for thee a light unto the ‘how,’ which thou askest.[1] The

perfect blood which is never drunk by the thirsty veins, but remains

like the food which thou removest from time table, takes in time heart

virtue informative of all the human members; even as that blood does,

which passes through the veins to become those members.[2] Digested yet

again, it descends to the part whereof it is more becoming to be silent

than to speak; and thence, afterwards, it drops upon another’s blood in

the natural vessel. There one and the other meet together; the one

ordained to be passive, and the other to be active because of the

perfect place[3] wherefrom it is pressed out; and, conjoined with the

former, the latter begins to operate, first by coagulating, and then by

quickening that to which it gives consistency for its own material. The

active virtue having become a soul, like that of a plant (in so far

different that this is on the way, and that already arrived),[4] so

worketh then, that now it moves and feels, as a sea-fungus doth; and

then it proceeds to organize the powers of which it is the germ. Now,

son, the virtue is displayed, now it is diffused, which issues from the

heart of the begetter, where nature is intent on all the members.[5]

But how from an animal it becomes a speaking being,[6] thou as yet

seest not; this is such a point that once it made one wiser than thee

to err, so that in his teaching he separated from the soul the

potential intellect, because he saw no organ assumed by it.[7] Open thy

heart unto the truth that is coming, and know that, so soon as in the

foitus the articulation of the brain is perfect, the Primal Motor turns

to it with joy over such art of nature, and inspires a new spirit

replete with virtue, which draws that which it finds active there into

its own substance, and makes one single soul which lives and feels and

circles on itself. And that thou mayst the less wonder at this

doctrine, consider the warmth of the sun which, combining with the

juice that flows from the vine, becomes wine. And when Lachesis has no

more thread, this soul is loosed from the flesh, and virtually bears

away with itself both the human and the divine; the other faculties all

of them mute,[8] but memory, understanding, and will[9] far more acute

in action than before. Without staying, it falls of itself, marvelously

to one of the banks.[10] Here it first knows its own roads. Soon as the

place there circumscribes it, the formative virtue rays out around it

in like manner, and as much as in the living members.[11] And as the

air when it is full of rain becomes adorned with divers colors by

another’s rays which are reflected in it, so here the neighboring air

shapes itself in that form which is virtually imprinted upon it by the

soul that hath stopped.[12] And then like the flamelet which follows

the fire wherever it shifts, so its new form follows the spirit. Since

thereafter from this it has its aspect, it is called a shade; and by

this it shapes the organ for every sense even to the sight; by this we

speak, and by this we laugh, by this we make the tears and the sighs,

which on the mountain thou mayst have perceived. According as the

desires and the other affections impress us the shade is shaped; and

this is the cause of that at which thou wonderest.”

[1] The doctrine set forth by Statius in the following discourse is

derived from St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theol., i. 118, 119, who, in his

turn, derived it from Aristotle. It is to be found, more briefly

stated, in the Convito, iv. 21.

[2] A portion of the blood remains after the veins are supplied; in the

heart all the blood receives the virtue by which it gives form to the

various organs of the body.

[3] The heart.

[4] The vegetative soul in the plant has attained its full development,

“has arrived;” in the animal is “on the way” to perfection.

[5] From the vegetative, the soul has become sensitive,—anima

sensitiva.

[6] A being possessed of intellect,—the last stage in the progress of

the soul, when it becomes came intellective.

[7] Averroes asserted the intellect to be impersonal and undivided in

essence; not formally, but instrumentally only, united with the

individual. Hence there was no personal immortality.

[8] The faculties of sense mute because their organs no longer exist.

[9] The spiritual faculties.

[10] Of Acheron or of Tiber, according as the soul is damned or saved.

[11] In this account of the formation of the bodily semblance in the

spiritual realms, Statius no longer follows the doctrine of Aquinas.

The conception is derived from Plato; but the form given to it is

peculiar to Dante.

[12] Stopped in the place allotted to it.

And now we had come to the last circuit,[1] and turning to the right

hand, we were intent upon another care. Here the bank shoots forth

flame, and the ledge breathes a blast upward which drives it back, and

sequesters a path from it.[2] Wherefore it was needful to go one by one

along the unenclosed side; and on the one hand I was afraid of the

fire, and on the other I was afraid of falling off. My Leader said,

“Through this place, one must keep tight the rein upon the eyes,

because for little one might go astray.” “Summae Deus clementiae,”[3]

in the bosom of the great burning then I heard singing, which made me

care not less to turn. And I saw spirits going through the flame;

wherefore I looked at them and at my own steps, apportioning to each my

sight from moment to moment. After the end of that hymn, they loudly

cried: “Virum non cognosco;”[4] then began again the hymn with low

voice; this finished, they cried anew, “To the wood Diana kept herself,

and drove therefrom Helice,[5] who had felt the poison of Venus.” Then

they turned to singing; then wives they cried out, and husbands who

were chaste, as virtue and marriage enjoin upon us. And I believe this

mode suffices them through all the time the fire burns them. With such

cure it is needful, and with such food, that the last wound of all

should be closed up.

[1] The word in the original is tortura. Benvenuto’s comment is, “nunc

incipiebant torquere et flectere viam, ideo talem deflectionem appellat

torturam.” Buti, on the contrary, says, “tortura cioe tormento.”

[2] Secures a safe pathway along the ledge.

[3] “God of clemency supreme,” the beginning of a hymn, sung at Matins,

containing a prayer for purity.

[4] “I know not a man,” the words of Mary to the angel—Luke, i. 34.

[5] Helice, or Callisto, the nymph who bore a son to Jupiter, and,

having been changed to a bear by Juno, was by Jove transferred with her

child to the heavens, where they are seen as the Great and Little Bear.

CANTO XXVI.

Seventh Ledge: the Lustful.—Sinners in the fire, going in opposite

directions.—Guido Guinicelli.—Arnaut Daniel.

While we were going on thus along the edge, one before the other, and

the good Master was often saying, “Take heed! let it avail that I warn

thee,” the sun was striking me on the right shoulder, and now, raying

out, was changing all the west from azure to a white aspect; and with

my shadow I was making the flame appear more ruddy, and only at such an

indication[1] I saw many shades, as they went on, give attention. This

was the occasion which gave them a beginning to speak of me, and they

began to say, “He seems not a fictitious body;” then toward me, so far

as they could do so, certain of them canine, always with regard not to

come out where they would not be burned.

[1] At this sign that Dante’s body was that of a living man.

“O thou! who goest, not from being slower, but perhaps from reverence,

behind the others, reply to me who in thirst and fire am burning. Nor

to me only is thy reply of need, for all these have a greater thirst

for it than Indian or Ethiop of cold water. Tell us how it is that thou

makest of thyself a wall to the sun, as if thou hadst not yet entered

within the net of death.” Thus spoke to me one of them; and I should

now have disclosed myself, if I had not been intent on another new

thing which then appeared; for through the middle of the burning road

were coming people with their faces opposite to these, who made me gaze

in suspense. There I see, on every side, all the shades making haste

and kissing each other, without stopping, content with brief greeting.

Thus within their brown band one ant touches muzzle with another,

perchance to enquire their way and their fortune.

Soon as they end the friendly salutation, before the first step runs on

beyond, each strives to outcry the other; the new-come folk: “Sodom and

Gomorrah,” and the other, “Into the cow enters Pasiphae, that the bull

may run to her lust.” Then like cranes, of whom part should fly to the

Riphaean mountains,[1] and part toward the sands,[2] these shunning the

frost and those the sun, one folk goes, the other comes on, and weeping

they return to their first chants, and to the cry which most befits

them.

[1] Mountains vaguely placed by the early geographers in the far North.

[2] The deserts of the South.

