The Divine Comedy - 12

Was wont to boast two suns, whose several beams
Cast light on either way, the world’s and God’s.
One since hath quench’d the other; and the sword
Is grafted on the crook; and so conjoin’d
Each must perforce decline to worse, unaw’d
By fear of other. If thou doubt me, mark
The blade: each herb is judg’d of by its seed.
That land, through which Adice and the Po
Their waters roll, was once the residence
Of courtesy and velour, ere the day,
That frown’d on Frederick; now secure may pass
Those limits, whosoe’er hath left, for shame,
To talk with good men, or come near their haunts.
Three aged ones are still found there, in whom
The old time chides the new: these deem it long
Ere God restore them to a better world:
The good Gherardo, of Palazzo he
Conrad, and Guido of Castello, nam’d
In Gallic phrase more fitly the plain Lombard.
On this at last conclude. The church of Rome,
Mixing two governments that ill assort,
Hath miss’d her footing, fall’n into the mire,
And there herself and burden much defil’d.”
“O Marco!” I replied, shine arguments
Convince me: and the cause I now discern
Why of the heritage no portion came
To Levi’s offspring. But resolve me this
Who that Gherardo is, that as thou sayst
Is left a sample of the perish’d race,
And for rebuke to this untoward age?”
“Either thy words,” said he, “deceive; or else
Are meant to try me; that thou, speaking Tuscan,
Appear’st not to have heard of good Gherado;
The sole addition that, by which I know him;
Unless I borrow’d from his daughter Gaia
Another name to grace him. God be with you.
I bear you company no more. Behold
The dawn with white ray glimm’ring through the mist.
I must away—the angel comes—ere he
Appear.” He said, and would not hear me more.


