The divine comedy

by Dante Alighieri

Grasp’d in his hand a naked sword, glanc’d back
The rays so toward me, that I oft in vain
My sight directed. “Speak from whence ye stand:”
He cried: “What would ye? Where is your escort?
Take heed your coming upward harm ye not.”
“A heavenly dame, not skilless of these things,”
Replied the’ instructor, “told us, even now,
‘Pass that way: here the gate is.”—“And may she
Befriending prosper your ascent,” resum’d
The courteous keeper of the gate: “Come then
Before our steps.” We straightway thither came.
The lowest stair was marble white so smooth
And polish’d, that therein my mirror’d form
Distinct I saw. The next of hue more dark
Than sablest grain, a rough and singed block,
Crack’d lengthwise and across. The third, that lay
Massy above, seem’d porphyry, that flam’d
Red as the life-blood spouting from a vein.
On this God’s angel either foot sustain’d,
Upon the threshold seated, which appear’d
A rock of diamond. Up the trinal steps
My leader cheerily drew me. “Ask,” said he,
“With humble heart, that he unbar the bolt.”
Piously at his holy feet devolv’d
I cast me, praying him for pity’s sake
That he would open to me: but first fell
Thrice on my bosom prostrate. Seven times
The letter, that denotes the inward stain,
He on my forehead with the blunted point
Of his drawn sword inscrib’d. And “Look,” he cried,
“When enter’d, that thou wash these scars away.”
Ashes, or earth ta’en dry out of the ground,
Were of one colour with the robe he wore.
From underneath that vestment forth he drew
Two keys of metal twain: the one was gold,
Its fellow silver. With the pallid first,
And next the burnish’d, he so ply’d the gate,
As to content me well. “Whenever one
Faileth of these, that in the keyhole straight
It turn not, to this alley then expect
Access in vain.” Such were the words he spake.
“One is more precious: but the other needs
Skill and sagacity, large share of each,
Ere its good task to disengage the knot
Be worthily perform’d. From Peter these
I hold, of him instructed, that I err
Rather in opening than in keeping fast;
So but the suppliant at my feet implore.”
Then of that hallow’d gate he thrust the door,
Exclaiming, “Enter, but this warning hear:
He forth again departs who looks behind.”
As in the hinges of that sacred ward
The swivels turn’d, sonorous metal strong,
Harsh was the grating; nor so surlily
Roar’d the Tarpeian, when by force bereft
Of good Metellus, thenceforth from his loss
To leanness doom’d. Attentively I turn’d,
List’ning the thunder, that first issued forth;
And “We praise thee, O God,” methought I heard
In accents blended with sweet melody.
The strains came o’er mine ear, e’en as the sound
Of choral voices, that in solemn chant
With organ mingle, and, now high and clear,
Come swelling, now float indistinct away.

