| |
| ON the green leaf mine eyes were fix’d, like his | |
| Who throws away his days in idle chase | |
| Of the diminutive birds, when thus I heard | |
| The more than father warn me: “Son! our time | |
| Asks thriftier using. Linger not: away!” | 5 |
| Thereat my face and steps at once I turn’d | |
| Toward the sages, by whose converse cheer’d | |
| I journey’d on, and felt no toil: and lo! | |
| A sound of weeping, and a song: “My lips, 1 | |
| O Lord!” and these so mingled, it gave birth | 10 |
| To pleasure and to pain. “O Sire beloved! | |
| Say what is this I hear.” Thus I inquired. | |
| “Spirits,” said he, “who, as they go, perchance, | |
| Their debt of duty pay.” As on their road | |
| The thoughtful pilgrims, overtaking some | 15 |
| Not known unto them, turn to them, and look, | |
| But stay not; thus, approaching from behind | |
| With speedier motion, eyed us, as they pass’d, | |
| A crowd of spirits, silent and devout. | |
| The eyes of each were dark and hollow; pale | 20 |
| Their visage, and so lean withal, the bones | |
| Stood staring through the skin. I do not think | |
| Thus dry and meagre Erisichthon show’d, | |
| When pinch’d by sharp-set famine to the quick. | |
| “Lo!” to myself I mused, “the race, who lost | 25 |
| Jerusalem, when Mary with dire beak | |
| Prey’d on her child.” The sockets seem’d as rings, | |
| From which the gems were dropt. Who reads the name 2 | |
| Of man upon his forehead, there the M | |
| Had traced most plainly. Who would deem, that scent | 30 |
| Of water and an apple could have proved | |
| Powerful to generate such pining want, | |
| Not knowing how it wrought? While now I stood, | |
| Wondering what thus could waste them, (for the cause | |
| Of their gaunt hollowness and scaly rind | 35 |
| Appear’d not,) lo! a spirit turn’d his eyes | |
| In their deep-sunken cells, and fasten’d them | |
| On me, then cried with vehemence aloud: | |
| “What grace is this vouchsafed me?” By his looks | |
| I ne’er had recognized him: but the voice | 40 |
| Brought to my knowledge what his cheer conceal’d. | |
| Remembrance of his alter’d lineaments | |
| Was kindled from that spark; and I agnized | |
| The visage of Forese. 3 “Ah! respect | |
| This wan and leprous-wither’d skin,” thus he | 45 |
| Suppliant implored, “this macerated flesh. | |
| Speak to me truly of thyself. And who | |
| Are those twain spirits, that escort thee there? | |
| Be it not said thou scorn’st to talk with me.” | |
| “That face of thine,” I answer’d him, “which dead | 50 |
| I once bewail’d, disposes me not less | |
| For weeping, when I see it thus transform’d. | |
| Say then, by Heaven, what blasts ye thus? The whilst | |
| I wonder, ask not speech from me: unapt | |
| Is he to speak, whom other will employs.” | 55 |
| He thus: “The water and the plant, we pass’d | |
| With power are gifted, by the eternal will | |
| Infused; the which so pines me. Every spirit, | |
| Whose song bewails his gluttony indulged | |
| Too grossly, here in hunger and in thirst | 60 |
| Is purified. The odour, which the fruit, | |
| And spray that showers upon the verdure, breathe, | |
| Inflames us with desire to feed and drink. | |
| Nor once alone, encompassing our route, | |
| We come to add fresh fuel to the pain: | 65 |
| Pain, said I? solace rather: for that will, | |
| To the tree, leads us, by which Christ was led | |
| To call on Eli, joyful, when he paid | |
| Our ransom from his vein.” I answering thus: | |
| “Forese! from that day, in which the world | 70 |
| For better life thou changedst, not five years | |
| Have circled. If the power of sinning more | |
| Were first concluded in thee, ere thou knew’st | |
| That kindly grief which re-espouses us | |
| To God, how hither art thou, come so soon? | 75 |
| I thought to find thee lower, 4 there, where time | |
| Is recompense for time.” He straight replied: | |
| “To drink up the sweet wormwood of affliction | |
| I have been brought thus early, by the tears | |
| Stream’d down my Nella’s cheeks. Her prayers devout, | 80 |
| Her sighs have drawn me from the coast, 5 where oft | |
| Expectance lingers; and have set me free | |
| From the other circles. In the sight of God | |
| So much the dearer is my widow prized, | |
| She whom I loved so fondly, as she ranks | 85 |
| More singly eminent for virtuous deeds. | |
| The tract, most barbarous of Sardinia’s isle, 6 | |
| Hath dames more chaste, and modester by far, | |
| Than that wherein I left her. O sweet brother! | |
| What wouldst thou have me say? A time to come | 90 |
| Stands full within my view, to which this hour | |
| Shall not be counted of an ancient date, | |
| When from the pulpit shall be loudly warn’d | |
| The unblushing dames of Florence, lest they bare | |
| Unkerchief’d bosoms to the common gaze. | 95 |
| What savage women hath the world e’er seen, | |
| What Saracens, 7 for whom there needed scourge | |
| Of spiritual or other discipline, | |
| To force them walk with covering on their limbs? | |
| But did they see, the shameless ones, what Heaven | 100 |
| Wafts on swift wing toward them while I speak, | |
| Their mouths were oped for howling: they shall taste | |
| Of sorrow (unless foresight cheat me here), | |
| Or e’er the cheek of him be clothed with down, | |
| Who is now rock’d with lullaby asleep. | 105 |
| Ah! now, my brother, hide thyself no more: | |
| Thou seest how not I alone, but all, | |
| Gaze, where thou veil’st the intercepted sun.” | |
| Whence I replied: “If thou recall to mind | |
| What we were once together, even yet | 110 |
| Remembrance of those days may grieve thee sore. | |
| That I forsook that life, was due to him | |
| Who there precedes me, some few evenings past, | |
| When she was round, who shines with sister lamp | |
| To his that glisters yonder,” and I show’d | 115 |
| The sun. “’Tis. he, who through profoundest night | |
| Of the true dead has brought me, with this flesh | |
| As true, that follows. From that gloom the aid | |
| Of his sure comfort drew me on to climb, | |
| And, climbing, wind along this mountain-steep, | 120 |
| Which rectifies in you whate’er the world | |
| Made crooked and depraved. I have his word, | |
| That he will bear me company as far | |
| As till I come where Beatrice dwells: | |
| But there must leave me. Virgil is that spirit, | 125 |
| Who thus hath promised,” and I pointed to him; | |
| “The other is that shade, for whom so late | |
| Your realm, as he arose, exulting, shook | |
| Through every pendent cliff and rocky bound.” | |