CANTO XVII

Call to remembrance, reader, if thou e’er
Hast, on a mountain top, been ta’en by cloud,
Through which thou saw’st no better, than the mole
Doth through opacous membrane; then, whene’er
The wat’ry vapours dense began to melt
Into thin air, how faintly the sun’s sphere
Seem’d wading through them; so thy nimble thought
May image, how at first I re-beheld
The sun, that bedward now his couch o’erhung.
Thus with my leader’s feet still equaling pace
From forth that cloud I came, when now expir’d
The parting beams from off the nether shores.
O quick and forgetive power! that sometimes dost
So rob us of ourselves, we take no mark
Though round about us thousand trumpets clang!
What moves thee, if the senses stir not? Light
Kindled in heav’n, spontaneous, self-inform’d,
Or likelier gliding down with swift illapse
By will divine. Portray’d before me came
The traces of her dire impiety,
Whose form was chang’d into the bird, that most
Delights itself in song: and here my mind
Was inwardly so wrapt, it gave no place
To aught that ask’d admittance from without.
Next shower’d into my fantasy a shape
As of one crucified, whose visage spake
Fell rancour, malice deep, wherein he died;
And round him Ahasuerus the great king,
Esther his bride, and Mordecai the just,
Blameless in word and deed. As of itself
That unsubstantial coinage of the brain
Burst, like a bubble, Which the water fails
That fed it; in my vision straight uprose
A damsel weeping loud, and cried, “O queen!
O mother! wherefore has intemperate ire
Driv’n thee to loath thy being? Not to lose
Lavinia, desp’rate thou hast slain thyself.
Now hast thou lost me. I am she, whose tears
Mourn, ere I fall, a mother’s timeless end.”
E’en as a sleep breaks off, if suddenly
New radiance strike upon the closed lids,
The broken slumber quivering ere it dies;
Thus from before me sunk that imagery
Vanishing, soon as on my face there struck
The light, outshining far our earthly beam.
As round I turn’d me to survey what place
I had arriv’d at, “Here ye mount,” exclaim’d
A voice, that other purpose left me none,
Save will so eager to behold who spake,
I could not choose but gaze. As ’fore the sun,
That weighs our vision down, and veils his form
In light transcendent, thus my virtue fail’d
Unequal. “This is Spirit from above,
Who marshals us our upward way, unsought;
And in his own light shrouds him. As a man
Doth for himself, so now is done for us.
For whoso waits imploring, yet sees need
Of his prompt aidance, sets himself prepar’d
For blunt denial, ere the suit be made.
Refuse we not to lend a ready foot
At such inviting: haste we to ascend,
Before it darken: for we may not then,
Till morn again return.” So spake my guide;
And to one ladder both address’d our steps;
And the first stair approaching, I perceiv’d
Near me as ’twere the waving of a wing,
That fann’d my face and whisper’d: “Blessed they
The peacemakers: they know not evil wrath.”
Now to such height above our heads were rais’d
The last beams, follow’d close by hooded night,
That many a star on all sides through the gloom
Shone out. “Why partest from me, O my strength?”
So with myself I commun’d; for I felt
My o’ertoil’d sinews slacken. We had reach’d
The summit, and were fix’d like to a bark
Arriv’d at land. And waiting a short space,
If aught should meet mine ear in that new round,
Then to my guide I turn’d, and said: “Lov’d sire!
Declare what guilt is on this circle purg’d.
If our feet rest, no need thy speech should pause.”
He thus to me: “The love of good, whate’er
Wanted of just proportion, here fulfils.
Here plies afresh the oar, that loiter’d ill.
But that thou mayst yet clearlier understand,
Give ear unto my words, and thou shalt cull
Some fruit may please thee well, from this delay.
“Creator, nor created being, ne’er,
My son,” he thus began, “was without love,
Or natural, or the free spirit’s growth.
Thou hast not that to learn. The natural still
Is without error; but the other swerves,
If on ill object bent, or through excess
Of vigour, or defect. While e’er it seeks
The primal blessings, or with measure due
Th’ inferior, no delight, that flows from it,
Partakes of ill. But let it warp to evil,
Or with more ardour than behooves, or less.
Pursue the good, the thing created then
Works ’gainst its Maker. Hence thou must infer
That love is germin of each virtue in ye,
And of each act no less, that merits pain.
Now since it may not be, but love intend
The welfare mainly of the thing it loves,
All from self-hatred are secure; and since
No being can be thought t’ exist apart
And independent of the first, a bar
Of equal force restrains from hating that.
“Grant the distinction just; and it remains
The’ evil must be another’s, which is lov’d.
Three ways such love is gender’d in your clay.
There is who hopes (his neighbour’s worth deprest,)
Preeminence himself, and coverts hence
For his own greatness that another fall.
There is who so much fears the loss of power,
Fame, favour, glory (should his fellow mount
Above him), and so sickens at the thought,
He loves their opposite: and there is he,
Whom wrong or insult seems to gall and shame
That he doth thirst for vengeance, and such needs
Must doat on other’s evil. Here beneath
This threefold love is mourn’d. Of th’ other sort
Be now instructed, that which follows good
But with disorder’d and irregular course.
“All indistinctly apprehend a bliss
On which the soul may rest, the hearts of all
Yearn after it, and to that wished bourn
All therefore strive to tend. If ye behold
Or seek it with a love remiss and lax,
This cornice after just repenting lays
Its penal torment on ye. Other good
There is, where man finds not his happiness:
It is not true fruition, not that blest
Essence, of every good the branch and root.
The love too lavishly bestow’d on this,
Along three circles over us, is mourn’d.
Account of that division tripartite
Expect not, fitter for thine own research.”


