| |
| NOW had the sun 1 to that horizon reach’d, | |
| That covers, with the most exalted point | |
| Of its meridian circle, Salem’s walls; | |
| And night, that opposite to him her orb | |
| Rounds, from the stream of Ganges issued forth, | 5 |
| Holding the scales, 2 that from her hands are dropt | |
| When she reigns highest: 3 so that where I was, | |
| Aurora’s white and vermeil-tinctured cheek | |
| To orange turn’d as she in age increased. | |
| Meanwhile we linger’d by the water’s brink, | 10 |
| Like men, who, musing on their road, in thought | |
| Journey, while motionless the body rests. | |
| When lo! as, near upon the hour of dawn, | |
| Through the thick vapors Mars with fiery beam | |
| Glares down in west, over the ocean floor; | 15 |
| So seem’d, what once again I hope to view, | |
| A light, so swiftly coming through the sea, | |
| No winged course might equal its career. | |
| From which when for a space I had withdrawn | |
| Mine eyes, to make inquiry of my guide, | 20 |
| Again I look’d, and saw it grown in size | |
| And brightness: then on either side appear’d | |
| Something, but what I knew not, of bright hue, | |
| And by degrees from underneath it came | |
| Another. My preceptor silent yet | 25 |
| Stood, while the brightness, that we first discern’d, | |
| Open’d the form of wings: then when he knew | |
| The pilot, cried aloud, “Down, down; bend low | |
| Thy knees; behold God’s angel: fold thy hands: | |
| Now shalt thou see true ministers indeed. | 30 |
| Lo! how all human means he sets at naught; | |
| So that nor oar he needs, nor other sail | |
| Except his wings, between such distant shores. | |
| Lo! how straight up to Heaven he holds them rear’d, | |
| Winnowing the air with these eternal plumes, | 35 |
| That not like mortal hairs fall off or change.” | |
| As more and more toward us came, more bright | |
| Appear’d the bird of God, nor could the eye | |
| Endure his splendor near: I mine bent down. | |
| He drove ashore in a small bark so swift | 40 |
| And light, that in its course no wave it drank. | |
| The heavenly steersman at the prow was seen, | |
| Visibly written Blessed in his looks. | |
| Within a hundred spirits and more there sat. | |
| “In Exitu 4 Israel de Egypto,” | 45 |
| All with one voice together sang, with what | |
| In the remainder of that hymn is writ. | |
| Then soon as with the sign of holy cross | |
| He bless’d them, they at once leap’d out on land: | |
| He, swiftly as he came, return’d. The crew, | 50 |
| There left, appear’d astounded with the place, | |
| Gazing around, as one who sees new sights. | |
| From every side the sun darted his beams, | |
| And with his arrowy radiance from mid heaven | |
| Had chased the Capricorn, when that strange tribe, | 55 |
| Lifting their eyes toward us: “If ye know, | |
| Declare what path will lead us to the mount.” | |
| Them Virgil answer’d: “Ye suppose, perchance, | |
| Us well acquainted with this place: but here, | |
| We, as yourselves, are strangers. Not long erst | 60 |
| We came, before you but a little space, | |
| By other road so rough and hard, that now | |
| The ascent will seem to us as play.” The spirits, | |
| Who from my breathing had perceived I lived, | |
| Grew pale with wonder. As the multitude | 65 |
| Flock round a herald sent with olive branch, | |
| To hear what news he brings, and in their haste | |
| Tread one another down; e’en so at sight | |
| Of me those happy spirits were fix’d, each one | |
| Forgetful of its errand to depart | 70 |
| Where, cleansed from sin, it might be made all fair. | |
| Then one I saw darting before the rest | |
| With such fond ardour to embrace me, I | |
| To do the like was moved. O shadows vain! | |
| Except in outward semblance: thrice my hands | 75 |
| I clasp’d behind it, they as oft return’d | |
| Empty into my breast again. Surprise | |
| I need must think was painted in my looks, | |
| For that the shadow smiled and backward drew. | |
| To follow it I hasten’d, but with voice | 80 |
| Of sweetness it enjoin’d me to desist. | |
| Then who it was I knew, and pray’d of it, | |
| To talk with me it would a little pause. | |
| It answer’d: “Thee as in my mortal frame | |
| I loved, so loosed from it I love thee still, | 85 |
| And therefore pause: but why walkest thou here?” | |
| “Not without purpose once more to return, | |
| Thou find’st me, my Casella, 5 where I am, | |
| Journeying this way;” I said: “but how of thee | |
| Hath so much time been lost?” He answer’d straight: | 90 |
| “No outrage hath been done to me, if he, 6 | |
| Who when and whom he chooses takes, hath oft | |
| Denied me passage here; since of just will | |
| His will he makes. These three months past 7 indeed, | |
| He, who so chose to enter, with free leave | 95 |
| Hath taken; whence I wandering by the shore 8 | |
| Where Tiber’s wave grows salt, of him gain’d kind | |
| Admittance, at that river’s mouth, toward which | |
| His wings are pointed; for there always throng | |
| All such as not to Acheron descend.” | 100 |
| Then I: “If new law taketh not from thee | |
| Memory or custom of love-tuned song, | |
| That whilom all my cares had power to ’swage; | |
| Please thee therewith a little to console | |
| My spirit, that encumber’d with its frame, | 105 |
| Travelling so far, of pain is overcome.” | |
| “Love, that discourses in my thoughts,” he then | |
| Began in such soft accents, that within | |
| The sweetness thrills me yet. My gentle guide, | |
| And all who came with him, so well were pleased, | 110 |
| That seem’d naught else might in their thoughts have room. | |
| Fast fix’d in mute attention to his notes | |
| We stood, when lo! that old man venerable | |
| Exclaiming, “How is this, ye tardy spirits? | |
| What negligence detains you loitering here? | 115 |
| Run to the mountain to cast off those scales, | |
| That from your eyes the sight of God conceal.” | |
| As a wild flock of pigeons, to their food | |
| Collected, blade or tares, without their pride | |
| Accustom’d, and in still and quiet sort, | 120 |
| If aught alarm them, suddenly desert | |
| Their meal, assail’d by more important care; | |
| So I that new-come troop beheld, the song | |
| Deserting, hasten to the mountain’s side, | |
| As one who goes, yet, where he tends, knows not. | 125 |
| Nor with less hurried step did we depart. | |