CANTO X

When we had passed the threshold of the gate
(Which the soul’s ill affection doth disuse,
Making the crooked seem the straighter path),
I heard its closing sound. Had mine eyes turn’d,
For that offence what plea might have avail’d?
We mounted up the riven rock, that wound
On either side alternate, as the wave
Flies and advances. “Here some little art
Behooves us,” said my leader, “that our steps
Observe the varying flexure of the path.”
Thus we so slowly sped, that with cleft orb
The moon once more o’erhangs her wat’ry couch,
Ere we that strait have threaded. But when free
We came and open, where the mount above
One solid mass retires, I spent, with toil,
And both, uncertain of the way, we stood,
Upon a plain more lonesome, than the roads
That traverse desert wilds. From whence the brink
Borders upon vacuity, to foot
Of the steep bank, that rises still, the space
Had measur’d thrice the stature of a man:
And, distant as mine eye could wing its flight,
To leftward now and now to right dispatch’d,
That cornice equal in extent appear’d.
Not yet our feet had on that summit mov’d,
When I discover’d that the bank around,
Whose proud uprising all ascent denied,
Was marble white, and so exactly wrought
With quaintest sculpture, that not there alone
Had Polycletus, but e’en nature’s self
Been sham’d. The angel who came down to earth
With tidings of the peace so many years
Wept for in vain, that op’d the heavenly gates
From their long interdict before us seem’d,
In a sweet act, so sculptur’d to the life,
He look’d no silent image. One had sworn
He had said, “Hail!” for she was imag’d there,
By whom the key did open to God’s love,
And in her act as sensibly impress
That word, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord,”
As figure seal’d on wax. “Fix not thy mind
On one place only,” said the guide belov’d,
Who had me near him on that part where lies
The heart of man. My sight forthwith I turn’d
And mark’d, behind the virgin mother’s form,
Upon that side, where he, that mov’d me, stood,
Another story graven on the rock.
I passed athwart the bard, and drew me near,
That it might stand more aptly for my view.
There in the self-same marble were engrav’d
The cart and kine, drawing the sacred ark,
That from unbidden office awes mankind.
Before it came much people; and the whole
Parted in seven quires. One sense cried, “Nay,”
Another, “Yes, they sing.” Like doubt arose
Betwixt the eye and smell, from the curl’d fume
Of incense breathing up the well-wrought toil.
Preceding the blest vessel, onward came
With light dance leaping, girt in humble guise,
Sweet Israel’s harper: in that hap he seem’d
Less and yet more than kingly. Opposite,
At a great palace, from the lattice forth
Look’d Michol, like a lady full of scorn
And sorrow. To behold the tablet next,
Which at the hack of Michol whitely shone,
I mov’d me. There was storied on the rock
The’ exalted glory of the Roman prince,
Whose mighty worth mov’d Gregory to earn
His mighty conquest, Trajan th’ Emperor.
A widow at his bridle stood, attir’d
In tears and mourning. Round about them troop’d
Full throng of knights, and overhead in gold
The eagles floated, struggling with the wind.

The wretch appear’d amid all these to say:
“Grant vengeance, sire! for, woe beshrew this heart
My son is murder’d.” He replying seem’d;
“Wait now till I return.” And she, as one
Made hasty by her grief; “O sire, if thou
Dost not return?”—“Where I am, who then is,
May right thee.”—“What to thee is other’s good,
If thou neglect thy own?”—“Now comfort thee,”
At length he answers. “It beseemeth well
My duty be perform’d, ere I move hence:
So justice wills; and pity bids me stay.”
He, whose ken nothing new surveys, produc’d
That visible speaking, new to us and strange
The like not found on earth. Fondly I gaz’d
Upon those patterns of meek humbleness,
Shapes yet more precious for their artist’s sake,
When “Lo,” the poet whisper’d, “where this way
(But slack their pace), a multitude advance.
These to the lofty steps shall guide us on.”
Mine eyes, though bent on view of novel sights
Their lov’d allurement, were not slow to turn.
Reader! I would not that amaz’d thou miss
Of thy good purpose, hearing how just God
Decrees our debts be cancel’d. Ponder not
The form of suff’ring. Think on what succeeds,
Think that at worst beyond the mighty doom
It cannot pass. “Instructor,” I began,
“What I see hither tending, bears no trace
Of human semblance, nor of aught beside
That my foil’d sight can guess.” He answering thus:
“So courb’d to earth, beneath their heavy teems
Of torment stoop they, that mine eye at first
Struggled as thine. But look intently thither,
An disentangle with thy lab’ring view,
What underneath those stones approacheth: now,
E’en now, mayst thou discern the pangs of each.”
Christians and proud! O poor and wretched ones!
That feeble in the mind’s eye, lean your trust
Upon unstaid perverseness! Know ye not
That we are worms, yet made at last to form
The winged insect, imp’d with angel plumes
That to heaven’s justice unobstructed soars?
Why buoy ye up aloft your unfleg’d souls?
Abortive then and shapeless ye remain,
Like the untimely embryon of a worm!
As, to support incumbent floor or roof,
For corbel is a figure sometimes seen,
That crumples up its knees unto its breast,
With the feign’d posture stirring ruth unfeign’d
In the beholder’s fancy; so I saw
These fashion’d, when I noted well their guise.
Each, as his back was laden, came indeed
Or more or less contract; but it appear’d
As he, who show’d most patience in his look,
Wailing exclaim’d: “I can endure no more.”

