CANTO IXAfter solution of my doubt, thy Charles,O fair Clemenza, of the treachery spakeThat must befall his seed: but, “Tell it not,”Said he, “and let the destin’d years come round.”Nor may I tell thee more, save that the meedOf sorrow well-deserv’d shall quit your wrongs.And now the visage of that saintly lightWas to the sun, that fills it, turn’d again,As to the good, whose plenitude of blissSufficeth all. O ye misguided souls!Infatuate, who from such a good estrangeYour hearts, and bend your gaze on vanity,Alas for you!—And lo! toward me, next,Another of those splendent forms approach’d,That, by its outward bright’ning, testifiedThe will it had to pleasure me. The eyesOf Beatrice, resting, as before,Firmly upon me, manifested forthApprova1 of my wish. “And O,” I cried,Blest spirit! quickly be my will perform’d;And prove thou to me, that my inmost thoughtsI can reflect on thee.” Thereat the light,That yet was new to me, from the recess,Where it before was singing, thus began,As one who joys in kindness: “In that partOf the deprav’d Italian land, which liesBetween Rialto, and the fountain-springsOf Brenta and of Piava, there doth rise,But to no lofty eminence, a hill,From whence erewhile a firebrand did descend,That sorely sheet the region. From one rootI and it sprang; my name on earth Cunizza:And here I glitter, for that by its lightThis star o’ercame me. Yet I naught repine,Nor grudge myself the cause of this my lot,Which haply vulgar hearts can scarce conceive.“This jewel, that is next me in our heaven,Lustrous and costly, great renown hath left,And not to perish, ere these hundred yearsFive times absolve their round. Consider thou,If to excel be worthy man’s endeavour,When such life may attend the first. Yet theyCare not for this, the crowd that now are girtBy Adice and Tagliamento, stillImpenitent, tho’ scourg’d. The hour is near,When for their stubbornness at Padua’s marshThe water shall be chang’d, that laves VicenaAnd where Cagnano meets with Sile, oneLords it, and bears his head aloft, for whomThe web is now a-warping. Feltro tooShall sorrow for its godless shepherd’s fault,Of so deep stain, that never, for the like,Was Malta’s bar unclos’d. Too large should beThe skillet, that would hold Ferrara’s blood,And wearied he, who ounce by ounce would weight it,The which this priest, in show of party-zeal,Courteous will give; nor will the gift ill suitThe country’s custom. We descry above,Mirrors, ye call them thrones, from which to usReflected shine the judgments of our God:Whence these our sayings we avouch for good.”She ended, and appear’d on other thoughtsIntent, re-ent’ring on the wheel she lateHad left. That other joyance meanwhile wax’dA thing to marvel at, in splendour glowing,Like choicest ruby stricken by the sun,For, in that upper clime, effulgence comesOf gladness, as here laughter: and below,As the mind saddens, murkier grows the shade.“God seeth all: and in him is thy sight,”Said I, “blest Spirit! Therefore will of hisCannot to thee be dark. Why then delaysThy voice to satisfy my wish untold,That voice which joins the inexpressive song,Pastime of heav’n, the which those ardours sing,That cowl them with six shadowing wings outspread?I would not wait thy asking, wert thou knownTo me, as thoroughly I to thee am known.”He forthwith answ’ring, thus his words began:“The valley’ of waters, widest next to thatWhich doth the earth engarland, shapes its course,Between discordant shores, against the sunInward so far, it makes meridian there,Where was before th’ horizon. Of that valeDwelt I upon the shore, ’twixt Ebro’s streamAnd Macra’s, that divides with passage briefGenoan bounds from Tuscan. East and westAre nearly one to Begga and my land,Whose haven erst was with its own blood warm.Who knew my name were wont to call me Folco:And I did bear impression of this heav’n,That now bears mine: for not with fiercer flameGlow’d Belus’ daughter, injuring alikeSichaeus and Creusa, than did I,Long as it suited the unripen’d downThat fledg’d my cheek: nor she of Rhodope,That was beguiled of Demophoon;Nor Jove’s son, when the charms of IoleWere shrin’d within his heart. And yet there hidesNo sorrowful repentance here, but mirth,Not for the fault (that doth not come to mind),But for the virtue, whose o’erruling swayAnd providence have wrought thus quaintly. HereThe skill is look’d into, that fashionethWith such effectual working, and the goodDiscern’d, accruing to this upper worldFrom that below. But fully to contentThy wishes, all that in this sphere have birth,Demands my further parle. Inquire thou wouldst,Who of this light is denizen, that hereBeside me sparkles, as the sun-beam dothOn the clear wave. Know then, the soul of RahabIs in that gladsome harbour, to our tribeUnited, and the foremost rank assign’d.He to that heav’n, at which the shadow endsOf your sublunar world, was taken up,First, in Christ’s triumph, of all souls redeem’d:For well behoov’d, that, in some part of heav’n,She should remain a trophy, to declareThe mighty contest won with either palm;For that she favour’d first the high exploitOf Joshua on the holy land, whereofThe Pope recks little now. Thy city, plantOf him, that on his Maker turn’d the back,And of whose envying so much woe hath sprung,Engenders and expands the cursed flower,That hath made wander both the sheep and lambs,Turning the shepherd to a wolf. For this,The gospel and great teachers laid aside,The decretals, as their stuft margins show,Are the sole study. Pope and Cardinals,Intent on these, ne’er journey but in thoughtTo Nazareth, where Gabriel op’d his wings.Yet it may chance, erelong, the Vatican,And other most selected parts of Rome,That were the grave of Peter’s soldiery,Shall be deliver’d from the adult’rous bond.”
