| |
| IT was the hour, 1 when of diurnal heat | |
| No reliques chafe the cold beams of the moon, | |
| O’erpower’d by earth, or planetary sway | |
| Of Saturn; and the geomancer 2 sees | |
| His Greater Fortune up the east ascend, | 5 |
| Where gray dawn checkers first the shadowy cone, | |
| When, ’fore me in my dream, a woman’s shape 3 | |
| There came, with lips that stammer’d, eyes aslant, | |
| Distorted feet, hands maim’d, and colour pale. | |
| I look’d upon her: and, as sunshine cheers | 10 |
| Limbs numb’d by nightly cold, e’en thus my look | |
| Unloosed her tongue; next, in brief space, her form | |
| Decrepit raised erect, and faded face | |
| With love’s own hue illumed. Recovering speech, | |
| She forthwith, warbling, such a strain began, | 15 |
| That I, how loth soe’er, could scarce have held | |
| Attention from the song. “I,” thus she sang, | |
| “I am the Syren, she, whom mariners | |
| On the wide sea are wilder’d when they hear; | |
| Such fullness of delight the listener feels. | 20 |
| I, from his course, Ulysses 4 by my lay | |
| Enchanted drew. Whoe’er frequents me once, | |
| Parts seldom: so I charm him, and his heart | |
| Contented knows no void.” Or ere her mouth | |
| Was closed, to shame her, at my side appear’d | 25 |
| A dame 5 of semblance holy. With stern voice | |
| She utter’d: “Say, O Virgil! who is this?” | |
| Which hearing, he approach’d, with eyes still bent | |
| Toward that goodly presence: the other seized her, | |
| And, her robes tearing, open’d her before, | 30 |
| And show’d the belly to me, whence a smell, | |
| Exhaling loathsome, waked me. Round I turn’d | |
| Mine eyes: and thus the teacher: “At the least | |
| Three times my voice hath call’d thee. Rise, begone. | |
| Let us the opening find where thou mayst pass.” | 35 |
| I straightway rose. Now day, pour’d down from high, | |
| Fill’d all the circuits of the sacred mount; | |
| And, as we journey’d, on our shoulder smote | |
| The early ray. I follow’d, stooping low | |
| My forehead, as a man, o’ercharged with thought, | 40 |
| Who bends him to the likeness of an arch | |
| That midway spans the flood; when thus I heard, | |
| “Come, enter here,” in tone so soft and mild, | |
| As never met the ear on mortal strand. | |
| With swan-like wings dispred and pointing up, | 45 |
| Who thus had spoken marshal’d us along, | |
| Where, each side of the solid masonry, | |
| The sloping walls retired; then moved his plumes, | |
| And fanning us, affirm’d that those, who mourn, 6 | |
| Are blessed, for that comfort shall be theirs. | 50 |
| “What aileth thee, that still thou look’st to earth?” | |
| Began my leader; while the angelic shape | |
| A little over us his station took. | |
| “New vision,” I replied, “hath raised in me | |
| Surmisings strange and anxious doubts, whereon | 55 |
| My soul intent allows no other thought | |
| Or room, or entrance.”—“Hast thou seen,” said he | |
| “That old enchantress, her, whose wiles alone | |
| The spirits o’er us weep for? Hast thou seen | |
| How man may free him of her bonds? Enough. | 60 |
| Let thy heels spurn the earth; and thy raised ken | |
| Fix on the lure, which Heaven’s eternal King | |
| Whirls in the rolling spheres.” As on his feet | |
| The falcon first looks down, then to the sky | |
| Turns, and forth stretches eager for the food, | 65 |
| That woos him thither; so the call I heard: | |
| So onward, far as the dividing rock | |
| Gave way, I journey’d, till the plain was reach’d. | |
| On the fifth circle when I stood at large, | |
| A race appear’d before me, on the ground | 70 |
| All downward lying prone and weeping sore. | |
| “My soul hath cleaved to the dust,” I heard | |
| With sighs so deep, they well nigh choked the words. | |
| “O ye elect of God! whose penal woes | |
| Both hope and justice mitigate, direct | 75 |
| Towards the steep rising our uncertain way.” | |
| “If ye approach secure from this our doom, | |
| Prostration, and would urge your course with speed, | |
| See that ye still to rightward keep the brink.” | |
| So them the bard besought; and such the words, | 80 |
| Beyond us some short space, in answer came. | |
| I noted what remain’d yet hidden from them: 7 | |
| Thence to my liege’s eyes mine eyes I bent, | |
| And he, forthwith interpreting their suit, | |
| Beckon’d his glad assent. Free then to act | 85 |
| As pleased me, I drew near, and took my stand | |
| Over that shade whose words I late had mark’d. | |
| And, “Spirit!” I said, “in whom repentant tears | |
| Mature that blessed hour when thou with God | |
| Shalt find acceptance, for a while suspend | 90 |
| For me that mightier care. Say who thou wast; | |
| Why thus ye grovel on your bellies prone; | |
| And if, in aught, ye wish my service there, | |
| Whence living I am come.” He answering spake: | |
| “The cause why Heaven our back towards his cope | 95 |
| Reverses, shalt thou know: but me know first, | |
| The successor of Peter, 8 and the name | |
| And title of my lineage, from that stream 9 | |
| That ’twixt Chiaveri and Siestri draws | |
| His limpid waters through the lowly glen. | 100 |
| A month and little more by proof I learnt, | |
| With what a weight that robe of sovereignty | |
| Upon his shoulder rests, who from the mire | |
| Would guard it; that each other fardel seems | |
| But feathers in the balance. Late, alas! | 105 |
| Was my conversion: but, when I became | |
| Rome’s pastor, I discerned at once the dream | |
| And cozenage of life; saw that the heart | |
| Rested not there, and yet no prouder height | |
| Lured on the climber: whereof, of that life | 110 |
| No more enamor’d, in my bosom love | |
| Of purer being kindled. For till then | |
| I was a soul in misery, alienate | |
| From God, and covetous of all earthly things; | |
| Now, as thou seest, here punish’d for my doting. | 115 |
| Such cleansing from the taint of avarice, | |
| Do spirits, converted, need. This mount inflicts | |
| No direr penalty. E’en as our eyes | |
| Fasten’d below, nor e’er to loftier clime | |
| Were lifted; thus hath justice level’d us, | 120 |
| Here on the earth. As avarice quench’d our love | |
| Of good, without which is no working; thus | |
| Here justice holds us prison’d, hand and foot | |
| Chain’d down and bound, while Heaven’s just Lord shall please, | |
| So long to tarry, motionless, outstretch’d.” | 125 |
| My knees I stoop’d, and would have spoke; but he, | |
| Ere my beginning, by his ear perceived | |
| I did him reverence; and “What cause,” said he, | |
| “Hath bow’d thee thus?”—“Compunction,” I rejoin’d, | |
| “And inward awe of your high dignity.” | 130 |
| “Up,” he exclaim’d, “brother! upon thy feet | |
| Arise; err not: thy fellow-servant I, | |
| (Thine and all others’) of one Sovran Power. | |
| If thou hast ever mark’d those holy sounds | |
| Of gospel truth, ‘nor shall be given in marriage,’ | 135 |
| Thou mayst discern the reasons of my speech. | |
| Go thy ways now; and linger here no more. | |
| Thy tarrying is a let unto the tears, | |
| With which I hasten that whereof thou spakest. | |
| I have on earth a kinswoman; 10 her name | 140 |
| Alagia, worthy in herself, so ill | |
| Example of our house corrupt her not: | |
| And she is all remaineth of me there.” | |
