DANTE'S PURGATORIO.
CANTO FOURTH.
This Canto, being somewhat abstruse, was passed over at its due place in the series of these translations. As its omission has been regretted by some students of Dante, it has been thought best to publish it now, although the first portion of it may seem a little difficult to any but a mathematical reader. Perhaps its dryness may be somewhat relieved at the close by the humorous picture of the lazy sinner Belacqua, which is the first slight touch of the comic in this most grave comedy, and here for the first time Dante confesses to a smile.
Whene'er the mind, from any joy or pain
In any faculty, to that alone
Bends its whole force, its other powers remain
Unexercised, it seems (whereby is shown
Plain contradiction of th' erroneous view
Which holds within us kindled several souls).
Hence, when we hear or see a thing whereto
The mind is strongly drawn, unheeded rolls
The passing hour; the man observes it not:
That power is one whereby we hear or see,
And that another which absorbs our thought;
This being chained, as 'twere—the former free.
A real experience of this truth had I,
Listening that soul with wonder at such force,
For now the sun full fifty degrees high
Had risen without my noticing his course,
When came we where the spirits, with one voice all,
Cried out to us, "Behold the place ye seek!"
A wider opening oft, in hedge or wall,
Some farmer, when the grape first browns its cheek,
Stops with one forkful of his brambles thrown,
Than was the narrow pass whereby my Guide
Began to climb, I following on alone,
While from our way I saw those wanderers glide.
A man may climb St. Leo, or descend
The steeps of Noli, or Bismantua's height
Scale to the top, and on his feet depend;
Here one should fly! I mean he needs the light
Pinions and plumage of a strong desire,
Under such leadership as gave me hope
And lighted me my way. Advancing higher
In through the broken rock, it left no scope
On either side, but cramped us close; the ledge
O'er which we crept required both feet and hands.
When we had toiled up to the utmost edge
Of the high bank, where the clear coast expands,
"Which way," said I, "my Master, shall we take?"
And he to me, "Let not thy foot fall back;
Still follow me, and for the mountain make,
Until some guide appear who knows the track."
Its top sight reached not, and the hillside rose
With far more salient angle than the line
That from half-quadrant to the centre goes.
Most weary was I: "Gentle Father mine,"
I thus broke silence, "turn and see that if
Thou stay not for me, I remain alone."
"Struggle, my son, as far as yonder cliff,"
He said, and pointed upwards to a zone
Terracing all the mountain on that side.
His word so spurred me that I forced myself
And clambered on still close behind my Guide
Until my feet were on that girdling shelf.
Here we sat down and turned our faces towards
The East, from which point we had made ascent
(For looking back on toil some rest affords);
And on the low shore first mine eyes I bent,
Then raised them sunward, wondering as I gazed
How his light smote us from the left. While thus
I stared, he marked how I beheld amazed
Day's chariot entering 'twixt the North and us.
"Were yonder mirror now," the Poet said,
"That with his light leads up and down the spheres,
In Castor and Pollux, thou wouldst see the red
Zodiac revolving closer to the Bears,
If it swerved nothing from its ancient course;
Which fact to fathom wouldst thou power command,
Imagine, with thy mind's collected force,
This mount and Zion so on earth to stand
That though in adverse hemispheres, the twain
One sole horizon have: thence 'tis not hard
To see (if clear thine intellect remain)
How the Sun's road—which Phaeton, ill-starred,
Knew not to keep—must pass that mountain o'er
On one, and this hill on the other side."
"Certes, my Master,—ne'er saw I before
So clear as at this moment," I replied
(Where seemed but now my understanding maimed),
"How the mid-circle of the heavenly spheres
And of their movements—the Equator named
In special term of art—which never veers
From its old course, 'twixt winter and the Sun,
Yet for the reason thou dost now assign,
Towards the Septentrion from this point doth run,
While to the Jews it bore a South decline.
But if it please thee, gladly would I learn
How far we have to journey; for so high
This hill soars that mine eyes cannot discern
The top thereof." He made me this reply:
"Such is this mountain that for one below
The first ascent is evermore severe,
It grows less painful higher as we go.
So when to thee it pleasant shall appear
That no more toil thy climbing shall attend
Than to sail down the way the current flows,
Then art thou near unto thy pathway's end;
There from thy labor look to find repose.
I know that this is true, but say no more."
And this word uttered, not far off addressed
Me thus a voice: "It may be that before
That pass, thou wilt have need to sit and rest."
At sound thereof we both looked round, and there
Beheld a huge rock, close to our left hand,
Whereof till now we had not been aware.
Thither we toiled, and in its shade a band
Behind it stood with a neglectful air,
As men in idleness are wont to stand.
BELACQUA THE SLUGGARD.
And one was seated, hanging down his face
Between his knees, which he with languid limb,
Looking exhausted, held in his embrace.
"O my sweet Seignior!" I exclaimed, "note him!
Lazier-looking than had laziness been
His sister-born." Turning towards us, at length
He gazed, slow lifting o'er his thigh his chin,
And drawled, "Go up, then, thou who hast such strength."
I knew who that was then; and though the ascent
Had made me pant somewhat, I kept my pace,
Spite of short breath: close up to him I went,
And he droned forth, scarce lifting up his face,
"Hast thou found out yet how the Sun this way
O'er thy left shoulder doth his chariot guide?"
His sloth, and what few words he had to say,
Made me smile slightly, and I thus replied:
"No more, Belacqua, do I mourn thy fate;
But tell me wherefore in this place I see
Thee sitting thus? Dost thou for escort wait,
Or has thy old slow habit seized on thee?"