The divine comedy

by Dante Alighieri

CANTO XV

As much as ’twixt the third hour’s close and dawn,
Appeareth of heav’n’s sphere, that ever whirls
As restless as an infant in his play,
So much appear’d remaining to the sun
Of his slope journey towards the western goal.
Evening was there, and here the noon of night;
and full upon our forehead smote the beams.
For round the mountain, circling, so our path
Had led us, that toward the sun-set now
Direct we journey’d: when I felt a weight
Of more exceeding splendour, than before,
Press on my front. The cause unknown, amaze
Possess’d me, and both hands against my brow
Lifting, I interpos’d them, as a screen,
That of its gorgeous superflux of light
Clipp’d the diminish’d orb. As when the ray,
Striking On water or the surface clear
Of mirror, leaps unto the opposite part,
Ascending at a glance, e’en as it fell,
(And so much differs from the stone, that falls)
Through equal space, as practice skill hath shown;
Thus with refracted light before me seemed
The ground there smitten; whence in sudden haste
My sight recoil’d. “What is this, sire belov’d!
’Gainst which I strive to shield the sight in vain?”
Cried I, “and which towards us moving seems?”
“Marvel not, if the family of heav’n,”
He answer’d, “yet with dazzling radiance dim
Thy sense it is a messenger who comes,
Inviting man’s ascent. Such sights ere long,
Not grievous, shall impart to thee delight,
As thy perception is by nature wrought
Up to their pitch.” The blessed angel, soon
As we had reach’d him, hail’d us with glad voice:
“Here enter on a ladder far less steep
Than ye have yet encounter’d.” We forthwith
Ascending, heard behind us chanted sweet,
“Blessed the merciful,” and “happy thou!
That conquer’st.” Lonely each, my guide and I
Pursued our upward way; and as we went,
Some profit from his words I hop’d to win,
And thus of him inquiring, fram’d my speech:
“What meant Romagna’s spirit, when he spake
Of bliss exclusive with no partner shar’d?”
He straight replied: “No wonder, since he knows,
What sorrow waits on his own worst defect,
If he chide others, that they less may mourn.
Because ye point your wishes at a mark,
Where, by communion of possessors, part
Is lessen’d, envy bloweth up the sighs of men.
No fear of that might touch ye, if the love
Of higher sphere exalted your desire.
For there, by how much more they call it ours,
So much propriety of each in good
Increases more, and heighten’d charity
Wraps that fair cloister in a brighter flame.”
“Now lack I satisfaction more,” said I,
“Than if thou hadst been silent at the first,
And doubt more gathers on my lab’ring thought.
How can it chance, that good distributed,
The many, that possess it, makes more rich,
Than if ’t were shar’d by few?” He answering thus:
“Thy mind, reverting still to things of earth,
Strikes darkness from true light. The highest good
Unlimited, ineffable, doth so speed
To love, as beam to lucid body darts,
Giving as much of ardour as it finds.
The sempiternal effluence streams abroad
Spreading, wherever charity extends.
So that the more aspirants to that bliss
Are multiplied, more good is there to love,
And more is lov’d; as mirrors, that reflect,
Each unto other, propagated light.
If these my words avail not to allay
Thy thirsting, Beatrice thou shalt see,
Who of this want, and of all else thou hast,
Shall rid thee to the full. Provide but thou
That from thy temples may be soon eras’d,
E’en as the two already, those five scars,
That when they pain thee worst, then kindliest heal,”
“Thou,” I had said, “content’st me,” when I saw
The other round was gain’d, and wond’ring eyes
Did keep me mute. There suddenly I seem’d
By an ecstatic vision wrapt away;
And in a temple saw, methought, a crowd
Of many persons; and at th’ entrance stood
A dame, whose sweet demeanour did express
A mother’s love, who said, “Child! why hast thou
Dealt with us thus? Behold thy sire and I
Sorrowing have sought thee;” and so held her peace,
And straight the vision fled. A female next
Appear’d before me, down whose visage cours’d
Those waters, that grief forces out from one
By deep resentment stung, who seem’d to say:
“If thou, Pisistratus, be lord indeed
Over this city, nam’d with such debate
Of adverse gods, and whence each science sparkles,
Avenge thee of those arms, whose bold embrace
Hath clasp’d our daughter; “and to fuel, meseem’d,
Benign and meek, with visage undisturb’d,
Her sovran spake: “How shall we those requite,
Who wish us evil, if we thus condemn
The man that loves us?” After that I saw
A multitude, in fury burning, slay
With stones a stripling youth, and shout amain
“Destroy, destroy!” and him I saw, who bow’d
Heavy with death unto the ground, yet made
His eyes, unfolded upward, gates to heav’n,