And those same who had prayed me drew near to me as before, intent in

their looks to listen. I, who twice had seen their desire, began, “O

souls secure of having, whenever it may he, a state of peace, neither

unripe nor mature have my limbs remained yonder, but they are here with

me with their blood, and with their joints. I go up in order to be no

longer blind. A Lady is on high who winneth grace for us, whereby I

bring my mortal part through your world. But so may your greater will

soon become satisfied, in such wise that the heaven may harbor you

which is full of love, and most amply spreads, tell me, in order that I

may yet rule the paper for it, who are ye, and who are that crowd which

goes its way behind your backs.”

Not otherwise stupefied, the mountaineer is confused, and gazing round

is dumb, when rough and savage he enters the town, than each shade

became in his appearance; but, after they were unburdened of their

bewilderment, which in high hearts is quickly assuaged, “Blessed thou,”

began again that one who first had asked me, “who of our regions dost

ship experience for dying better. The people who do not come with us

offended in that for which once Caesar in his triumph heard ‘Queen’

cried out against him; therefore they go off shouting ‘Sodom,’

reproving themselves as thou hast heard, and aid the burning by their

shame. Our sin was hermaphrodite; but because we observed not human

law, following our appetite like beasts, when we part from them, the

name of her who bestialized herself in the beast-shaped planks is

uttered by us, in opprobrium of ourselves. Now thou knowest our deeds,

and of what we were guilty; if, perchance, thou wishest to know by name

who we are, there is not time to tell, and I could not do it. I will

indeed make thee short of wish about myself; I am Guido Guinicelli;[1]

and now I purify myself, because I truly repented before my last hour.”

[1] Of Bologna; he was living after the middle of the thirteenth

century. Of his life little is known, but some of his verses survive

and justify Dante’s words concerning them.

Such as in the sorrow of Lycurgus her two sons became at seeing again

their mother,[1] such I became, but I rise not so far,[2] when I heard

name himself the father of me, and of my betters who ever used sweet

and gracious rhymes of love; and without hearing or speaking, full of

thought I went on, gazing a long time upon him; nor, for the fire, did

I draw nearer to him. After I was fed with looking, I offered myself

wholly ready for his service, with the affirmation that makes another

believe. And he to me, “By what I hear thou leavest such trace in me,

and so bright, that Lethe cannot take it away nor make it dim. But if

thy words have now sworn truth, tell me what is time cause why in

speech and look thou showest that thou dost hold me dear?” And I to

him, “The sweet ditties of yours, which, so long as the modern fashion

shall endure, will still make dear their ink.” “O brother,” said he,

“this one whom I distinguish for thee with my finger,” and he pointed

to a spirit in advance,[3] “was a better smith of the maternal speech.

In verses of love, and prose of romances, he excelled all, and let the

foolish talk who think that he of Limoges[4] surpasses him; to rumor

more than to truth they turn their faces, and thus confirm their own

opinion, before art or reason is listened to by them. Thus did many of

old concerning Guittone,[5] from cry to cry only to him giving the

prize, until the truth has prevailed with more persons. Now if thou

hast such ample privilege that it he permitted thee to go unto the

cloister in which Christ is abbot of the college, say for me to him one

paternoster, so far as needs for us in this world where power to sin is

no longer ours.”[6]

[1] “Lycurgus, King of Nemaea, enraged with Hypsipyle for leaving his

infant child, who was killed by a serpent, while she was showing the

river Langia to the Argives (see Canto XXII.), was about to kill her,

when she was found and rescued by her own suns.”—Statius, Thebaid, v.

721 (Pollock).

[2] I was more restrained than they.

[3] Arnaut Daniel, a famous troubadour.

[4] Gerault de Berneil.

[5] Guittone d’ Arezzo (see Canto XXIV.).

[6] The words in the Lord’s Prayer, “Deliver us from temptation,” are

not needed for the spirits in Purgatory.

Then, perhaps to give place to the other who was near behind him, he

disappeared through the fire, even as through the water a fish going to

the bottom. I moved forward a little to him who had been pointed out to

me, and said, that for his name my desire was making ready a gracious

place. He began graciously to say,[1] “So pleaseth me your courteous

demand that I cannot, and I will not, hide me from you. I am Arnaut who

weep and go singing; contrite I see my past folly, and joyful I see

before me the day I hope for. Now I pray you by that virtue which

guides you to the summit of the stair, at times be mindful of my pain.”

Then he hid himself in the fire that refines them.

[1] The words of Daniel are in the Provencal tongue.

CANTO XXVII.

Seventh Ledge: the Lustful.—Passage through the Flames.—Stairway in the

rock.—Night upon the stairs.—Dream of Dante.—Morning.—Ascent to the

Earthly Paradise.—Last words of Virgil.

As when he darts forth his first rays there where his Maker shed His

blood (Ebro falling under the lofty Scales, and the waves in the Ganges

scorched by noon) so the sun was now standing;[1] so that the day was

departing, when the glad Angel of God appeared to us. Outside the flame

he was standing on the bank, and was singing, “Beati mundo corde,”[2]

in a voice far more living than ours: then, “No one goes further, ye

holy souls, if first the fire sting not; enter into it, and to the song

beyond be ye not deaf,” he said to us, when we were near him. Whereat I

became such, when I heard him, as is he who in the pit is put.[3] With

hands clasped upwards, I stretched forward, looking at the fire, and

imagining vividly human bodies I had once seen burnt. The good Escorts

turned toward me, and Virgil said to me, “My son, here may be torment,

but not death. Bethink thee! bethink thee! and if I even upon Geryon

guided thee safe, what shall I do now that I am nearer God? Believe for

certain that if within the belly of this flame thou shouldst stand full

a thousand years, it could not make thee bald of one hair. And if thou

perchance believest that I deceive thee, draw near to it, and make

trial for thyself with fine own hands on the hem of thy garments. Put

aside now, put aside every fear; turn hitherward, and come on secure.”

[1] It was near sunrise at Jerusalem, and consequently near sunset in

Purgatory, midnight in Spain, and midday at the Ganges.

[2] “Blessed are the pure in heart.”

[3] Who is condemned to be buried alive.

And I still motionless and against conscience!

When he saw me still stand motionless and obdurate, he said, disturbed

a little, “Now see, son, between Beatrice and thee is this wall.”

As at the name of Thisbe, Pyramus, at point of death, opened his

eyelids and looked at her, what time the mulberry became vermilion, so,

my obduracy becoming softened, I turned me to the wise Leader, hearing

the name that in my memory is ever welling up. Whereat he nodded his

head, amid said, “How! do we want to stay on this side?” then he smiled

as one doth at a child who is conquered by an apple.

Then within the fire he set himself before me, praying Statius, that he

would come behind, who previously, on the long road, had divided us.

When I was in, into boiling glass I would have thrown myself to cool

me, so without measure was the burning there. My sweet Father, to

encourage me, went talking ever of Beatrice, saying, “I seem already to

see her eyes. A voice was guiding us, which was singing on the other

side, and we, ever attentive to it, came forth there where was the

ascent. “Venite, benedicti patris mei,”[1] sounded within a light that

was there such that it overcame me, and I could not look on it. “The

sun departs,” it added, “and the evening comes; tarry not, but hasten

your steps so long as the west grows not dark.”

[1] “Come, ye blessed of my Father.”—Matthew, xxv. 34.

The way mounted straight, through the rock, in such direction[1] that I

cut off in front of me the rays of the sun which was already low. And

of few stairs had we made essay ere, by the vanishing of the shadow,

both I and my Sages perceived behind us the setting of the sun. And

before the horizon in all its immense regions had become of one aspect,

and night had all her dispensations, each of us made of a stair his

bed; for the nature of the mountain took from us the power more than

the delight of ascending.

[1] Toward the east.