After solution of my doubt, thy Charles,O fair Clemenza, of the treachery spakeThat must befall his seed: but, “Tell it not,”Said he, “and let the destin’d years come round.”Nor may I tell thee more, save that the meedOf sorrow well-deserv’d shall quit your wrongs.
And now the visage of that saintly lightWas to the sun, that fills it, turn’d again,As to the good, whose plenitude of blissSufficeth all. O ye misguided souls!Infatuate, who from such a good estrangeYour hearts, and bend your gaze on vanity,Alas for you!—And lo! toward me, next,Another of those splendent forms approach’d,That, by its outward bright’ning, testifiedThe will it had to pleasure me. The eyesOf Beatrice, resting, as before,Firmly upon me, manifested forthApprova1 of my wish. “And O,” I cried,Blest spirit! quickly be my will perform’d;And prove thou to me, that my inmost thoughtsI can reflect on thee.” Thereat the light,That yet was new to me, from the recess,Where it before was singing, thus began,As one who joys in kindness: “In that partOf the deprav’d Italian land, which liesBetween Rialto, and the fountain-springsOf Brenta and of Piava, there doth rise,But to no lofty eminence, a hill,From whence erewhile a firebrand did descend,That sorely sheet the region. From one rootI and it sprang; my name on earth Cunizza:And here I glitter, for that by its lightThis star o’ercame me. Yet I naught repine,Nor grudge myself the cause of this my lot,Which haply vulgar hearts can scarce conceive.
“This jewel, that is next me in our heaven,Lustrous and costly, great renown hath left,And not to perish, ere these hundred yearsFive times absolve their round. Consider thou,If to excel be worthy man’s endeavour,When such life may attend the first. Yet theyCare not for this, the crowd that now are girtBy Adice and Tagliamento, stillImpenitent, tho’ scourg’d. The hour is near,When for their stubbornness at Padua’s marshThe water shall be chang’d, that laves VicenaAnd where Cagnano meets with Sile, oneLords it, and bears his head aloft, for whomThe web is now a-warping. Feltro tooShall sorrow for its godless shepherd’s fault,Of so deep stain, that never, for the like,Was Malta’s bar unclos’d. Too large should beThe skillet, that would hold Ferrara’s blood,And wearied he, who ounce by ounce would weight it,The which this priest, in show of party-zeal,Courteous will give; nor will the gift ill suitThe country’s custom. We descry above,Mirrors, ye call them thrones, from which to usReflected shine the judgments of our God:Whence these our sayings we avouch for good.”
She ended, and appear’d on other thoughtsIntent, re-ent’ring on the wheel she lateHad left. That other joyance meanwhile wax’dA thing to marvel at, in splendour glowing,Like choicest ruby stricken by the sun,For, in that upper clime, effulgence comesOf gladness, as here laughter: and below,As the mind saddens, murkier grows the shade.
“God seeth all: and in him is thy sight,”Said I, “blest Spirit! Therefore will of hisCannot to thee be dark. Why then delaysThy voice to satisfy my wish untold,That voice which joins the inexpressive song,Pastime of heav’n, the which those ardours sing,That cowl them with six shadowing wings outspread?I would not wait thy asking, wert thou knownTo me, as thoroughly I to thee am known.”
He forthwith answ’ring, thus his words began:“The valley’ of waters, widest next to thatWhich doth the earth engarland, shapes its course,Between discordant shores, against the sunInward so far, it makes meridian there,Where was before th’ horizon. Of that valeDwelt I upon the shore, ’twixt Ebro’s streamAnd Macra’s, that divides with passage briefGenoan bounds from Tuscan. East and westAre nearly one to Begga and my land,Whose haven erst was with its own blood warm.Who knew my name were wont to call me Folco:And I did bear impression of this heav’n,That now bears mine: for not with fiercer flameGlow’d Belus’ daughter, injuring alikeSichaeus and Creusa, than did I,Long as it suited the unripen’d downThat fledg’d my cheek: nor she of Rhodope,That was beguiled of Demophoon;Nor Jove’s son, when the charms of IoleWere shrin’d within his heart. And yet there hidesNo sorrowful repentance here, but mirth,Not for the fault (that doth not come to mind),But for the virtue, whose o’erruling swayAnd providence have wrought thus quaintly. HereThe skill is look’d into, that fashionethWith such effectual working, and the goodDiscern’d, accruing to this upper worldFrom that below. But fully to contentThy wishes, all that in this sphere have birth,Demands my further parle. Inquire thou wouldst,Who of this light is denizen, that hereBeside me sparkles, as the sun-beam dothOn the clear wave. Know then, the soul of RahabIs in that gladsome harbour, to our tribeUnited, and the foremost rank assign’d.He to that heav’n, at which the shadow endsOf your sublunar world, was taken up,First, in Christ’s triumph, of all souls redeem’d:For well behoov’d, that, in some part of heav’n,She should remain a trophy, to declareThe mighty contest won with either palm;For that she favour’d first the high exploitOf Joshua on the holy land, whereofThe Pope recks little now. Thy city, plantOf him, that on his Maker turn’d the back,And of whose envying so much woe hath sprung,Engenders and expands the cursed flower,That hath made wander both the sheep and lambs,Turning the shepherd to a wolf. For this,The gospel and great teachers laid aside,The decretals, as their stuft margins show,Are the sole study. Pope and Cardinals,Intent on these, ne’er journey but in thoughtTo Nazareth, where Gabriel op’d his wings.Yet it may chance, erelong, the Vatican,And other most selected parts of Rome,That were the grave of Peter’s soldiery,Shall be deliver’d from the adult’rous bond.”