| |
| BETWEEN two kinds of food, both equally | |
| Remote and tempting, first a man might die | |
| Of hunger, ere he one could freely chuse. | |
| E’en so would stand a lamb between the maw | |
| Of two fierce wolves, in dread of both alike: | 5 |
| E’en so between two deer a dog would stand. | |
| Wherefore, if I was silent, fault nor praise | |
| I to myself impute; by equal doubts | |
| Held in suspense; since of necessity | |
| It happen’d. Silent was I, yet desire | 10 |
| Was painted in my looks; and thus I spake | |
| My wish more earnestly than language could. | |
| As Daniel, 1 when the haughty king he freed | |
| From ire, that spurr’d him on to deeds unjust | |
| And violent; so did Beatrice then. | 15 |
| “Well I discern,” she thus her words address’d, | |
| “How thou art drawn by each of these desires; 2 | |
| So that thy anxious thought is in itself | |
| Bound up and stifled, nor breathes freely forth. | |
| Thou arguest: if the good intent remain; | 20 |
| What reason that another’s violence | |
| Should stint the measure of my fair desert? | |
| “Cause too thou find’st for doubt, in that it seems, | |
| That spirits to the stars, as Plato 3 deem’d, | |
| Return. These are the questions which thy will | 25 |
| Urge equally; and therefore I, the first, | |
| Of that 4 will treat which hath the more of gall. 5 | |
| Of Seraphim 6 he who is most enskied, | |
| Moses and Samuel, and either John | |
| Chuse which thou wilt, nor even Mary’s self, | 30 |
| Have not in any other Heaven their seats, | |
| Than have those spirits which so late thou saw’st; | |
| Nor more or fewer years exist; but all | |
| Make the first circle 7 beauteous, diversely | |
| Partaking of sweet life, as more or less | 35 |
| Afflation of eternal bliss pervades them. | |
| Here were they shown thee, not that fate assigns | |
| This for their sphere, but for a sign to thee | |
| Of that celestial furthest from the height. | |
| Thus needs, that ye may apprehend, we speak: | 40 |
| Since from things sensible alone ye learn | |
| That, which, digested rightly, after turns | |
| To intellectual. For no other cause | |
| The Scripture, condescending graciously | |
| To your perception, hands and feet to God | 45 |
| Attributes, nor so means: and holy Church | |
| Doth represent with human countenance | |
| Gabriel, and Michael, and him who made | |
| Tobias whole. Unlike what here thou seest, | |
| The judgment of Timæus, who affirms | 50 |
| Each soul restored to its particular star; | |
| Believing it to have been taken thence, | |
| When nature gave it to inform her mold: | |
| Yet to appearance his intention is | |
| Not what his words declare: and so to shun | 55 |
| Derision, haply thus he hath disguised | |
| His true opinion. If his meaning be, | |
| That to the influencing of these orbs revert | |
| The honour and the blame in human acts, | |
| Perchance he doth not wholly miss the truth. | 60 |
| This principle, not understood aright, | |
| Erewhile perverted well-nigh all the world; | |
| So that it fell to fabled names of Jove, | |
| And Mercury, and Mars. That other doubt, | |
| Which moves thee, is less harmful; for it brings | 65 |
| No peril of removing thee from me. | |
| “That, to the eye of man, 8 our justice seems | |
| Unjust, is argument for faith, and not | |
| For heretic declension. But, to the end | |
| This truth 9 may stand more clearly in your view, | 70 |
| I will content thee even to thy wish. | |
| “If violence be, when that which suffers, nought | |
| Consents to that which forceth, not for this | |
| These spirits stood exculpate. For the will, | |
| That wills not, still survives, unquench’d, and doth, | 75 |
| As nature doth in fire, though violence | |
| Wrest it a thousand times; for, if it yield | |
| Or more or less, so far it follows force. | |
| And thus did these, when they had power to seek | |
| The hallow’d place again. In them, had will | 80 |
| Been perfect, such as once upon the bars | |
| Held Laurence 10 firm, or wrought in Scævola | |
| To his own hand remorseless; to the path, | |
| Whence they were drawn, their steps had hasten’d back, | |
| When liberty return’d: but in too few, | 85 |
| Resolve, so stedfast, dwells. And by these words, | |
| If duly weigh’d, that argument is void, | |
| Which oft might have perplex’d thee still. But now | |
| Another question thwarts thee, which, to solve, | |
| Might try thy patience without better aid. | 90 |
| I have, no doubt, instill’d into thy mind, | |
| That blessed spirit may not lie; since near | |
| The source of primal truth it dwells for aye: | |
| And thou mightst after of Piccarda learn | |
| That Constance held affection to the veil; | 95 |
| So that she seems to contradict me here. | |
| Not seldom, brother, it hath chanced for men | |
| To do what they had gladly left undone; | |
| Yet, to shun peril, they have done amiss: | |
| E’en as Alcmæon, at his father’s 11 suit | 100 |
| Slew his own mother; 12 so made pitiless, | |
| Not to lose pity. On this point bethink thee, | |
| That force and will are blended in such wise | |
| As not to make the offence excusable. | |
| Absolute will agrees not to the wrong; | 105 |
| But inasmuch as there is fear of woe | |
| From non-compliance, it agrees. Of will 13 | |
| Thus absolute, Piccarda spake, and I | |
| Of the other; so that both have truly said.” | |
| Such was the flow of that pure rill, that well’d | 110 |
| From forth the fountain of all truth; and such | |
| The rest, that to my wandering thoughts I found. | |
| “O thou, of primal love the prime delight, | |
| Goddess!” I straight replied, “whose lively words | |
| Still shed new heat and vigour through my soul; | 115 |
| Affection fails me to requite thy grace | |
| With equal sum of gratitude: be His | |
| To recompense, who sees and can reward thee. | |
| Well I discern, that by that Truth 14 alone | |
| Enlighten’d, beyond which no truth may roam, | 120 |
| Our mind can satisfy her thirst to know: | |
| Therein she resteth, e’en as in his lair | |
| The wild beast, soon as she hath reach’d that bound. | |
| And she hath power to reach it; else desire | |
| Were given to no end. And thence doth doubt | 125 |
| Spring, like a shoot, around the stock of truth; | |
| And it is nature which, from height to height, | |
| On to the summit prompts us. This invites, | |
| This doth assure me, Lady! reverently | |
| To ask thee of another truth, that yet | 130 |
| Is dark to me. I fain would know, if man | |
| By other works well done may so supply | |
| The failure of his vows, that in your scale | |
| They lack not weight.” I spake; and on me straight | |
| Beatrice look’d, with eyes that shot forth sparks | 135 |
| Of love celestial, in such copious stream, | |
| That, virtue sinking in me overpower’d, | |
| I turn’d; and downward bent, confused, my sight. | |