As goats, who have been swift and wayward on the peaks ere they are

fed, become tranquil as they ruminate, silent in the shade while the

sun is hot, guarded by the herdsman, who on his staff is leaning and,

leaning, watches them; and as the shepherd, who lodges out of doors,

passes the night beside his quiet flock, watching that the wild beast

may not scatter it: such were we all three then, I like a goat, and

they hike shepherds, hemmed in on this side and on that by the high

rock. Little of the outside could there appear, but through that little

I saw the stars both brighter and larger than their wont. Thus

ruminating, and thus gazing upon them, sleep overcame me, sleep which

oft before a deed be done knows news thereof.

At the hour, I think, when from the east on the mountain first beamed

Cytherea, who with fire of love seems always burning, I seemed in dream

to see a lady, young and beautiful, going through a meadow gathering

flowers, and singing she was saying, “Let him know, whoso asks my name,

that I am Leah, and I go moving my fair hands around to make myself a

garland. To please me at the glass here I adorn me, but my sister

Rachel never withdraws from her mirror, and sits all day. She is as

fain to look with her fair eyes as I to adorn me with my hands. Her

seeing, and me doing, satisfies.”[1]

[1] Leah and Rachel are the types of the active and the contemplative

life.

And now before the splendors which precede the dawn, and rise the more

grateful unto pilgrims as in returning they lodge less remote,[1] the

shadows fled away on every side, and my sleep with them; whereupon I

rose, seeing my great Masters already risen. That pleasant apple which

through so many branches the care of mortals goes seeking, to-day shall

put in peace thy hungerings.” Virgil used words such as these toward

me, and never were there gifts which could be equal in pleasure to

these. Such wish upon wish came to me to be above, that at every step

thereafter I felt the feathers growing for my flight.

[1] As they come nearer home.

When beneath us all the stairway had been run, and we were on the

topmost step, Virgil fixed his eyes on me, and said, “The temporal fire

and the eternal thou hast seen, son, and art come to a place where of

myself no further onward I discern. I have brought thee here with

understanding and with art; thine own pleasure now take thou for guide:

forth art thou from the steep ways, forth art thou from the narrow. See

there the sun, which on thy front doth shine; see the young grass, the

flowers, the shrubs, which here the earth of itself alone produces.

Until rejoicing come the beautiful eyes which weeping made me come to

thee, thou canst sit down and thou canst go among them. Expect no more

or word or sign from me. Free, upright, and sane is thine own free

will, and it would be wrong not to act according to its pleasure;

wherefore thee over thyself I crown and mitre.”

CANTO XXVIII.

The Earthly Paradise.—The Forest.—A Lady gathering flowers on the bank

of a little stream.—Discourse with her concerning the nature of the

place.

Fain now to search within and round about the divine forest dense and

living, which tempered the new day to my eyes, without longer waiting I

left the bank, taking the level ground very slowly, over the soil that

everywhere breathes fragrance. A sweet breeze that had no variation in

itself struck me on the brow, not with heavier blow than a soft wind;

at which the branches, readily trembling, all of them were bending to

the quarter where the holy mountain casts its first shadow; yet not so

far parted from their straightness, that the little birds among the

tops would leave the practice of their every art; but with full joy

singing they received the early breezes among the leaves, which kept a

burden to their rhymes, such as gathers from bough to bough through the

pine forest upon the shore of Chiassi, when Aeolus lets forth

Sirocco.[1]

[1] The south-east wind.

Now had my show steps carried me within the ancient wood so far that I

could not see back to where I had entered it: and lo, a stream took

from me further progress, which toward the left with its little waves

was bending the grass that sprang upon its bank. All the waters, that

are purest on the earth, would seem to have some mixture in them,

compared with that which hides nothing, although it moves along dusky

under the perpetual shadow, which never lets the sun or moon shine

there.

With feet I stayed, and with my eyes I passed to the other side of the

streamlet, to gaze at the great variety of the fresh may; and there

appeared to me, even as a thing appears suddenly which turns aside

through wonder every other thought, a solitary lady, who was going

along, singing, and culling flower from flower, wherewith all her path

was painted. “Ah, fair Lady,[1] who warmest thyself in the rays of

love, if I may trust to looks which are wont to be witnesses of the

heart, may the will come to thee,” said I to her, “to draw forward

toward this stream, so far that I can understand what thou art singing.

Thou makest me remember where and what was Proserpine, at the time when

her mother lost her, and she the spring.”

[1] This lady is the type of the life of virtuous activity. Her name,

as appears later, is Matilda. Why this name was chosen for her, and

whether she stands for any earthly personage, has been the subject of

vast and still open debate.

As a lady who is dancing turns with feet close to the ground and to

each other, and hardly sets foot before foot, she turned herself on the

red and on the yellow flowerets toward me, not otherwise than a virgin

who lowers her modest eyes, and made my prayers content, approaching so

that the sweet sound came to me with its meaning. Soon as she was there

where the grasses are now bathed by the waves of the fair stream, she

bestowed on me the gift of lifting her eyes. I do not believe that so

great a light shone beneath the lids of Venus, transfixed by her son,

beyond all his custom. She was smiling upon the opposite right bank,

gathering with her hands more colors which that high land brings forth

without seed. The stream made us three paces apart; but the Hellespont

where Xerxes passed it—a curb still on all human pride—endured not more

hatred from Leander for swelling between Sestos and Abydos, than that

from me because it opened not then. “Ye are new come,” she began, “and,

perchance, why I smile mu this place chosen for human nature as its

nest, some doubt holds you marvelling; but the psalm ‘Delectasti’[1]

affords light which may uncloud your understanding.And thou who art in

front, and didst pray to me, say, if else thou wouldst hear, for I came

ready for every question of thine, so far as may suffice.” “The water,”

said I, “and the sound of the forest, impugn within me recent faith in

something that I heard contrary to this.” Whereon she, “I will tell,

how from its own cause proceeds that which makes thee wonder; and I

will clear away the mist which strikes thee.

[1] Psalm xcii. 4. “Delectasti me, Domine, in factura tua, et in

operibus mannuum tuarum exultabo.” “For thou, Lord, hast made me glad

through thy work; I will triumph in the works of thy hands.”

“The supreme Good, which itself alone is pleasing to itself, made man

good, and for good, and gave this place for earnest to him of eternal

peace. Through his own default he dwelt here little while; through his

own default to tears and to toil he changed honest laughter and sweet

play. In order that the disturbance, which the exhalations of the water

and of the earth (which follow so far as they can the heat) produce

below, might not make any war on man, this mountain rose so high toward

heaven, and is free from them from the point where it is locked in.[1]

Now because the whole air revolves in circuit with the primal

revolution,[2] if its circle be not broken by some projection, upon

this height, which is wholly disengaged in the living air, this motion

strikes, and makes the wood, since it is dense, resound; and the plant

being struck hath such power that with its virtue it impregnates the

breeze, and this then in its whirling scatters it around: and the rest

of the earth, according as it is fit in itself, or through its sky,

conceives and brings forth divers trees of divers virtues. It should

not seem a marvel then on earth, this being heard, when some plant,

without manifest seed, there takes hold. And thou must know that the

holy plain where thou art is full of every seed, and has fruit in it

which yonder is not gathered. The water which thou seest rises not from

a vein restored by vapor which the frost condenses, like a stream that

gains and loses breath, but it issues from a fountain constant and

sure, which by the will of God regains as much as, open on two sides,

it pours forth. On this side it descends with virtue that takes from

one the memory of sin; on the other it restores that of every good

deed. Here Lethe, so on the other side Eunoe it is called; and it works

not if first it be not tasted on this side and on that. To all other

savors this is superior.

[1] Above the level of the gate through which Purgatory is entered, as

Statius has already explained (Canto XXI), the vapors of earth do not

rise.