CANTO XVIII

The teacher ended, and his high discourse
Concluding, earnest in my looks inquir’d
If I appear’d content; and I, whom still
Unsated thirst to hear him urg’d, was mute,
Mute outwardly, yet inwardly I said:
“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,
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:
“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
Aught pleasing prompts her, soon as she is wak’d
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,
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,
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
Praise-worthy in itself: although perhaps
Its substance seem still good. Yet if the wax
Be good, it follows not th’ 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
Be offer’d 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
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 prov’d
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
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 in you, whose just voice
Uttereth counsel, and whose word should keep
The threshold of assent. Here is the source,
Whence cause of merit in you is deriv’d,
E’en as the affections good or ill she takes,
Or severs, winnow’d as the chaff. Those men
Who reas’ning went to depth profoundest, mark’d
That innate freedom, and were thence induc’d
To leave their moral teaching to the world.
Grant then, that from necessity arise
All love that glows within you; to dismiss
Or harbour it, the pow’r 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
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
That course she journey’d, which the sun then warms,
When they of Rome behold him at his set.
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 above Mantua’s name.
I therefore, when my questions had obtain’d
Solution plain and ample, stood as one
Musing in dreary 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,
As echoing on their shores at midnight heard
Ismenus and Asopus, for his Thebes
If Bacchus’ help were needed; so came these
Tumultuous, curving each his rapid step,
By eagerness impell’d of holy love.
Soon they o’ertook us; with such swiftness mov’d
The mighty crowd. Two spirits at their head
Cried weeping; “Blessed Mary sought with haste
The hilly region. Caesar to subdue
Ilerda, darted in Marseilles his sting,
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
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 t’ ascend,
So morning rise to light us. Therefore say
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
Thy pardon, if our duty seem to thee
Discourteous rudeness. In Verona I
Was abbot of San Zeno, when the hand
Of Barbarossa grasp’d Imperial sway,
That name, ne’er utter’d without tears in Milan.
And there is he, hath one foot in his grave,
Who for that monastery ere long shall weep,
Ruing his power misus’d: for that his son,
Of body ill compact, and worse in mind,
And born in evil, he hath set in place
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 rememb’rance treasur’d it.
He then, who never fail’d me at my need,
Cried, “Hither turn. Lo! two with sharp remorse
Chiding their sin!” In rear of all the troop
These shouted: “First they died, to whom the sea
Open’d, or ever Jordan saw his heirs:
And they, who with Aeneas to the end
Endur’d 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,
And pleasur’d with the fleeting train, mine eye
Was clos’d, and meditation chang’d to dream.


CANTO XIX

It was the hour, 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 sees
His Greater Fortune up the east ascend,
Where gray dawn checkers first the shadowy cone;
When ’fore me in my dream a woman’s shape
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
Limbs numb’d by nightly cold, e’en thus my look
Unloos’d her tongue, next in brief space her form
Decrepit rais’d erect, and faded face
With love’s own hue illum’d. Recov’ring speech
She forthwith warbling such a strain began,
That I, how loth soe’er, could scarce have held
Attention from the song. “I,” thus she sang,
“I am the Siren, she, whom mariners
On the wide sea are wilder’d when they hear:
Such fulness of delight the list’ner feels.
I from his course Ulysses 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 clos’d, to shame her at her side appear’d
A dame 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: th’ other seiz’d her,
And, her robes tearing, open’d her before,
And show’d the belly to me, whence a smell,
Exhaling loathsome, wak’d 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.”
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’ercharg’d with thought,
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 dispread and pointing up,
Who thus had spoken marshal’d us along,
Where each side of the solid masonry
The sloping, walls retir’d; then mov’d his plumes,
And fanning us, affirm’d that those, who mourn,
Are blessed, for that comfort shall be theirs.
“What aileth thee, that still thou look’st to earth?”
Began my leader; while th’ angelic shape
A little over us his station took.
“New vision,” I replied, “hath rais’d in me
Surmizings strange and anxious doubts, whereon
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.
Let thy heels spurn the earth, and thy rais’d ken
Fix on the lure, which heav’n’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,
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
All downward lying prone and weeping sore.
“My soul hath cleaved to the dust,” I heard
With sighs so deep, they well nigh choak’d the words.
“O ye elect of God, whose penal woes
Both hope and justice mitigate, direct
Tow’rds 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,
Beyond us some short space, in answer came.
I noted what remain’d yet hidden from them:
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,
As pleas’d me, I drew near, and took my stand
O`er 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
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 Heav’n our back toward his cope
Reverses, shalt thou know: but me know first
The successor of Peter, and the name
And title of my lineage from that stream,
That’ twixt Chiaveri and Siestri draws
His limpid waters through the lowly glen.
A month and little more by proof I learnt,
With what a weight that robe of sov’reignty
Upon his shoulder rests, who from the mire
Would guard it: that each other fardel seems
But feathers in the balance. Late, alas!
Was my conversion: but when I became
Rome’s pastor, I discern’d at once the dream
And cozenage of life, saw that the heart
Rested not there, and yet no prouder height
Lur’d on the climber: wherefore, of that life
No more enamour’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.
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
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.”
My knees I stoop’d, and would have spoke; but he,
Ere my beginning, by his ear perceiv’d
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.”
“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 ill marriage,’
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 spak’st.
I have on earth a kinswoman; her name
Alagia, worthy in herself, so ill
Example of our house corrupt her not:
And she is all remaineth of me there.”