Praying forgiveness of th’ Almighty Sire,
Amidst that cruel conflict, on his foes,
With looks, that With compassion to their aim.
Soon as my spirit, from her airy flight
Returning, sought again the things, whose truth
Depends not on her shaping, I observ’d
How she had rov’d to no unreal scenes
Meanwhile the leader, who might see I mov’d,
As one, who struggles to shake off his sleep,
Exclaim’d: “What ails thee, that thou canst not hold
Thy footing firm, but more than half a league
Hast travel’d with clos’d eyes and tott’ring gait,
Like to a man by wine or sleep o’ercharg’d?”
“Beloved father! so thou deign,” said I,
“To listen, I will tell thee what appear’d
Before me, when so fail’d my sinking steps.”
He thus: “Not if thy Countenance were mask’d
With hundred vizards, could a thought of thine
How small soe’er, elude me. What thou saw’st
Was shown, that freely thou mightst ope thy heart
To the waters of peace, that flow diffus’d
From their eternal fountain. I not ask’d,
What ails thee? for such cause as he doth, who
Looks only with that eye which sees no more,
When spiritless the body lies; but ask’d,
To give fresh vigour to thy foot. Such goads
The slow and loit’ring need; that they be found
Not wanting, when their hour of watch returns.”
So on we journey’d through the evening sky
Gazing intent, far onward, as our eyes
With level view could stretch against the bright
Vespertine ray: and lo! by slow degrees
Gath’ring, a fog made tow’rds us, dark as night.
There was no room for ’scaping; and that mist
Bereft us, both of sight and the pure air.

CANTO XVI

Hell’s dunnest gloom, or night unlustrous, dark,
Of every planes ’reft, and pall’d in clouds,
Did never spread before the sight a veil
In thickness like that fog, nor to the sense
So palpable and gross. Ent’ring its shade,
Mine eye endured not with unclosed lids;
Which marking, near me drew the faithful guide,
Offering me his shoulder for a stay.
As the blind man behind his leader walks,
Lest he should err, or stumble unawares
On what might harm him, or perhaps destroy,
I journey’d through that bitter air and foul,
Still list’ning to my escort’s warning voice,
“Look that from me thou part not.” Straight I heard
Voices, and each one seem’d to pray for peace,
And for compassion, to the Lamb of God
That taketh sins away. Their prelude still
Was “Agnus Dei,” and through all the choir,
One voice, one measure ran, that perfect seem’d
The concord of their song. “Are these I hear
Spirits, O master?” I exclaim’d; and he:
“Thou aim’st aright: these loose the bonds of wrath.”

“Now who art thou, that through our smoke dost cleave?
And speak’st of us, as thou thyself e’en yet
Dividest time by calends?” So one voice
Bespake me; whence my master said: “Reply;
And ask, if upward hence the passage lead.”
“O being! who dost make thee pure, to stand
Beautiful once more in thy Maker’s sight!
Along with me: and thou shalt hear and wonder.”
Thus I, whereto the spirit answering spake:

