| |
| WE reach’d the summit of the scale, and stood | |
| Upon the second buttress of that mount | |
| Which healeth him who climbs. A cornice there | |
| Like to the former, girdles round the hill; | |
| Save that its arch, with sweep less ample, bends. | 5 |
| Shadow, nor image there, is seen: all smooth | |
| The rampart and the path, reflecting naught | |
| But the rock’s sullen hue. “If here we wait, | |
| For some to question,” said the bard, “I fear | |
| Our choice may haply meet too long delay.” | 10 |
| Then fixedly upon the sun his eyes | |
| He fasten’d; made his right the central point | |
| From whence to move; and turn’d the left aside. | |
| “O pleasant light, my confidence and hope! | |
| Conduct us thou,” he cried, “on this new way, | 15 |
| Where now I venture; leading to the bourn | |
| We seek. The universal world to thee | |
| Owes warmth and lustre. If no other cause | |
| Forbid, thy beams should ever be our guide.” | |
| Far, as in measured for a mile on earth, | 20 |
| In brief space had we journey’d; such prompt will | |
| Impell’d; and toward us flying, now were heard | |
| Spirits invisible, who courteously | |
| Unto love’s table bade the welcome guest. | |
| The voice, that first flew by, call’d forth aloud, | 25 |
| “They have no wine,” so on behind us past, | |
| Those sounds reiterating, nor yet lost | |
| In the faint distance, when another came | |
| Crying, “I am Orestes,” 1 and alike | |
| Wing’d its fleet way. “O father!” I exclaim’d, | 30 |
| “What tongues are these?” and as I question’d, lo! | |
| A third exclaiming, “Love ye those have wrong’d you.” | |
| “This circuit,” said my teacher, “knots the scourge | |
| For envy; and the cords are therefore drawn | |
| By charity’s correcting hand. The curb | 35 |
| Is of a harsher sound; as thou shalt hear | |
| (If I deem rightly) ere thou reach the pass, | |
| Where pardon sets them free. But fix thine eyes | |
| Intently through the air; and thou shalt see | |
| A multitude before thee seated, each | 40 |
| Along the shelving grot.” Then more than erst | |
| I oped mine eyes; before me view’d; and saw | |
| Shadows with garments dark as was the rock; | |
| And when we pass’d a little forth, I heard | |
| A crying, “Blessed Mary! pray for us, | 45 |
| Michael and Peter! all ye saintly host!” | |
| I do not think there walks on earth this day | |
| Man so remorseless, that he had not yearn’d | |
| With pity at the sight that next I saw. | |
| Mine eyes a load of sorrow teem’d, when now | 50 |
| I stood so near them, that their semblances | |
| Came clearly to my view. Of sackcloth vile | |
| Their covering seem’d; and, on his shoulder, one | |
| Did stay another, leaning; and all lean’d | |
| Against the cliff. E’en thus the blind and poor, | 55 |
| Near the confessionals, to crave an alms, | |
| Stand, each his head upon his fellow’s sunk; | |
| So most to stir compassion, not by sound | |
| Of words alone, but that which moves not less, | |
| The sight of misery. And as never beam | 60 |
| Of noon-day visiteth the eyeless man, | |
| E’en so was heaven a niggard unto these | |
| Of his fair light: for, through the orbs of all, | |
| A thread of wire, impiercing, knits them up, | |
| As for the taming of a haggard hawk. | 65 |
| It were a wrong, methought, to pass and look | |
| On others, yet myself the while unseen. | |
| To my sage counsel therefore did I turn. | |
| He knew the meaning of the mute appeal, | |
| Nor waited for my questioning, but said: | 70 |
| “Speak; and be brief, be subtile in thy words.” | |
| On that part of the cornice, whence no rim | |
| Engarlands its steep fall, did Virgil come; | |
| On the other side me were the spirits, their cheeks | |
| Bathing devout with penitential tears, | 75 |
| That through the dread impalement forced a way. | |
| I turn’d me to them, and “O shades!” said I, | |
| “Assured that to your eyes unveil’d shall shine | |
| The lofty light, sole object of your wish, | |
| So may Heaven’s grace clear whatsoe’er of foam | 80 |
| Floats turbid on the conscience, that thenceforth | |
| The stream of mind roll limpid from its source; | |
| As ye declare (for so shall ye impart | |
| A boon I dearly prize) if any soul | |
| Of Latium dwell among ye: and perchance | 85 |
| That soul may profit, if I learn so much.” | |
| “My brother! we are, each one, citizens | |
| Of one true city. 2 Any, thou wouldst say, | |
| Who lived a stranger in Italia’s land.” | |
| So heard I answering, as appear’d, a voice | 90 |
| That onward came some space from whence I stood. | |
| A spirit I noted, in whose look was mark’d | |
| Expectance. Ask ye how? The chin was raised | |
| As in one reft of sight. “Spirit,” said I, | |
| “Who for thy rise art tutoring, (if thou be | 95 |
| That which didst answer to me), or by place, | |
| Or name, disclose thyself, thy I may know thee.” | |
| “I was,” it answer’d, “of Sienna: here | |
| I cleanse away with these the evil life, | |
| Soliciting with tears that He, who is, | 100 |
| Vouchsafe Him to us. Though Sapia 3 named, | |
| In sapience I excell’d not; gladder far | |
| Of other’s hurt, than of the good befell me. | |
| That thou mayst own I now deceive thee not, | |
| Hear, if my folly were not as I speak it. | 105 |
| When now my tears sloped waning down the arch, | |
| It so bechanced, my fellow-citizens | |
| Near Colle met their enemies in the field; | |
| And I pray’d God to grant what He had will’d. 4 | |
| There were they vanquish’d, and betook themselves | 110 |
| Unto the bitter passages of flight. | |
| I mark’d the hunt; and waxing out of bounds | |
| In gladness, lifted up my shameless brow, | |
| And, like the merlin 5 cheated by a gleam, | |
| Cried: ‘It is over. Heaven! I fear thee not.’ | 115 |
| Upon my verge of life I wish’d for peace | |
| With God; nor yet repentance had supplied | |
| What I did lack of duty, were it not | |
| The hermit Piero, 6 touch’d with charity, | |
| In his devout orisons though on me. | 120 |
| But who art thou that question’st of our state, | |
| Who go’st, as I believe, with lids unclosed, | |
| And breathest in thy talk?”—“Mine eyes,” said I, | |
| “May yet be here ta’en from me; but not long; | |
| For they have not offended grievously | 125 |
| With envious glances. But the woe beneath 7 | |
| Urges my soul with more exceeding dread. | |
| That nether load already weighs me down.” | |
| She thus: “Who then, amongst us here aloft, | |
| Hath brought thee, if thou weenest to return?” | 130 |
| “He,” answered I, “who standeth mute beside me. | |
| I live: of me ask therefore, chosen spirit! | |
| If thou desire I yonder yet should move | |
| For thee my mortal feet.”—“Oh!” she replied, | |
| “This is so strange a thing, it is great sign | 135 |
| That God doth love thee. Therefore with thy prayer | |
| Sometime assist me: and, by that I crave, | |
| Which most thou covetest, that if thy feet | |
| E’er tread on Tuscan soil, thou save my fame | |
| Amongst my kindred. Them shalt thou behold | 140 |
| With that vain multitude, 8 who set their hope | |
| On Telamone’s haven; there to fail | |
| Confounded, more than when the fancied stream | |
| They sought, of Dian call’d: but they, who lead | |
| Their navies, more than ruin’d hopes shall mourn.” | 145 |