[2] With the movement given to it by the motions of the heavens.

“And, though thy thirst may be fully sated even if I disclose no more

to thee, I will yet give thee a corollary for grace; nor do I think my

speech may be less dear to thee, if beyond promise it enlarge itself

with thee. Those who in ancient time told in poesy of the Age of Gold,

and of its happy state, perchance upon Parnassus dreamed of this place:

here was the root of mankind innocent; here is always spring, and every

fruit; this is the nectar of which each tells.”

I turned me back then wholly to my Poets, and saw that with a smile

they had heard the last sentence; then to the beautiful Lady I turned

my face.

CANTO XXIX.

The Earthly Paradise.—Mystic Procession or Triumph of the Church.

Singing like a lady enamored, she, at the ending of her words,

continued: “Beati, quorum tecta sunt peccata;”[1] and, like nymphs who

were wont to go solitary through the sylvan shades, this one desiring

to see and that to avoid the sun, she moved on then counter to the

stream, going up along the bank, and I at even pace with her, following

her little step with little. Of her steps and mine were not a hundred,

when the banks both like gave a turn, in such wise that toward the east

I faced again. Nor thus had our way been long, when the lady wholly

turned round to me, saying, “My brother, look and listen.” And lo! a

sudden lustre ran from all quarters through the great forest, so that

it put me in suspect of lightning. But because the lightning ceases

even as it comes, and this, hasting, became more and more resplendent,

in my thought I said, “What thing is this?” And a sweet melody ran

through the luminous air; whereupon a righteous zeal caused me to blame

the temerity of Eve, that, there, where time earth and the heavens were

obedient, the woman only, and but just now formed, did not endure to

stay under any veil; under which if she had devoutly stayed I should

have tasted those ineffable delights before, and for a longer time.

While I was going on and such first fruits of the eternal pleasure, all

enrapt, and still desirous of more joys, in front of us the air under

the green branches became like a blazing fire, and the sweet sound was

now heard as a song.

[1] “Blessed are they whose transgressions are forgiven.”—Psalm xxxii.

1.

O Virgins sacrosanct, if ever hunger, cold, or vigils I have endured

for you, time occasion spurs me that I claim reward therefor. Now it

behoves that Helicon pour forth for me, and Urania aid me with her

choir to put in verse things difficult to think.

A little further on, the long tract of space which was still between us

and them presented falsely what seemed seven trees of gold. But when I

had come so near to them that the common object, which deceives the

sense,[1] lost not through distance any of its attributes, the power

which supplies discourse to reason distinguished them as

candlesticks,[2] and in the voices of the song, “Hosanna.” From above

the fair array was flaming, brighter by far than the Moon in the serene

of midnight, in the middle of her month. I turned me round full of

wonder to the good Virgil, and he replied to me with a look charged not

less with amazement. Then I turned back my face to the high things that

were moving toward us so slowly they would have been outstripped by

new-made brides. The lady cried to me, “Why burnest thou only thus with

affection for the living lights, and lookest not at that which comes

behind them?” Then saw I folk coming behind, as if after their leaders,

clothed in white, and such purity there never was on earth. The water

was resplendent on the left flank, and reflected to me my left side, if

I looked in it, even as a mirror. When on my bank I had such position

that only the stream separated me, in order to see better, I gave halt

to my steps. And I saw the flamelets go forward heaving the air behind

them painted, and they had the semblance of streaming pennons, so that

there above it remained divided by seven stripes all in those colors

whereof the sun makes his bow, and Delia her girdle.[3] These banners

to the rear were longer than my sight, and according to my judgment the

outermost were ten paces apart. Under so fair a sky as I describe,

twenty-four elders,[4] two by two, were coming crowned with

flower-de-luce. All were singing, “Blessed thou among the daughters of

Adam, and blessed forever be thy beauties.”

[1] An object which has properties common to many things, so that at a

distance the sight cannot distinguish its specific nature.

[2] The imagery of the Triumph of the Church here described is largely

taken from this Apocalypse. “And I turned to see the voice that spake

with me. And being turned, I saw seven golden

candlesticks.”—Revelation, i. 12. “And there were seven lamps of fire

burning before the throne, which are the seven Spirits of God.”—Id.,

iv. 5. “And the Spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him, the spirit of

wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit

of knowledge and of the fear of the Lord.”—Isiah xi. 2.

[3] Delia, the moon, and her girdle the halo.

[4] “And round about the throne were four and twenty seats: and upon

the seats I saw four and twenty elders sitting, clothed in white

raiment.”—Revelation, iv. 4. These four and twenty elders in white

raiment, and crowned with white lilies, white being the color of faith,

symbolize the books of the Old Testament.

After the flowers, and the other fresh herbage opposite to me on the

other bank, were free from those folk elect, even as light followeth

light in heaven, came behind them four living creatures, crowned each

one with green leaves. Every one was feathered with six wings, the

feathers full of eyes; and the eyes of Argus were they living would be

such. To describe their forms I scatter rhymes no more, Reader; for

other spending constrains me so that in this I cannot be liberal. But

read Ezekiel, who depicts them as he saw them coming from the cold

region with wind, with cloud, and with fire; and such as thou wilt find

them in his pages such were they here, save that as to the wings John

is with me, and differs from him.[1]

[1] These four living creatures symbolize the Gospels. Ezekiel (i.6)

describes the creatures with four wings, but in the Revelation (iv. 8)

John assigns to each of them six wings: “and they were full of eyes

within.” They are crowned with green, as the color of hope.

The space between these four contained a triumphal chariot upon two

wheels, which by the neck of a griffon[1] came drawn along. And he

stretched up one and the other of his wings between the midmost stripe,

and the three and three, so that he did harm to no one of them by

cleaving it. So far they rose that they were not seen. His members were

of gold so far as he was bird, and the rest were white mixed with red.

Not Africanus, or indeed Augustus, gladdened Rome with so beautiful a

chariot; but even that of the Sun would be poor to it,—that of the Sun

which, going astray,[2] was consumed at the prayer of the devout Earth,

when Jove in his secrecy was just. Three ladies,[3] at the right wheel,

came dancing in a circle; one so ruddy that hardly would she have been

noted in the fire; the next was as if her flesh and bones had been made

of emerald; the third seemed snow just fallen. And now they seemed led

by the white, now by the red, and from her song the others took their

step both slow and swift. On the left four[4] robed in purple made

festival, following the measure of one of them who had three eyes in

her head.

[1] The griffon, half eagle and half lion, represents Christ in his

double nature, divine and human. The car which he draws is the Church.

[2] When driven by Phaethon.

[3] The theological virtues, Faith, Hope, and Charity, of the colors

respectively appropriate to them.

[4] The four cardinal Virtues, in purple, the imperial color, typifying

their rule over human conduct. Prudence has three eyes, as looking at

the past, the present, and the future.

Next after all the group described, I saw two old men, unlike in dress,

but like in action, both dignified and staid. The one showed himself

one of the familiars of that supreme Hippocrates whom Nature made for

the creatures that she holds most dear[1] the other showed the contrary

care,[2] with a shining and sharp sword, such that it caused me fear on

the hither side of the stream. Then I saw four humble in appearance,

and behind all an old man solitary coming asleep with lively

countenance.[3] And these seven were robed like the first band; but

they made not a thicket of lilies round their heads, rather of roses,

and of other red flowers. The sight at little distance would have sworn

that all were aflame above their brows. And when the chariot was

opposite to me thunder was heard, and those worthy people seemed to

have further progress interdicted, stopping there with the first

ensigns.

[1] The book of Acts, represented under rho type of its author, St.

Luke, “the beloved physician.” Colossians, iv. 14. Man is the creature

whom Nature holds dearest.

[2] The Pauline Epistles, typified by their writer, whose sword is the

symbol of war and martyrdom, a contrary care to the healing of men.