“Long as ’t is lawful for me, shall my steps
Follow on thine; and since the cloudy smoke
Forbids the seeing, hearing in its stead
Shall keep us join’d.” I then forthwith began
“Yet in my mortal swathing, I ascend
To higher regions, and am hither come
Through the fearful agony of hell.
And, if so largely God hath doled his grace,
That, clean beside all modern precedent,
He wills me to behold his kingly state,
From me conceal not who thou wast, ere death
Had loos’d thee; but instruct me: and instruct
If rightly to the pass I tend; thy words
The way directing as a safe escort.”
“I was of Lombardy, and Marco call’d:
Not inexperienc’d of the world, that worth
I still affected, from which all have turn’d
The nerveless bow aside. Thy course tends right
Unto the summit:” and, replying thus,
He added, “I beseech thee pray for me,
When thou shalt come aloft.” And I to him:
“Accept my faith for pledge I will perform
What thou requirest. Yet one doubt remains,
That wrings me sorely, if I solve it not,
Singly before it urg’d me, doubled now
By thine opinion, when I couple that
With one elsewhere declar’d, each strength’ning other.
The world indeed is even so forlorn
Of all good as thou speak’st it and so swarms
With every evil. Yet, beseech thee, point
The cause out to me, that myself may see,
And unto others show it: for in heaven
One places it, and one on earth below.”
Then heaving forth a deep and audible sigh,
“Brother!” he thus began, “the world is blind;
And thou in truth com’st from it. Ye, who live,
Do so each cause refer to heav’n above,
E’en as its motion of necessity
Drew with it all that moves. If this were so,
Free choice in you were none; nor justice would
There should be joy for virtue, woe for ill.
Your movements have their primal bent from heaven;
Not all; yet said I all; what then ensues?
Light have ye still to follow evil or good,
And of the will free power, which, if it stand
Firm and unwearied in Heav’n’s first assay,
Conquers at last, so it be cherish’d well,
Triumphant over all. To mightier force,
To better nature subject, ye abide
Free, not constrain’d by that, which forms in you
The reasoning mind uninfluenc’d of the stars.
If then the present race of mankind err,
Seek in yourselves the cause, and find it there.
Herein thou shalt confess me no false spy.
“Forth from his plastic hand, who charm’d beholds
Her image ere she yet exist, the soul
Comes like a babe, that wantons sportively
Weeping and laughing in its wayward moods,
As artless and as ignorant of aught,
Save that her Maker being one who dwells
With gladness ever, willingly she turns
To whate’er yields her joy. Of some slight good
The flavour soon she tastes; and, snar’d by that,
With fondness she pursues it, if no guide
Recall, no rein direct her wand’ring course.
Hence it behov’d, the law should be a curb;
A sovereign hence behov’d, whose piercing view
Might mark at least the fortress and main tower
Of the true city. Laws indeed there are:
But who is he observes them? None; not he,
Who goes before, the shepherd of the flock,
Who chews the cud but doth not cleave the hoof.
Therefore the multitude, who see their guide
Strike at the very good they covet most,
Feed there and look no further. Thus the cause
Is not corrupted nature in yourselves,
But ill-conducting, that hath turn’d the world
To evil. Rome, that turn’d it unto good,
Was wont to boast two suns, whose several beams
Cast light on either way, the world’s and God’s.
One since hath quench’d the other; and the sword
Is grafted on the crook; and so conjoin’d
Each must perforce decline to worse, unaw’d
By fear of other. If thou doubt me, mark
The blade: each herb is judg’d of by its seed.
That land, through which Adice and the Po
Their waters roll, was once the residence
Of courtesy and velour, ere the day,
That frown’d on Frederick; now secure may pass
Those limits, whosoe’er hath left, for shame,
To talk with good men, or come near their haunts.
Three aged ones are still found there, in whom
The old time chides the new: these deem it long
Ere God restore them to a better world:
The good Gherardo, of Palazzo he
Conrad, and Guido of Castello, nam’d
In Gallic phrase more fitly the plain Lombard.
On this at last conclude. The church of Rome,
Mixing two governments that ill assort,
Hath miss’d her footing, fall’n into the mire,
And there herself and burden much defil’d.”
“O Marco!” I replied, shine arguments
Convince me: and the cause I now discern
Why of the heritage no portion came
To Levi’s offspring. But resolve me this
Who that Gherardo is, that as thou sayst
Is left a sample of the perish’d race,
And for rebuke to this untoward age?”
“Either thy words,” said he, “deceive; or else
Are meant to try me; that thou, speaking Tuscan,
Appear’st not to have heard of good Gherado;
The sole addition that, by which I know him;
Unless I borrow’d from his daughter Gaia
Another name to grace him. God be with you.
I bear you company no more. Behold
The dawn with white ray glimm’ring through the mist.
I must away—the angel comes—ere he
Appear.” He said, and would not hear me more.