We soon approach’d it. O thou Lombard spirit!
How didst thou stand, in high abstracted mood,
Scarce moving with slow dignity thine eyes!
It spoke not aught, but let us onward pass,
Eyeing us as a lion on his watch.
I3ut Virgil with entreaty mild advanc’d,
Requesting it to show the best ascent.
It answer to his question none return’d,
But of our country and our kind of life
Demanded. When my courteous guide began,
“Mantua,” the solitary shadow quick
Rose towards us from the place in which it stood,
And cry’d, “Mantuan! I am thy countryman
Sordello.” Each the other then embrac’d.
Ah slavish Italy! thou inn of grief,
Vessel without a pilot in loud storm,
Lady no longer of fair provinces,
But brothel-house impure! this gentle spirit,
Ev’n from the Pleasant sound of his dear land
Was prompt to greet a fellow citizen
With such glad cheer; while now thy living ones
In thee abide not without war; and one
Malicious gnaws another, ay of those
Whom the same wall and the same moat contains,
Seek, wretched one! around thy sea-coasts wide;
Then homeward to thy bosom turn, and mark
If any part of the sweet peace enjoy.
What boots it, that thy reins Justinian’s hand
Befitted, if thy saddle be unpress’d?
Nought doth he now but aggravate thy shame.
Ah people! thou obedient still shouldst live,
And in the saddle let thy Caesar sit,
If well thou marked’st that which God commands
Look how that beast to felness hath relaps’d
From having lost correction of the spur,
Since to the bridle thou hast set thine hand,
O German Albert! who abandon’st her,
That is grown savage and unmanageable,
When thou should’st clasp her flanks with forked heels.
Just judgment from the stars fall on thy blood!
And be it strange and manifest to all!
Such as may strike thy successor with dread!
For that thy sire and thou have suffer’d thus,
Through greediness of yonder realms detain’d,
The garden of the empire to run waste.
Come see the Capulets and Montagues,
The Philippeschi and Monaldi! man
Who car’st for nought! those sunk in grief, and these
With dire suspicion rack’d. Come, cruel one!
Come and behold the’ oppression of the nobles,
And mark their injuries: and thou mayst see.
What safety Santafiore can supply.
Come and behold thy Rome, who calls on thee,
Desolate widow! day and night with moans:
“My Caesar, why dost thou desert my side?”
Come and behold what love among thy people:
And if no pity touches thee for us,
Come and blush for thine own report. For me,
If it be lawful, O Almighty Power,
Who wast in earth for our sakes crucified!
Are thy just eyes turn’d elsewhere? or is this
A preparation in the wond’rous depth
Of thy sage counsel made, for some good end,
Entirely from our reach of thought cut off?
So are the’ Italian cities all o’erthrong’d
With tyrants, and a great Marcellus made
Of every petty factious villager.
My Florence! thou mayst well remain unmov’d
At this digression, which affects not thee:
Thanks to thy people, who so wisely speed.
Many have justice in their heart, that long
Waiteth for counsel to direct the bow,
Or ere it dart unto its aim: but shine
Have it on their lip’s edge. Many refuse
To bear the common burdens: readier thine
Answer uneall’d, and cry, “Behold I stoop!”
Make thyself glad, for thou hast reason now,
Thou wealthy! thou at peace! thou wisdom-fraught!
Facts best witness if I speak the truth.
Athens and Lacedaemon, who of old
Enacted laws, for civil arts renown’d,
Made little progress in improving life
Tow’rds thee, who usest such nice subtlety,
That to the middle of November scarce
Reaches the thread thou in October weav’st.
How many times, within thy memory,
Customs, and laws, and coins, and offices
Have been by thee renew’d, and people chang’d!
If thou remember’st well and can’st see clear,
Thou wilt perceive thyself like a sick wretch,
Who finds no rest upon her down, hut oft
Shifting her side, short respite seeks from pain.
CANTO VII
After their courteous greetings joyfully
Sev’n times exchang’d, Sordello backward drew
Exclaiming, “Who are ye?” “Before this mount
By spirits worthy of ascent to God
Was sought, my bones had by Octavius’ care
Been buried. I am Virgil, for no sin
Depriv’d of heav’n, except for lack of faith.”
So answer’d him in few my gentle guide.
As one, who aught before him suddenly
Beholding, whence his wonder riseth, cries
“It is yet is not,” wav’ring in belief;
Such he appear’d; then downward bent his eyes,
And drawing near with reverential step,
Caught him, where of mean estate might clasp
His lord. “Glory of Latium!” he exclaim’d,
“In whom our tongue its utmost power display’d!
Boast of my honor’d birth-place! what desert
Of mine, what favour rather undeserv’d,
Shows thee to me? If I to hear that voice
Am worthy, say if from below thou com’st
And from what cloister’s pale?”—“Through every orb
Of that sad region,” he reply’d, “thus far
Am I arriv’d, by heav’nly influence led
And with such aid I come. There is a place
There underneath, not made by torments sad,
But by dun shades alone; where mourning’s voice
Sounds not of anguish sharp, but breathes in sighs.
There I with little innocents abide,
Who by death’s fangs were bitten, ere exempt
From human taint. There I with those abide,
Who the three holy virtues put not on,
But understood the rest, and without blame
Follow’d them all. But if thou know’st and canst,
Direct us, how we soonest may arrive,
Where Purgatory its true beginning takes.”