[3] The four humble in appearance are personifications of the writers

of the minor Epistles, followed by St. John, as the writer of the

Revelation, asleep, and yet with lively countenance, because he was “in

the Spirit” when he beheld his vision.

CANTO XXX.

The Earthly Paradise.—Beatrice appears.—Departure of Virgil.—Reproof of

Dante by Beatrice.

When the septentrion of the first heaven[1] which never setting knew,

nor rising, nor veil of other cloud than sin,—and which was making

every one there acquainted with his duty, as the lower[2] makes whoever

turns the helm to come to port,—stopped still, the truthful people[3]

who had come first between the griffon and it,[4] turned to the chariot

as to their peace, and one of them, as if sent from heaven, singing,

cried thrice, “Veni, sponsa, de Libano,”[5] and all the others after.

[1] The seven candlesticks, symbols of the sevenfold spirit of the

Lord.

[2] The lower septentrion, or the seven stars of the Great Bear.

[3] The personifications of the truthful books of the Old Testament.

[4] The septentrion of candlesticks.

[5] “Come with me from Lebanon, my spouse.”—The Song of Solomon, iv. 8.

As time blessed at the last trump will arise swiftly, each from his

tomb, singing hallelujah with recovered voice,[1] so upon the divine

chariot, ad vocem tanti senis,[2] rose up a hundred ministers and

messengers of life eternal. All were saying, “Benedictus, qui

venis,”[3] and, scattering flowers above and around, “Manibus o date

lilia plenis.”[4]

[1] “And after these things I heard a great voice of much people in

Heaven, saying, Alleluia-”—Revelation, xix. 1.

[2] “At the voice of so great an elder;” these words are in Latin

apparently only for the sake of the rhyme.

[3] “Blessed thou that comest.”

[4] “Oh, give lilies with full hands;” words from the Aeneid, vi. 884,

sung by the angels.

I have seen ere now at the beginning of the day the eastern region all

rosy, while the rest of heaven was beautiful with fair clear sky; and

the face of the sun rise shaded, so that through the tempering of

vapors the eye sustained it a long while. Thus within a cloud of

flowers, which from the angelic hands was ascending, and falling down

again within and without, a lady, with olive wreath above a white veil,

appeared to me, robed with the color of living flame beneath a green

mantle.[1] And my spirit that now for so long a time had not been

broken down, trembling with amazement at her presence, without having

more knowledge by the eyes, through occult virtue that proceeded from

her, felt the great potency of ancient love.

[1] The olive is the symbol of wisdom and of peace the three colors are

those of Faith, Charity, and Hope.

Soon as upon my sight the lofty virtue smote, which already had

transfixed me ere I was out of boyhood, I turned me to the left with

the confidence with which the little child runs to his mother when he

is frightened, or when he is troubled, to say to Virgil, “Less than a

drachm of blood remains in me that doth not tremble; I recognize the

signals of the ancient flame,”[1]—but Virgil had left us deprived of

himself; Virgil, sweetest Father, Virgil to whom I for my salvation

gave me. Nor did all which the ancient mother lost[2] avail unto my

cheeks, cleansed with dew,[3] that they should not turn dark again with

tears.

[1] “Agnosco veteris vestigia flammae.”—Aeneid, iv. 23.

[2] All the beauty of Paradise which Eve lost.

[3] See Canto I.

“Dante, though Virgil be gone away, weep not yet, weep not yet, for it

behoves thee to weep by another sword.”

Like an admiral who, on poop or on prow, comes to see the people that

are serving on the other ships, and encourages them to do well, upon

the left border of the chariot,—when I turned me at the sound of my own

name, which of necessity is registered here,—I saw the Lady, who had

first appeared to me veiled beneath the angelic festival, directing her

eyes toward me across the stream although the veil, which descended

from her head, circled by the leaf of Minerva, did not allow her to

appear distinctly. Royally, still haughty in her mien, she went on, as

one who speaks, and keeps back his warmest speech: “Look at me well: I

am, indeed, I am, indeed, Beatrice. How hast thou deigned to approach

the mountain? Didst thou know that man is happy here?” My eyes fell

down into the clear fount; but seeing myself in it I drew them to the

grass, such great shame burdened my brow. As to the son the mother

seems proud, so she seemed to me; for somewhat bitter tasteth the savor

of stern pity. She was silent, and the angels sang of a sudden, “In te,

Domine, speravi;” but beyond “pedes meos”[1] they did not pass. Even as

the snow, among the living rafters upon the back of Italy, is

congealed, blown and packed by Sclavonian winds, then melting trickles

through itself, if only the land that loses shadow breathe,[2] so that

it seems a fire that melts the candle: so was I without tears and sighs

before the song of those who time their notes after the notes of the

eternal circles. But when I heard in their sweet accords their

compassion for me, more than if they had said, “Lady, why dost thou so

confound him?” the ice that was bound tight around my heart became

breath and water, and with anguish poured from my breast through my

mouth and eyes.

[1] “In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust; let me never be ashamed:

deliver me in thy righteousness. Bow down thine ear to me; deliver me

speedily: be thou my strong rock, for an house of defence to save me.

For thou art my rock and my fortress; therefore for thy name’s sake

lead me, and guide me. Pull me out of the net that they have laid

privily for me: for thou art my strength. Into thine hand I commit my

spirit: thou hast redeemed me, O Lord God of truth. I have hated them

that regard lying vanities: but I trust in the Lord. I will be glad and

rejoice in thy mercy: for thou hast considered my trouble; thou hast

known my soul in adversities. And hast not shut me up into the hand of

the enemy: thou hast set my feet in a large room.”—Psalm xxxi. 1-8.

[2] If the wind blow from Africa.

She, still standing motionless on the aforesaid side of the chariot,

then turned her words to those pious[1] beings thus: “Ye watch in the

eternal day, so that nor night nor slumber robs from you one step the

world may make along its ways; wherefore my reply is with greater care,

that he who is weeping yonder may understand me, so that fault and

grief may be of one measure. Not only through the working of the great

wheels,[2] which direct every seed to some end according as the stars

are its companions, but through largess of divine graces, which have

for their rain vapors so lofty that our sight goes not near

thereto,—this man was such in his new life, virtually, that every right

habit would have made admirable proof in him. But so much the more

malign and more savage becomes the land ill-sown and untilled, as it

has more of good terrestrial vigor. Some time did I sustain him with my

face; showing my youthful eyes to him I led him with me turned in right

direction. So soon as I was upon the threshold of my second age, and

had changed life, this one took himself from me, and gave himself to

others. When from flesh to spirit I had ascended, and beauty and virtue

were increased in me, I was less dear and less pleasing to him; and he

turned his steps along a way not true, following false images of good,

which pay no promise in full. Nor did it avail me to obtain[3]

inspirations with which, both in dream and otherwise, I called him

back; so little did he heed them. So low he fell that all means for his

salvation were already short, save showing him the lost people. For

this I visited the gate of the dead, and to him, who has conducted him

up hither, my prayers were borne with weeping. The high decree of God

would be broken, if Lethe should be passed, and such viands should be

tasted without any scot of repentance which may pour forth tears.”

[1] Both devout and piteous.

[2] The circling heavens.

[3] Through the grace of God.

CANTO XXXI.

The Earthly Paradise.—Reproachful discourse of Beatrice, amid

confession of Dante.—Passage of Lethe.—Appeal of the Virtues to

Beatrice.—Her Unveiling.