CANTO XX

Ill strives the will, ’gainst will more wise that strives
His pleasure therefore to mine own preferr’d,
I drew the sponge yet thirsty from the wave.
Onward I mov’d: he also onward mov’d,
Who led me, coasting still, wherever place
Along the rock was vacant, as a man
Walks near the battlements on narrow wall.
For those on th’ other part, who drop by drop
Wring out their all-infecting malady,
Too closely press the verge. Accurst be thou!
Inveterate wolf! whose gorge ingluts more prey,
Than every beast beside, yet is not fill’d!
So bottomless thy maw!—Ye spheres of heaven!
To whom there are, as seems, who attribute
All change in mortal state, when is the day
Of his appearing, for whom fate reserves
To chase her hence? —With wary steps and slow
We pass’d; and I attentive to the shades,
Whom piteously I heard lament and wail;
And, ’midst the wailing, one before us heard
Cry out “O blessed Virgin!” as a dame
In the sharp pangs of childbed; and “How poor
Thou wast,” it added, “witness that low roof
Where thou didst lay thy sacred burden down.
O good Fabricius! thou didst virtue choose
With poverty, before great wealth with vice.”
The words so pleas’d me, that desire to know
The spirit, from whose lip they seem’d to come,
Did draw me onward. Yet it spake the gift
Of Nicholas, which on the maidens he
Bounteous bestow’d, to save their youthful prime
Unblemish’d. “Spirit! who dost speak of deeds
So worthy, tell me who thou was,” I said,
“And why thou dost with single voice renew
Memorial of such praise. That boon vouchsaf’d
Haply shall meet reward; if I return
To finish the Short pilgrimage of life,
Still speeding to its close on restless wing.”
“I,” answer’d he, “will tell thee, not for hell,
Which thence I look for; but that in thyself
Grace so exceeding shines, before thy time
Of mortal dissolution. I was root
Of that ill plant, whose shade such poison sheds
O’er all the Christian land, that seldom thence
Good fruit is gather’d. Vengeance soon should come,
Had Ghent and Douay, Lille and Bruges power;
And vengeance I of heav’n’s great Judge implore.
Hugh Capet was I high: from me descend
The Philips and the Louis, of whom France
Newly is govern’d; born of one, who ply’d
The slaughterer’s trade at Paris. When the race
Of ancient kings had vanish’d (all save one
Wrapt up in sable weeds) within my gripe
I found the reins of empire, and such powers
Of new acquirement, with full store of friends,
That soon the widow’d circlet of the crown
Was girt upon the temples of my son,
He, from whose bones th’ anointed race begins.
Till the great dower of Provence had remov’d
The stains, that yet obscur’d our lowly blood,
Its sway indeed was narrow, but howe’er
It wrought no evil: there, with force and lies,
Began its rapine; after, for amends,
Poitou it seiz’d, Navarre and Gascony.
To Italy came Charles, and for amends
Young Conradine an innocent victim slew,
And sent th’ angelic teacher back to heav’n,
Still for amends. I see the time at hand,
That forth from France invites another Charles
To make himself and kindred better known.
Unarm’d he issues, saving with that lance,
Which the arch-traitor tilted with; and that
He carries with so home a thrust, as rives
The bowels of poor Florence. No increase
Of territory hence, but sin and shame
Shall be his guerdon, and so much the more
As he more lightly deems of such foul wrong.
I see the other, who a prisoner late
Had steps on shore, exposing to the mart
His daughter, whom he bargains for, as do
The Corsairs for their slaves. O avarice!