CANTO XI

“O thou Almighty Father, who dost make
The heavens thy dwelling, not in bounds confin’d,
But that with love intenser there thou view’st
Thy primal effluence, hallow’d be thy name:
Join each created being to extol
Thy might, for worthy humblest thanks and praise
Is thy blest Spirit. May thy kingdom’s peace
Come unto us; for we, unless it come,
With all our striving thither tend in vain.
As of their will the angels unto thee
Tender meet sacrifice, circling thy throne
With loud hosannas, so of theirs be done
By saintly men on earth. Grant us this day
Our daily manna, without which he roams
Through this rough desert retrograde, who most
Toils to advance his steps. As we to each
Pardon the evil done us, pardon thou
Benign, and of our merit take no count.
’Gainst the old adversary prove thou not
Our virtue easily subdu’d; but free
From his incitements and defeat his wiles.
This last petition, dearest Lord! is made
Not for ourselves, since that were needless now,
But for their sakes who after us remain.”
Thus for themselves and us good speed imploring,
Those spirits went beneath a weight like that
We sometimes feel in dreams, all, sore beset,
But with unequal anguish, wearied all,
Round the first circuit, purging as they go,
The world’s gross darkness off: In our behalf
If there vows still be offer’d, what can here
For them be vow’d and done by such, whose wills
Have root of goodness in them? Well beseems
That we should help them wash away the stains
They carried hence, that so made pure and light,
They may spring upward to the starry spheres.
“Ah! so may mercy-temper’d justice rid
Your burdens speedily, that ye have power
To stretch your wing, which e’en to your desire
Shall lift you, as ye show us on which hand
Toward the ladder leads the shortest way.
And if there be more passages than one,
Instruct us of that easiest to ascend;
For this man who comes with me, and bears yet
The charge of fleshly raiment Adam left him,
Despite his better will but slowly mounts.”
From whom the answer came unto these words,
Which my guide spake, appear’d not; but ’twas said.
“Along the bank to rightward come with us,
And ye shall find a pass that mocks not toil
Of living man to climb: and were it not
That I am hinder’d by the rock, wherewith
This arrogant neck is tam’d, whence needs I stoop
My visage to the ground, him, who yet lives,
Whose name thou speak’st not him I fain would view.
To mark if e’er I knew him? and to crave
His pity for the fardel that I bear.
I was of Latiun, of a Tuscan horn
A mighty one: Aldobranlesco’s name
My sire’s, I know not if ye e’er have heard.
My old blood and forefathers’ gallant deeds
Made me so haughty, that I clean forgot
The common mother, and to such excess,
Wax’d in my scorn of all men, that I fell,
Fell therefore; by what fate Sienna’s sons,
Each child in Campagnatico, can tell.
I am Omberto; not me only pride
Hath injur’d, but my kindred all involv’d
In mischief with her. Here my lot ordains
Under this weight to groan, till I appease
God’s angry justice, since I did it not
Amongst the living, here amongst the dead.”
List’ning I bent my visage down: and one
(Not he who spake) twisted beneath the weight
That urg’d him, saw me, knew me straight, and call’d,
Holding his eyes With difficulty fix’d
Intent upon me, stooping as I went
Companion of their way. “O!” I exclaim’d,
“Art thou not Oderigi, art not thou
Agobbio’s glory, glory of that art
Which they of Paris call the limmer’s skill?”
“Brother!” said he, “with tints that gayer smile,
Bolognian Franco’s pencil lines the leaves.
His all the honour now; mine borrow’d light.
In truth I had not been thus courteous to him,
The whilst I liv’d, through eagerness of zeal
For that pre-eminence my heart was bent on.
Here of such pride the forfeiture is paid.
Nor were I even here; if, able still
To sin, I had not turn’d me unto God.
O powers of man! how vain your glory, nipp’d
E’en in its height of verdure, if an age
Less bright succeed not! Cimabue thought
To lord it over painting’s field; and now
The cry is Giotto’s, and his name eclips’d.
Thus hath one Guido from the other snatch’d
The letter’d prize: and he perhaps is born,
Who shall drive either from their nest. The noise
Of worldly fame is but a blast of wind,
That blows from divers points, and shifts its name
Shifting the point it blows from. Shalt thou more
Live in the mouths of mankind, if thy flesh
Part shrivel’d from thee, than if thou hadst died,
Before the coral and the pap were left,
Or ere some thousand years have passed? and that
Is, to eternity compar’d, a space,
Briefer than is the twinkling of an eye
To the heaven’s slowest orb. He there who treads
So leisurely before me, far and wide
Through Tuscany resounded once; and now
Is in Sienna scarce with whispers nam’d:
There was he sov’reign, when destruction caught
The madd’ning rage of Florence, in that day
Proud as she now is loathsome. Your renown
Is as the herb, whose hue doth come and go,
And his might withers it, by whom it sprang
Crude from the lap of earth.” I thus to him:
“True are thy sayings: to my heart they breathe
The kindly spirit of meekness, and allay
What tumours rankle there. But who is he
Of whom thou spak’st but now?”—“This,” he replied,
“Is Provenzano. He is here, because
He reach’d, with grasp presumptuous, at the sway
Of all Sienna. Thus he still hath gone,
Thus goeth never-resting, since he died.
Such is th’ acquittance render’d back of him,
Who, beyond measure, dar’d on earth.” I then:
“If soul that to the verge of life delays
Repentance, linger in that lower space,
Nor hither mount, unless good prayers befriend,
How chanc’d admittance was vouchsaf’d to him?”
“When at his glory’s topmost height,” said he,
“Respect of dignity all cast aside,
Freely He fix’d him on Sienna’s plain,
A suitor to redeem his suff’ring friend,
Who languish’d in the prison-house of Charles,
Nor for his sake refus’d through every vein
To tremble. More I will not say; and dark,
I know, my words are, but thy neighbours soon
Shall help thee to a comment on the text.
This is the work, that from these limits freed him.”