“O thou who art on the further side of the sacred river,” turning her

speech with the point to me, which only by the edge had seemed to me

keen, she began anew, going on without delay, “say, say, if this is

true: to so great an accusation it behoves that thine own confession be

conjoined.” My power was so confused, that the voice moved, and became

extinct before it could be released by its organs. A little she bore

it; then she said, “What thinkest thou? Reply to me; for the sad

memories in thee are not yet injured by the water.”[1] Confusion and

fear together mingled forced such a “Yes” from out my mouth, that the

eyes were needed for the understanding of it.

[1] Are still vivid, not yet obliterated by the water of Lethe.

As a cross-bow breaks its cord and its bow when it shoots with too

great tension, and with less force the shaft hits the mark, so did I

burst under that heavy load, pouring forth tears and sighs, and the

voice slackened along its passage. Whereupon she to me, “Within those

desires of mine[1] that were leading thee to love the Good beyond which

there is nothing whereto man may aspire, what trenches running

traverse, or what chains didst thou find, for which thou wert obliged

thus to abandon the hope of passing onward? And what enticements, or

what advantages on the brow of the others were displayed,[2] for which

thou wert obliged to court them?” After the drawing of a bitter sigh,

hardly had I the voice that answered, and the lips with difficulty gave

it form. Weeping, I said, “The present things with their false pleasure

turned my steps, soon as your face was hidden.” And she: “Hadst thou

been silent, or hadst thou denied that which thou dost confess, thy

fault would be not less noted, by such a Judge is it known. But when

the accusation of the sin, bursts from one’s own cheek, in our court

the wheel turns itself back against the edge. But yet, that thou mayst

now bear shame for thy error, and that another time, hearing the

Sirens, thou mayst be stronger, hay aside the seed of weeping, and

listen; so shalt thou hear how in opposite direction my buried flesh

ought to have moved thee. Never did nature or art present to thee

pleasure such as the fair limbs wherein I was enclosed; and they are

scattered in earth. And if the supreme pleasure thus failed thee

through my death, what mortal thing ought then to have drawn thee into

its desire? Forsooth thou oughtest, at the first arrow of things

deceitful, to have risen up, following me who was no longer such. Nor

should thy wings have weighed thee downward to await more blows, either

girl or other vanity of so brief a use. The young little bird awaits

two or three; but before the eyes of the full-fledged, the net is

spread in vain, the arrow shot.”

[1] Inspired by me.

[2] The false pleasures of the world.

As children, ashamed, dumb, with eyes upon the ground, stand listening

and conscience-stricken and repentant, so was I standing. And she said,

“Since through hearing thou art grieved, lift up thy beard, and thou

shalt receive more grief in seeing.” With less resistance is a sturdy

oak uprooted by a native wind, or by one from the land of Iarbas,[1]

than I raised up my chin at her command; and when by the beard she

asked for my eyes, truly I recognized the venom of the argument.[2] And

as my face stretched upward, my sight perceived that those primal

creatures were resting from their strewing, and my eyes, still little

assured, saw Beatrice turned toward the animal that is only one person

in two natures.[3] Beneath her veil and beyond the stream she seemed to

me more to surpass her ancient self, than she surpassed the others here

when she was here. So pricked me there the nettle of repentance, that

of all other things the one which most turned me aside unto its love

became most hostile to me.[4]

[1] From Numidia, of which Iarbas was king.

[2] Because indicating the lack of that wisdom which should pertain to

manhood.

[3] The griffon.

[4] That object which had most seduced me from the love of Beatrice was

now the most hateful to me.

Such contrition stung my heart that I fell overcome; and what I then

became she knows who afforded me the cause.

Then, when my heart restored my outward faculties, I saw above me the

lady whom I had found alone,[1] and she was saying, “Hold me, hold me.”

She had drawn me into the stream up to the throat, and dragging me

behind was moving upon the water light as a shuttle. When I was near

the blessed shore, “Asperges me”[2] I heard so sweetly that I cannot

remember it, far less can write it. The beautiful lady opened her arms,

clasped my head, and plunged me in where it behoved that I should

swallow the water.[3] Then she took me, and, thus bathed, brought me

within the dance of the four beautiful ones,[4] and each of them

covered me with her arm. “Here we are nymphs, and in heaven we are

stars: ere Beatrice had descended to the world we were ordained unto

her for her handmaids. We will head thee to her eyes; but in the joyous

light which is within them, the three yonder who deeper gaze shall make

keen thine own.”[5] Thus singing, they began; and then to the breast of

the griffon they led me with them, where Beatrice was standing turned

toward us. They said, “See that thou sparest not thy sight: we have

placed thee before the emeralds whence Love of old drew his arrows upon

thee.” A thousand desires hotter than flame bound my eyes to the

relucent eyes which only upon the griffon were standing fixed. As the

sun in a mirror, not otherwise the twofold animal was gleaming

therewithin, now with one, now with another mode.[6] Think, Reader, if

I marvelled when I saw the thing stand quiet in itself, while in its

image it was transmuting itself.

[1] Matilda.

[2] The first words of the seventh verse of the fifty-first Psalm:

“Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be

whiter than snow.”

[3] The drinking of the waters of Lethe which obliterate the memory of

sin.

[4] The four Cardinal Virtues.

[5] The Cardinal Virtues lead up to Theology, or the knowledge of

Divine things, but the Evangelic Virtues are needed to penetrate within

them.

[6] Mode of being,—the divine and the human.

While, full of amazement and glad, my soul was tasting that food which,

sating of itself, causes hunger for itself, the other three, showing

themselves in their bearing of loftier order, came forward dancing to

their angelic melody. “Turn, Beatrice, turn thy holy eyes,” was their

song, “upon thy faithful one, who to see thee has taken so many steps.

For grace do us the grace that thou unveil to hum thy mouth, so that he

may discern the second beauty which thou concealest.”[1]

[1] “The eyes of Wisdom are her demonstrations by which one sees the

truth most surely; and her smile is her persuasions in which the

interior light of Wisdom is displayed without any veil; and in these

two is felt that loftiest pleasure of Beatitude, which is the chief

good in Paradise.”—Convito, iii 15.

Oh splendor of living light eternal! Who hath become so pallid under

the shadow of Parnassus, or hath so drunk at its cistern, that he would

not seem to have his mind encumbered, trying to represent thee as thou

didst appear there where in harmony the heaven overshadows thee when in

the open air thou didst thyself disclose?

CANTO XXXII.

The Earthly Paradise.—Return of the Triumphal procession.—The Chariot

bound to the Mystic Tree.—Sleep of Dante.—His waking to find the

Triumph departed.—Transformation of the Chariot.—The Harlot and the

Giant.

So fixed and intent were mine eyes to relieve their ten years’ thirst,

that my other senses were all extinct: and they themselves, on one side

and the other, had a wall of disregard, so did the holy smile draw them

to itself with the old net; when perforce my sight was turned toward my

left by those goddesses,[1] because I heard from them a “Too

fixedly.”[2] And the condition which exists for seeing in eyes but just

now smitten by the sun caused me to be some time without sight. But

when the sight reshaped itself to the little (I say to the little, in

respect to the great object of the sense wherefrom by force I had

removed myself), I saw that the glorious army had wheeled upon its

right flank, and was returning with the sun and with the seven flames

in its face.

[1] The three heavenly Virtues.

[2] “Thou lookest too fixedly; thou hast yet other duties than

contemplation.”

As under its shields to save itself a troop turns and wheels with its

banner, before it all can change about, that soldiery of the celestial

realm which was in advance had wholly gone past us before its front

beam[1] had bent the chariot round. Then to the wheels the ladies

returned, and the griffon moved his blessed burden, in such wise

however that no feather of him shook. The beautiful lady who had drawn

me at the ford, and Statius and I were following the wheel which made

its orbit with the smaller arc. So walking through the lofty wood,

empty through fault of her who trusted to the serpent, an angelic song

set the time to our steps. Perhaps an arrow loosed from the bow had in

three flights reached such a distance as we had advanced, when Beatrice

descended. I heard “Adam!” murmured by all:[2] then they circled a

plant despoiled of flowers and of other leafage on every bough.[3] Its

branches, which so much the wider spread the higher up they are,[4]

would be wondered at for height by the Indians in their woods.

