| |
| THEM sudden flight had scatter’d o’er the plain, | |
| Turn’d toward the mountain, whither reason’s voice | |
| Drives us: I, to my faithful company | |
| Adhering, left it not. For how, of him | |
| Deprived, might I have sped? or who, beside, | 5 |
| Would o’er the mountainous tract have led my steps? | |
| He, with the bitter pang of self-remorse, | |
| Seem’d smitten. O clear conscience, and upright! | |
| How doth a little failing wound thee sore. | |
| Soon as his feet desisted (slackening pace) | 10 |
| From haste, that mars all decency of act, | |
| My mind, that in itself before was wrapt, | |
| Its thought expanded, as with joy restored; | |
| And full against the steep ascent I set | |
| My face, where highest to Heaven its top o’erflows. | 15 |
| The sun, that flared behind, with ruddy beam | |
| Before my form was broken; for in me | |
| His rays resistance met. I turn’d aside | |
| With fear of being left, when I beheld | |
| Only before myself the ground obscured. | 20 |
| When thus my solace, turning him around, | |
| Bespake me kindly: “Why distrustest thou? | |
| Believest not I am with thee, thy sure guide? | |
| It now is evening there, where buried lies | |
| The body in which I cast a shade, removed | 25 |
| To Naples 1 from Brundusium’s wall. Nor thou | |
| Marvel, if before me no shadow fall, | |
| More than that in the skyey element | |
| One ray obstructs not other. To endure | |
| Torments of heat and cold extreme, like frames | 30 |
| That virtue hath disposed, which, how it works, | |
| Wills not to us should be reveal’d. Insane, | |
| Who hopes our reason may that space explore, | |
| Which holds three persons in one substance knit. | |
| Seek not the wherefore, race of human kind; | 35 |
| Could ye have seen the whole, no need had been | |
| For Mary to bring forth. Moreover, ye | |
| Have seen such men desiring fruitlessly; | |
| To whose desires, repose would have been given, | |
| That now but serve them for eternal grief. | 40 |
| I speak of Plato, and the Stagirite, | |
| And others many more.” And then he bent | |
| Downward his forehead, and in troubled mood | |
| Broke off his speech. Meanwhile we had arrived | |
| Far as the mountain’s foot, and there the rock | 45 |
| Found of so steep ascent, that nimblest steps | |
| To climb it had been vain. The most remote, | |
| Most wild, untrodden path, in all the tract | |
| ’Twixt Lerice and Turbia, 2 were to this | |
| A ladder easy and open of access. | 50 |
| “Who knows on which hand now the steep declines?” | |
| My master said, and paused; “so that he may | |
| Ascend, who journeys without aid of wing?” | |
| And while, with looks directed to the ground, | |
| The meaning of the pathway he explored, | 55 |
| And I gazed upward round the stony height; | |
| On the left hand appear’d to us a troop | |
| Of spirits, that toward us moved their steps; | |
| Yet moving seem’d not, they so slow approach’d. | |
| I thus my guide address’d: “Upraise thine eyes: | 60 |
| Lo! that way some, of whom thou mayst obtain | |
| Counsel, if of thyself thou find’st it not.” | |
| Straightway he look’d, and with free speech replied: | |
| “Let us tend thither: they but softly come. | |
| And thou be firm in hope, my son beloved.” | 65 |
| Now was that crowd from us distant as far, | |
| (When we some thousand steps, I say, had past,) | |
| As at a throw the nervous arm could fling; | |
| When all drew backward on the massy crags | |
| Of the steep bank, and firmly stood unmoved, | 70 |
| As one, who walks in doubt, might stand to look. | |
| “O spirits perfect! O already chosen!” | |
| Virgil to them began: “by that blest peace, | |
| Which, as I deem, is for you all prepared, | |
| Instruct us where the mountain low declines, | 75 |
| So that attempt to mount it be not vain. | |
| For who knows most, him loss of time most grieves.” | |
| As sheep, that step from forth their fold, by one, | |
| Or pairs, or three at once; meanwhile the rest | |
| Stand fearfully, bending the eye and nose | 80 |
| To ground, and what the foremost does, that do | |
| The others, gathering round her if she stops, | |
| Simple and quiet, nor the cause discern; | |
| So saw I moving to advance the first, | |
| Who of that fortunate crew were at the head, | 85 |
| Of modest mien, and graceful in their gait. | |
| When they before me had beheld the light | |
| From my right side fall broken on the ground, | |
| So that the shadow reach’d the cave; they stopp’d, | |
| And somewhat back retired: the same did all | 90 |
| Who follow’d though unweeting of the cause. | |
| “Unask’d of you, yet freely I confess, | |
| This is a human body which ye see. | |
| That the sun’s light is broken on the ground, | |
| Marvel not; but believe, that not without | 95 |
| Virtue derived from Heaven, we to climb | |
| Over this wall aspire.” So them bespake | |
| My master; and that virtuous tribe rejoin’d: | |
| “Turn, and before you there the entrance lies;” | |
| Making a signal to us with bent hands. | 100 |
| Then of them one began. “Whoe’er thou art, | |
| Who journey’st thus this way, thy visage turn; | |
| Think if me elsewhere thou hast ever seen.” | |
| I toward him turn’d, and with fix’d eye beheld. | |
| Comely and fair, and gentle of aspect | 105 |
| He seem’d, but on one brow a gash was mark’d. | |
| When humbly I disclaim’d to have beheld | |
| Him ever: “Now behold!” he said, and show’d | |
| High on his breast a wound: then smiling spake. | |
| “I am Manfredi, 3 grandson to the Queen | 110 |
| Costanza: 4 whence I pray thee, when return’d, | |
| To my fair daughter 5 go, the parent glad | |
| Of Aragonia and Sicilia’s pride; | |
| And of the truth inform her, if of me | |
| Aught else be told. When by two mortal blows | 115 |
| My frame was shatter’d, I betook myself | |
| Weeping to Him, who of free will forgives. | |
| My sins were horrible: but so wide arms | |
| Hath goodness infinite, that it receives | |
| All who turn to it. Had this text divine | 120 |
| Been of Cosenza’s shepherd better scann’d, | |
| Who then by Clement 6 on my hunt was set, | |
| Yet at the bridge’s head my bones had lain, | |
| Near Benevento, by the heavy mole | |
| Protected; but the rain now drenches them, | 125 |
| And the wind drives, out of the kingdom’s bounds, | |
| Far as the stream of Verde, 7 where, with lights | |
| Extinguish’d, he removed them from their bed. | |
| Yet by their curse we are not so destroy’d, | |
| But that the eternal love may turn, while hope | 130 |
| Retains her verdant blossom. True it is, | |
| That such one as in contumacy dies | |
| Against the holy Church, though he repent, | |
| Must wander thirty-fold for all the time | |
| In his presumption past: if such decree | 135 |
| Be not by prayers of good men shorter made. | |
| Look therefore if thou canst advance my bliss; | |
| Revealing to my good Costanza, how | |
| Thou hast beheld me, and beside, the terms | |
| Laid on me of that interdict; for here | 140 |
| By means of those below much profit comes.” | |
