| |
| SOON as that polar light, 1 fair ornament | |
| Of the first Heaven, which hath never known | |
| Setting nor rising, nor the shadowy veil | |
| Of other cloud than sin, to duty there | |
| Each one convoying, as that lower doth | 5 |
| The steersman to his port, stood firmly fix’d; | |
| Forthwith the saintly tribe, who in the van | |
| Between the Gryphon and its radiance came, | |
| Did turn them to the car, as to their rest: | |
| And one, as if commission’d from above, | 10 |
| In holy chant thrice shouted forth aloud; | |
| “Come, 2 spouse! from Libanus:” and all the rest | |
| Took up the song.—At the last audit, so | |
| The blest shall rise, from forth his cavern each | |
| Uplifting lightly his new-vested flesh; | 15 |
| As, on the sacred litter, at the voice | |
| Authoritative of that elder, sprang | |
| A hundred ministers and messengers | |
| Of life eternal. “Blessed 3 thou, who comest!” | |
| And, “Oh!” they cried, “from full hands scatter ye | 20 |
| Unwithering lilies”: and, so saying, cast | |
| Flowers overhead and round them on all sides. | |
| I have beheld, ere now, at break of day, | |
| The eastern clime all roseate; and the sky | |
| Opposed, one deep and beautiful serene; | 25 |
| And the sun’s face so shaded, and with mists | |
| Attemper’d, at his rising, that the eye | |
| Long while endured the sight: thus, in a cloud | |
| Of flowers, that from those hands angelic rose, | |
| And down within and outside of the car | 30 |
| Fell showering, in white veil with olive wreathed, | |
| A virgin in my view appear’d, beneath | |
| Green mantle, robed in hue of living flame: | |
| And o’er my spirit, that so long a time | |
| Had from her presence felt no shuddering dread, | 35 |
| Albeit mine eyes discern’d her not, there moved | |
| A hidden virtue from her, at whose touch | |
| The power of ancient love was strong within me. | |
| No sooner on my vision streaming, smote | |
| The heavenly influence, which, years past, and e’en | 40 |
| In childhood, thrill’d me, than towards Virgil I | |
| Turn’d me to leftward; panting, like a babe, | |
| That flees for refuge to his mother’s breast, | |
| If aught have terrified or work’d him woe: | |
| And would have cried, “There is no dram of blood, | 45 |
| That doth not quiver in me. The old flame | |
| Throws out clear tokens of reviving fire.” | |
| But Virgil had bereaved us of himself; | |
| Virgil, my best-loved father, Virgil, he | |
| To whom I gave me up for safety: nor | 50 |
| All, our prime mother lost, avail’d to save | |
| My undew’d cheeks from blur of soiling tears. | |
| “Dante! weep not that Virgil leaves thee; nay, | |
| Weep thou not yet: behoves thee feel the edge | |
| Of other sword; and thou shalt weep for that.” | 55 |
| As to the prow or stern, some admiral | |
| Paces the deck, inspiriting his crew, | |
| When ’mid the sail-yards all hands ply aloof; | |
| Thus, on the left side of the car, I saw | |
| (Turning me at the sound of mine own name, | 60 |
| Which here I am compell’d to register) | |
| The virgin station’d, who before appear’d | |
| Veil’d in that festive shower angelical. | |
| Towards me, across the stream, she bent her eyes; | |
| Though from her brow the veil descending, bound | 65 |
| With foliage of Minerva, suffer’d not | |
| That I beheld her clearly: then with act | |
| Full royal, still insulting o’er her thrall, | |
| Added, as one who, speaking, keepeth back | |
| The bitterest saying, to conclude the speech: | 70 |
| “Observe me well. I am, in sooth, I am | |
| Beatrice. What! and hast thou deign’d at last | |
| Approach the mountain? Knewest not, O man! | |
| Thy happiness is here?” Down fell mine eyes | |
| On the clear fount; but there, myself espying, | 75 |
| Recoil’d, and sought the greensward; such a weight | |
| Of shame was on my forehead. With a mien | |
| Of that stern majesty, which doth surround | |
| A mother’s presence to her awe-struck child, | |
| She look’d; a flavor of such bitterness | 80 |
| Was mingled in her pity. There her words | |
| Brake off; and suddenly the angels sang, | |
| “In thee, O gracious Lord! my hope hath been”: | |
| But 4 went no further than, “Thou, Lord! hast set | |
| My feet in ample room” As snow, that lies, | 85 |
| Amidst the living rafters on the back | |
| Of Italy, congeal’d, when drifted high | |
| And closely piled by rough Sclavonian blasts; | |
| Breathe but the land whereon no shadow falls, | |
| And straightway melting it distills away, | 90 |
| Like a fire-wasted taper: thus was I, | |
| Without a sigh or tear, or ever these | |
| Did sing, that, with the chiming of Heaven’s sphere, | |
| Still in their warbling chime: but when the strain | |
| Of dulcet symphony express’d for me | 95 |
| Their soft compassion, more than could the words, | |
| “Virgin! why so consumest him?” then, the ice | |
| Congeal’d about my bosom, turn’d itself | |
| To spirit and water; and with anguish forth | |
| Gush’d, through the lips and eyelids, from the heart. | 100 |
| Upon the chariot’s same edge still she stood, | |
| Immovable; and thus address’d her words | |
| To those bright semblances with pity touch’d: | |
| “Ye in the eternal day your vigils keep; | |
| So that nor night nor slumber, with close stealth, | 105 |
| Conveys from you a single step, in all | |
| The goings on of time: thence, with more heed | |
| I shape mine answer, for his ear intended, | |
| Who there stands weeping; that the sorrow now | |
| May equal the transgression. Not alone | 110 |
| Through operation of the mighty orbs, | |
| That mark each seed to some predestined aim, | |
| As with aspect or fortunate or ill | |
| The constellations meet; but through benign | |
| Largess of heavenly graces, which rain down | 115 |
| From such a height as mocks our vision, this man | |
| Was, in the freshness of his being, such, | |
| So gifted virtually, that in him | |
| All better habits wondrously had thrived | |
| The more of kindly strength is in the soil, | 120 |
| So much doth evil seed and lack of culture | |
| Mar it the more, and make it run to wildness. | |
| These looks sometime upheld him; for I show’d | |
| My youthful eyes, and led him by their light | |
| In upright walking. Soon as I had reach’d | 125 |
| Tee threshold of my second age, and changed | |
| My mortal for immortal; then he left me, | |
| And gave himself to others. When from flesh | |
| To spirit I had risen, and increase | |
| Of beauty and of virtue circled me, | 130 |
| I was less dear to him, and valued less. | |
| His steps were turn’d into deceitful ways, | |
| Following false images of good, that make | |
| No promise perfect. Nor avail’d me aught | |
| To sue for inspirations, with the which, | 135 |
| I, both in dreams of night, and otherwise, | |
| Did call him back; of them, so little reck’d him. | |
| Such depth he fell, that all device was short | |
| Of his preserving, save that he should view | |
| The children of perdition. To this end | 140 |
| I visited the purlieus of the dead: | |
| And one, who hath conducted him thus high, | |
| Received my supplications urged with weeping. | |
| It were a breaking of God’s high decree, | |
| If Lethe should be pass’d, and such food 5 tasted, | 145 |
| Without the cost of some repentant tear.” | |