[1] Its pole.

[2] In reproach of him who had in disobedience tasted of the fruit of

this tree.

[3] After the sin of Adam the plant was despoiled of virtue till the

coming of Christ.

[4] The branches of the tree of knowledge spread widest as they are

nearest to the Divine Source of truth.

“Blessed art thou, Griffon, that thou dost not break off with thy beak

of this wood sweet to the taste, since the belly is ill racked

thereby.”[1] Thus around the sturdy tree the others cried; and the

animal of two natures: “So is preserved the seed of all

righteousness.”[2] And turning to the pole that he had drawn, he

dragged it to the foot of the widowed trunk, and that which was of

it[3] he left bound to it.

[1] “For as by one man’s disobedience many were made sinners, so by the

obedience of one shall many be made righteous.”—Romans, v. 19.

[2] “That as sin had reigned unto deaths, even so might grace reign

through righteousness unto eternal life, by Jesus Christ, our

Lord.”—Id., v. 21.

[3] This pole, the mystic type of the cross of Christ, supposed to have

been made of the wood of this tree.

As our plants, when the great light falls downward mingled with that

which shines behind the celestial Carp,[1] become swollen, and then

renew themselves, each in its own color, ere the sun yoke his coursers

under another star, so disclosing a color less than of roses and more

than of violets, the plant renewed itself, which first had its boughs

so bare.[2] I did not understand the hymn, and it is not sung here,[3]

which that folk then sang, nor did I hear the melody to the end.

[1] In this spring, when the Sun is in Aries, the sign which follows

that of the Pisces here termed the Carp.

[2] This tree, after the death of Christ, still remains this symbol of

the knowledge of good and of evil, as well as this sign of obedience to

the Divine Will. Its renewal with flowers and foliage seems to he the

image at once of the revelation of Divine truth through Christ, and of

his obedience unto death.

[3] On earth.

If I could portray how the pitiless eyes[1] sank to slumber, while

hearing of Syrinx, the eyes to which too much watching cost so dear,

hike a painter who paints from a model I would depict how I fell

asleep; but whoso would, let him be one who can picture slumber

well.[2] Therefore I pass on to when I awoke, and say that a splendor

rent for me the veil of sleep, and a call, “Arise, what doest thou?”

[1] The hundred eyes of Argus, who, when watching Io, fell asleep while

listening to the tale of the loves of Pan and Syrinx, and was then

slain by Mercury.

[2] The sleep of Dante may signify the impotency of human reason to

explain the mysteries of redemption.

As, to see some of the flowerets of the apple-tree[1] which makes the

Angels greedy of its fruit,[2] and makes perpetual bridal feasts in

Heaven,[3] Peter and John and James were led,[4] and being overcome,

came to themselves at the word by which greater slumbers[5] were

broken, and saw their band diminished alike by Moses and Elias, and the

raiment of their Master changed, so I came to myself, and saw that

compassionate one standing above me, who first had been conductress of

my steps along the stream; and all in doubt I said, “Where is

Beatrice?” And she, “Behold her under the new leafage sitting upon its

root. Behold the company that surrounds her; the rest are going on high

behind the griffon, with sweeter song and more profound.”[6] And if her

speech was more diffuse I know not, because already in my eyes was she

who from attending to aught else had closed me in. Alone she was

sitting upon the bare ground, like a guard left there of the chariot

which I had seen bound by the biform animal. In a circle the seven

Nymphs were making of themselves an enclosure for her, with those

lights in their hands that are secure from Aquilo and from Auster.[7]

[1] “As the apple-tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved

among the suns.”—The Song of Solomon, ii. 3.

[2] The full glory of Christ in Heaven.

[3] The marriage supper of the Lamb—Revelation, xix. 9.

[4] The transfiguration—Matthew, xvii. 1-8.

[5] Those of the dead called back to life by Jesus.

[6] Christ having ascended, Beatrice, this type of Theology, is left by

the chariot, the type of the Church on earth.

[7] From the north wind or the south; that is, from any earthly blast.

“Here shalt thou be short time a forester; and thou shalt be with me

without end a citizen of that Rome whereof Christ is a Roman. Therefore

for profit of the world that lives ill, keep now thine eyes upon the

chariot; amid what thou seest, having returned to earth, mind that thou

write.” Thus Beatrice; and I, who at the feet of her commands was all

devout, gave my mind and my eyes where she willed.

Never with so swift a motion did fire descend from a dense cloud, when

it is raining from that region which stretches most remote, as I saw

the bird of Jove stoop downward through the tree, breaking the bark, as

well as the flowers and new leaves; and he struck the chariot with all

his force, whereat it reeled, like a ship in a tempest beaten by the

waves now to starboard, now to larboard.[1] Then I saw leap into the

body of the triumphal vehicle a she fox,[2] which seemed fasting from

all good food; but rebuking her for her foul sins my Lady turned her to

such flight as her fleshless bones allowed. Then, from there whence he

had first come, I saw the eagle descend down into the ark of the

chariot and leave it feathered from himself.[3] And a voice such as

issues from a heart that is afflicted issued from Heaven, and thus

spake, “O little bark of mine, how ill art thou laden!” Then it seemed

to me that the earth opened between the two wheels, and I saw a dragon

issue from it, which through the chariot upward fixed his tail: and,

like a wasp that retracts its sting, drawing to himself his malign

tail, drew out part of the bottom, and went wandering away.[4] That

which remained covered itself again, as lively soil with grass, with

the plumage, offered perhaps with sane and benign intention; and both

one and the other wheel and the pole were again covered with it in such

time that a sigh holds the mouth open longer.[5] Thus transformed, the

holy structure put forth heads upon its parts, three upon the pole, and

one on each corner. The first were horned like oxen, but the four had a

single horn upon the forehead.[6] A like prodigy was never seen before.

Secure, as fortress on a high mountain, there appeared to me a loose

harlot sitting upon it, with eyes roving around. And, as if in order

that she should not be taken from him, I saw standing at her side a

giant, and some while they kissed each other. But because she turned

her lustful and wandering eye on me that fierce paramour scourged her

from head to foot. Then full of jealousy, and cruel with anger, he

loosed the monster, and drew it through the wood so far that only of

that he made a shield from me for the harlot and for the strange

beast.[7]

[1] The descent and the attack of the eagle symbolize the rejection of

Christianity and the persecution of the Church by the emperors.

[2] The fox denotes the early heresies.

[3] The feathering of the car is the type of the donation of

Constantine,—the temporal endowment of the Church.

[4] The dragging off by the dragon of a part of the car probably

figures the schism of the Greek Church in the 9th century.

[5] This new feathering signifies the fresh and growing endowments of

the Church.

[6] The seven heads have been interpreted as the seven mortal sins,

which grew up in the transformed church, the result of its wealth and

temporal power.

[7] The harlot and the giant stand respectively for the Pope (both

Boniface VIII. and him successor Clement V.) and the kings of France,

especially Philip the Fair. The turning of the eyes of the harlot upon

Dante seems to signify the dealings of Boniface with the Italians,

which awakened the jealousy of Philip; and the dragging of the car,

transformed into a monster, through the wood, so far as to hide it from

the poet, may be taken as typifying the removal of the seat of the

Papacy from Rome to Avignon, in 1305.

CANTO XXXIII.

The Earthly Paradise.—Prophecy of Beatrice concerning one who shall

restore the Empire.—Her discourse with Dante.—The river Eunoe.—Dante

drinks of it, and is fit to ascend to Heaven.