CANTO XII

With equal pace as oxen in the yoke,
I with that laden spirit journey’d on
Long as the mild instructor suffer’d me;
But when he bade me quit him, and proceed
(For “here,” said he, “behooves with sail and oars
Each man, as best he may, push on his bark”),
Upright, as one dispos’d for speed, I rais’d
My body, still in thought submissive bow’d.
I now my leader’s track not loth pursued;
And each had shown how light we far’d along
When thus he warn’d me: “Bend thine eyesight down:
For thou to ease the way shall find it good
To ruminate the bed beneath thy feet.”
As in memorial of the buried, drawn
Upon earth-level tombs, the sculptur’d form
Of what was once, appears (at sight whereof
Tears often stream forth by remembrance wak’d,
Whose sacred stings the piteous only feel),
So saw I there, but with more curious skill
Of portraiture o’erwrought, whate’er of space
From forth the mountain stretches. On one part
Him I beheld, above all creatures erst
Created noblest, light’ning fall from heaven:
On th’ other side with bolt celestial pierc’d
Briareus: cumb’ring earth he lay through dint
Of mortal ice-stroke. The Thymbraean god
With Mars, I saw, and Pallas, round their sire,
Arm’d still, and gazing on the giant’s limbs
Strewn o’er th’ ethereal field. Nimrod I saw:
At foot of the stupendous work he stood,
As if bewilder’d, looking on the crowd
Leagued in his proud attempt on Sennaar’s plain.
O Niobe! in what a trance of woe
Thee I beheld, upon that highway drawn,
Sev’n sons on either side thee slain! O Saul!
How ghastly didst thou look! on thine own sword
Expiring in Gilboa, from that hour
Ne’er visited with rain from heav’n or dew!