What canst thou more, who hast subdued our blood
So wholly to thyself, they feel no care
Of their own flesh? To hide with direr guilt
Past ill and future, lo! the flower-de-luce
Enters Alagna! in his Vicar Christ
Himself a captive, and his mockery
Acted again! Lo! lo his holy lip
The vinegar and gall once more applied!
And he ’twixt living robbers doom’d to bleed!
Lo! the new Pilate, of whose cruelty
Such violence cannot fill the measure up,
With no degree to sanction, pushes on
Into the temple his yet eager sails!
“O sovran Master! when shall I rejoice
To see the vengeance, which thy wrath well-pleas’d
In secret silence broods?—While daylight lasts,
So long what thou didst hear of her, sole spouse
Of the Great Spirit, and on which thou turn’dst
To me for comment, is the general theme
Of all our prayers: but when it darkens, then
A different strain we utter, then record
Pygmalion, whom his gluttonous thirst of gold
Made traitor, robber, parricide: the woes
Of Midas, which his greedy wish ensued,
Mark’d for derision to all future times:
And the fond Achan, how he stole the prey,
That yet he seems by Joshua’s ire pursued.
Sapphira with her husband next, we blame;
And praise the forefeet, that with furious ramp
Spurn’d Heliodorus. All the mountain round
Rings with the infamy of Thracia’s king,
Who slew his Phrygian charge: and last a shout
Ascends: “Declare, O Crassus! for thou know’st,
The flavour of thy gold.” The voice of each
Now high now low, as each his impulse prompts,
Is led through many a pitch, acute or grave.
Therefore, not singly, I erewhile rehears’d
That blessedness we tell of in the day:
But near me none beside his accent rais’d.”
From him we now had parted, and essay’d
With utmost efforts to surmount the way,
When I did feel, as nodding to its fall,
The mountain tremble; whence an icy chill
Seiz’d on me, as on one to death convey’d.
So shook not Delos, when Latona there
Couch’d to bring forth the twin-born eyes of heaven.
Forthwith from every side a shout arose
So vehement, that suddenly my guide
Drew near, and cried: “Doubt not, while I conduct thee.”
“Glory!” all shouted (such the sounds mine ear
Gather’d from those, who near me swell’d the sounds)
“Glory in the highest be to God.” We stood
Immovably suspended, like to those,
The shepherds, who first heard in Bethlehem’s field
That song: till ceas’d the trembling, and the song
Was ended: then our hallow’d path resum’d,
Eying the prostrate shadows, who renew’d
Their custom’d mourning. Never in my breast
Did ignorance so struggle with desire
Of knowledge, if my memory do not err,
As in that moment; nor through haste dar’d I
To question, nor myself could aught discern,
So on I far’d in thoughtfulness and dread.


CANTO XXI

The natural thirst, ne’er quench’d but from the well,
Whereof the woman of Samaria crav’d,
Excited: haste along the cumber’d path,
After my guide, impell’d; and pity mov’d
My bosom for the ’vengeful deed, though just.
When lo! even as Luke relates, that Christ
Appear’d unto the two upon their way,
New-risen from his vaulted grave; to us
A shade appear’d, and after us approach’d,
Contemplating the crowd beneath its feet.
We were not ware of it; so first it spake,
Saying, “God give you peace, my brethren!” then
Sudden we turn’d: and Virgil such salute,
As fitted that kind greeting, gave, and cried:
“Peace in the blessed council be thy lot
Awarded by that righteous court, which me
To everlasting banishment exiles!”
“How!” he exclaim’d, nor from his speed meanwhile
Desisting, “If that ye be spirits, whom God