“Deus, venerunt gentes,”[1] the ladies began, alternating, now three

now four, a sweet psalmody, and weeping. And Beatrice, sighing and

compassionate, was listening to them so moved that scarce more changed

was Mary at the cross. But when the other virgins gave place to her to

speak, risen upright upon her feet, she answered, colored like fire:

“Modicum, et non videbitis me, et iterum, my beloved Sisters, Modicum,

et vos videbitis me.”[2] Then she set all the seven in front of her;

and behind her, by a sign only, she placed me, and the Lady, and the

Sage who had stayed.[3] So she moved on; and I do not think her tenth

step had been set upon the ground, when with her eyes my eyes she

smote, and with tranquil aspect said to me, “Come more quickly, so that

if I speak with thee, to listen to me thou mayst be well placed.” So

soon as I was with her as I should be, she said to me, “Brother, why

dost thou not venture to ask of me, now thou art coming with me?”

[1] Thus first words of the seventy-ninth Psalm: “O God, the heathen

are come into thine inheritance; thy holy temple have they defiled;

they have laid Jerusalem on heaps.” The whole Psalm, picturing the

actual desolation of the Church, but closing with confident prayer to

the Lord to restore his people, is sung by the holy ladies.

[2] “A little while and ye shall not see me: and again, A little while

and ye shall see me.”—John, xvi. 16. An answer and promise

corresponding to the complaint and petition of the Psalm.

[3] The lady, Matilda, and the sage, Statius.

Even as befalls those who with excess of reverence are speaking in

presence of their superiors, and drag not their voice living to the

teeth,[1] it befell me that without perfect sound I began, “My Lady,

you know my need, and that which is good for it.” And site to me, “From

fear and from shame I wish that thou henceforth divest thyself, so that

thou speak no more like a man who dreams. Know thou, that the vessel

which the serpent[2] broke was, and is not;[3] but let him who is to

blame therefor believe that the vengeance of God fears not sops.[4] Not

for all time shall be without an heir the eagle that left its feathers

on the car, whereby it became a monster, and then a prey.[5] For I see

surely, and therefore I tell it, stars already close at hand, secure

from every obstacle and from every hindrance, to give to us a time in

which a Five hundred, Ten, and Five sent by God[6] shall slay the

thievish woman[7] and that giant who with her is delinquent. And

perchance my narration, dark as Themis and the Sphinx,[8] less

persuades thee, because after their fashion it clouds the

understanding. But soon the facts will be the Naiades[9] that shall

solve this difficult enigma, without harm of flocks or of harvest. Do

thou note; and even as they are borne from me, do thou so report these

words to those alive with that life which is a running unto death; and

have in mind when thou writest them, not to conceal what thou hast seen

the plant, which now has been twice plundered here. Whoso robs that, or

breaks it,[10] with blasphemy in act offends God, who only for His own

use created it holy. For biting that, the first soul, in pain and in

desire, five thousand years and more, longed for Him who punished on

Himself the bite. Thy wit sleeps, if it deem not that for a special

reason it is so high and so inverted at its top. And if thy vain

thoughts had not been as water of Elsa[11] round about thy mind, and

their pleasantness as Pyramus to the mulberry,[12] by so many

circumstances only thou hadst recognized morally the justice of God in

the interdict upon the tree. But since I see thee in thy understanding

made of stone, and thus stony, dark, so that the light of my speech

dazzles thee, I would yet that thou bear it hence within thee,—and if

not written, at least depicted,—for the reason that the pilgrim’s staff

is carried wreathed with palm.”[13] And I, “Even as by a seal wax which

alters not the imprinted figure, is my brain now stamped by you. But

why does your desired word fly so far above my sight, that the more it

strives the more it loses it?” “In order that thou mayst know,” she

said, “that school which thou hast followed, and mayst see how its

doctrine can follow my word[14] and mayst see your path distant so far

from the divine, as the heaven which highest hastens is remote from

earth.” Whereon I replied to her, “I do not remember that I ever

estranged myself from you, nor have I conscience of it that may sting

me.” “And if thou canst not remember it,” smiling she replied, “now

bethink thee how this day thou hast drunk of Lethe. And if from smoke

fire be inferred, such oblivion clearly proves fault in thy will

elsewhere intent.[15] Truly my words shall henceforth be naked so far

as it shall be befitting to uncover them to thy rude sight.”

[1] Are unable to speak with distinct words.

[2] The dragon.

[3] “The beast that thou sawest was, and is not.”—Revelation, xvii. 8.

[4] According to a belief, which the old commentators report as

commonly held by the Florentines, if a murderer could contrive within

nine days of the murder to eat a sop of bread dipped in wine, above the

grave of his victim, he would escape from the vengeance of the family

of the murdered man.

[5] The meaning is that an Emperor shall come, who shall restore the

Church from its captivity, and reestablish the Divine order upon earth,

in rise mutually dependent and severally independent authority of

Church and Empire.

[6] This prophecy is too obscure to admit of a sure interpretation.

Five hundred, ten, and five, in Roman numerals, give the letters D X V;

which by transposition form the word Dux, a leader.

[7] The harlot, who had no right in the car, but had stolen her place

there, or, in plain words, the Popes who by corruption had secured this

papal throne.

[8] Obscure as the oracles of Thiemis or the enigmas of the Sphinx.

[9] According to a misreading of a verse in Ovid’s Metam., vii. 759,

the Naiades solved the riddles of the oracles, at which Themis,

offended, sent forth a wild beast to ravage the flocks and fields.

[10] Robs it as Adam did, splinters it as the Emperors did.

[11] A river of Tuscany, whose waters have a petrifying quality.

[12] Darkening thy mind as the blood of Pyramus dyed the mulberry.

[13] If not clearly inscribed, at least so imprinted on the mind, that,

like the palm on the pilgrim’s staff, it may be a sign of where thou

hast been and of what thou hast seen.

[14] How far its doctrine is from my teaching.

[15] The having been obliged to drink of Lethe is the proof that thou

hadst sin to he forgotten, and that thy will had turned thee to other

things than me.

And more coruscant, and with slower steps, the sun was holding the

circle of the meridian, which is set here or there according to the

aspect,[1] when even as he, who goes before a troop as guide, stops if

he find some strange thing on his track, the seven ladies stopped at

the edge of a pale shade, such as beneath green leaves and black boughs

the Alp casts over its cold streams. In front of them, it seemed to me

I saw Euphrates and Tigris issue from one fountain, and, like friends,

part slow from one another.

[1] Which shifts as seen from one place or another.

“O light, O glory of the human race, what water is this which here

spreads from one source, and from itself withdraws itself?” To this

prayer it was said to me, “Pray Matilda[1] that she tell it to thee;”

and here the beautiful Lady answered, as one does who frees himself

from blame, “This and other things have been told him by me; and I am

sure that the water of Lethe has not hidden them from him.” And

Beatrice, “Perhaps a greater care which oftentimes deprives the memory

has darkened the eyes of his mind. But see Eunoe,[2] which flows forth

yonder, lead him to it, and, as thou art accustomed, revive his extinct

power.” As a gentle soul which makes not excuse, but makes its own will

of another’s will, soon as by a sign it is outwardly disclosed, even

so, when I was taken by her, the beautiful Lady moved on, and to

Statius said, with manner of a lady, “Come with him.”

[1] Here for the first and only time is the beautiful Lady called by

name.

[2] Eunoe, “the memory of good,” which its waters restore to the

purified soul. The poetic conception of this fair stream is exclusively

Dante’s own.

If I had, Reader, longer space for writing I would yet partly sing the

sweet draught which never would have sated me. But, because all the

leaves destined for this second canticle are full, the curb of my art

lets me go no further. I returned from the most holy wave, renovated as

new plants renewed with new foliage, pure and disposed to mount unto

the stars.