| |
| THE TEACHER ended, and his high discourse | |
| Concluding, earnest in my looks inquired | |
| If I appear’d content; and I, whom still | |
| Unsated thirst to hear him urged, was mute, | |
| Mute outwardly, yet inwardly I said: | 5 |
| “Perchance my too much questioning offends.” | |
| But he, true father, mark’d the secret wish | |
| By diffidence restrain’d; and, speaking, gave | |
| Me boldness thus to speak: “Master! my sight | |
| Gathers so lively virtue from thy beams, | 10 |
| That all, thy words convey, distinct is seen. | |
| Wherefore I pray thee, father, whom this heart | |
| Holds dearest, thou wouldst deign by proof t’ unfold | |
| That love, from which, as from their source, thou bring’st | |
| All good deeds and their opposite.” He then: | 15 |
| “To what I now disclose be thy clear ken | |
| Directed; and thou plainly shalt behold | |
| How much those blind have err’d, who make themselves | |
| The guides of men. The soul, created apt | |
| To love, moves versatile which way soe’er | 20 |
| Aught pleasing prompts her, soon as she is waked | |
| By pleasure into act. Of substance true | |
| Your apprehension forms its counterfeit; | |
| And, in you the ideal shape presenting, | |
| Attracts the soul’s regard. If she, thus drawn, | 25 |
| Incline toward it; love is that inclining, | |
| And a new nature knit by pleasure in ye. | |
| Then, as the fire points up, and mounting seeks | |
| His birth-place and his lasting seat, e’en thus | |
| Enters the captive soul into desire, | 30 |
| Which is a spiritual motion, that ne’er rests | |
| Before enjoyment of the thing it loves. | |
| Enough to show thee, how the truth from those | |
| Is hidden, who aver all love a thing | |
| Praiseworthy in itself; although perhaps | 35 |
| Its matter seem still good. Yet if the wax | |
| Be good, it follows not the impression must.” | |
| “What love is,” I return’d, “thy words, O guide! | |
| And my own docile mind, reveal. Yet thence | |
| New doubts have sprung. For, from without, if love | 40 |
| Be offered to us, and the spirit knows | |
| No other footing; tend she right or wrong, | |
| Is no desert of hers.” He answering thus: | |
| “What reason here discovers, I have power | |
| To show thee: that which lies beyond, expect | 45 |
| From Beatrice, faith not reason’s task. | |
| Spirit, substantial form, with matter join’d, | |
| Not in confusion mix’d, hath in itself | |
| Specific virtue of that union born, | |
| Which is not felt except it work, nor proved | 50 |
| But through effect, as vegetable life | |
| By the green leaf. From whence his intellect | |
| Deduced its primal notices of things, | |
| Man therefore knows not, or his appetites | |
| Their first affections; such in you, as zeal | 55 |
| In bees to gather honey; at the first, | |
| Volition, meriting nor blame nor praise. | |
| But o’er each lower faculty supreme, | |
| That, as she list, are summon’d to her bar, | |
| Ye have that virtue 1 in you, whose just voice | 60 |
| Uttereth counsel, and whose word should keep | |
| The threshold of assent. Here is the source, | |
| Whence cause of merit in you is derived; | |
| E’en as the affections, good or ill, she takes, | |
| Or severs, winnow’d as the chaff. Those men, 2 | 65 |
| Who, reasoning, went to depth profoundest, mark’d | |
| That innate freedom; and were thence induced | |
| To leave their moral teaching to the world. | |
| Grant then, that from necessity arise | |
| All love that glows within you; to dismiss | 70 |
| Or harbour it, the power is in yourselves. | |
| Remember, Beatrice, in her style, | |
| Denominates free choice by eminence | |
| The noble virtue; if in talk with thee | |
| She touch upon that theme.” The moon, well nigh | 75 |
| To midnight hour belated, made the stars | |
| Appear to wink and fade; and her broad disk | |
| Seem’d like a crag on fire, as up the vault 3 | |
| That course she journey’d, which the sun then warms | |
| When they of Rome behold him at his set | 80 |
| Betwixt Sardinia and the Corsic isle. | |
| And now the weight, that hung upon my thought, | |
| Was lighten’d by the aid of that clear spirit, | |
| Who raiseth Andes 4 above Mantua’s name. | |
| I therefore, when my questions had obtain’d | 85 |
| Solution plain and ample, stood as one | |
| Musing in dreamy slumber; but not long | |
| Slumber’d; for suddenly a multitude, | |
| The steep already turning from behind, | |
| Rush’d on. With fury and like random rout, | 90 |
| As echoing on their shores at midnight heard | |
| Ismenus and Asopus, 5 for his Thebes | |
| If Bacchus’ help were needed; so came these | |
| Tumultuous, curving each his rapid step, | |
| By eagerness impell’d of holy love. | 95 |
| Soon they o’ertook us; with such swiftness moved | |
| The mighty crowd. Two spirits at their head | |
| Cried, weeping, “Blessed Mary 6 sought with haste | |
| The hilly region. Cæsar, 7 to subdue | |
| Ilerda, darted in Marseilles his sting, | 100 |
| And flew to Spain.”—“Oh, tarry not: away!” | |
| The others shouted; “let not time be lost | |
| Through slackness of affection. Hearty zeal | |
| To serve reanimates celestial grace.” | |
| “O ye! in whom intenser fervency | 105 |
| Haply supplies, where lukewarm erst ye fail’d, | |
| Slow or neglectful, to absolve your part | |
| Of good and virtuous; this man, who yet lives, | |
| (Credit my tale, though strange,) desires to ascend, | |
| So morning rise to light us. Therefore say | 110 |
| Which hand leads nearest to the rifted rock.” | |
| So spake my guide; to whom a shade return’d: | |
| “Come after us, and thou shalt find the cleft. | |
| We may not linger: such resistless will | |
| Speeds our unwearied course. Vouchsafe us then | 115 |
| Thy pardon, if our duty seem to thee | |
| Discourteous rudeness. In Verona I | |
| Was Abbot 8 of San Zeno, when the hand | |
| Of Barbarossa grasp’d imperial sway, | |
| That name ne’er utter’d without tears in Milan. | 120 |
| And there is he, 9 hath one foot in his grave, | |
| Who for that monastery ere long shall weep, | |
| Ruing his power misused: for that his son, | |
| Of body ill compact, and worse in mind, | |
| And born in evil, he hath set in place | 125 |
| Of its true pastor.” Whether more he spake, | |
| Or here was mute, I know not: he had sped | |
| E’en now so far beyond us. Yet thus much | |
| I heard, and in remembrance treasured it. | |
| He then, who never fail’d me at my need, | 130 |
| Cried, “Hither turn. Lo! two with sharp remorse | |
| Chiding their sin.” In rear of all the troop | |
| These shouted: “First they died, 10 to whom the sea | |
| Open’d, or ever Jordan saw his heirs: | |
| And they, 11 who with Æneas to the end | 135 |
| Endured not suffering, for their portion chose | |
| Life without glory.” Soon as they had fled | |
| Past reach of sight, new thought within me rose | |
| By others follow’d fast, and each unlike | |
| Its fellow: till led on from thought to thought, | 140 |
| And pleasured with the fleeting train, mine eye | |
| Was closed, and meditation changed to dream. | |
