CANTO XIXWoe to thee, Simon Magus! woe to you,His wretched followers! who the things of God,Which should be wedded unto goodness, them,Rapacious as ye are, do prostituteFor gold and silver in adultery!Now must the trumpet sound for you, since yoursIs the third chasm. Upon the following vaultWe now had mounted, where the rock impendsDirectly o’er the centre of the foss.Wisdom Supreme! how wonderful the art,Which thou dost manifest in heaven, in earth,And in the evil world, how just a meedAllotting by thy virtue unto all!I saw the livid stone, throughout the sidesAnd in its bottom full of apertures,All equal in their width, and circular each,Nor ample less nor larger they appear’dThan in Saint John’s fair dome of me belov’dThose fram’d to hold the pure baptismal streams,One of the which I brake, some few years past,To save a whelming infant; and be thisA seal to undeceive whoever doubtsThe motive of my deed. From out the mouthOf every one, emerg’d a sinner’s feetAnd of the legs high upward as the calfThe rest beneath was hid. On either footThe soles were burning, whence the flexile jointsGlanc’d with such violent motion, as had snaptAsunder cords or twisted withs. As flame,Feeding on unctuous matter, glides alongThe surface, scarcely touching where it moves;So here, from heel to point, glided the flames.“Master! say who is he, than all the restGlancing in fiercer agony, on whomA ruddier flame doth prey?” I thus inquir’d.“If thou be willing,” he replied, “that ICarry thee down, where least the slope bank falls,He of himself shall tell thee and his wrongs.”I then: “As pleases thee to me is best.Thou art my lord; and know’st that ne’er I quitThy will: what silence hides that knowest thou.”Thereat on the fourth pier we came, we turn’d,And on our left descended to the depth,A narrow strait and perforated close.Nor from his side my leader set me down,Till to his orifice he brought, whose limbQuiv’ring express’d his pang. “Whoe’er thou art,Sad spirit! thus revers’d, and as a stakeDriv’n in the soil!” I in these words began,“If thou be able, utter forth thy voice.”There stood I like the friar, that doth shriveA wretch for murder doom’d, who e’en when fix’d,Calleth him back, whence death awhile delays.He shouted: “Ha! already standest there?Already standest there, O Boniface!By many a year the writing play’d me false.So early dost thou surfeit with the wealth,For which thou fearedst not in guile to takeThe lovely lady, and then mangle her?”I felt as those who, piercing not the driftOf answer made them, stand as if expos’dIn mockery, nor know what to reply,When Virgil thus admonish’d: “Tell him quick,I am not he, not he, whom thou believ’st.”And I, as was enjoin’d me, straight replied.That heard, the spirit all did wrench his feet,And sighing next in woeful accent spake:“What then of me requirest?” If to knowSo much imports thee, who I am, that thouHast therefore down the bank descended, learnThat in the mighty mantle I was rob’d,And of a she-bear was indeed the son,So eager to advance my whelps, that thereMy having in my purse above I stow’d,And here myself. Under my head are dragg’dThe rest, my predecessors in the guiltOf simony. Stretch’d at their length they lieAlong an opening in the rock. ’Midst themI also low shall fall, soon as he comes,For whom I took thee, when so hastilyI question’d. But already longer timeHath pass’d, since my souls kindled, and I thusUpturn’d have stood, than is his doom to standPlanted with fiery feet. For after him,One yet of deeds more ugly shall arrive,From forth the west, a shepherd without law,Fated to cover both his form and mine.He a new Jason shall be call’d, of whomIn Maccabees we read; and favour suchAs to that priest his king indulgent show’d,Shall be of France’s monarch shown to him.”I know not if I here too far presum’d,But in this strain I answer’d: “Tell me now,What treasures from St. Peter at the firstOur Lord demanded, when he put the keysInto his charge? Surely he ask’d no moreBut, Follow me! Nor Peter nor the restOr gold or silver of Matthias took,When lots were cast upon the forfeit placeOf the condemned soul. Abide thou then;Thy punishment of right is merited:And look thou well to that ill-gotten coin,Which against Charles thy hardihood inspir’d.If reverence of the keys restrain’d me not,Which thou in happier time didst hold, I yetSeverer speech might use. Your avariceO’ercasts the world with mourning, under footTreading the good, and raising bad men up.Of shepherds, like to you, th’ EvangelistWas ware, when her, who sits upon the waves,With kings in filthy whoredom he beheld,She who with seven heads tower’d at her birth,And from ten horns her proof of glory drew,Long as her spouse in virtue took delight.Of gold and silver ye have made your god,Diff’ring wherein from the idolater,But he that worships one, a hundred ye?Ah, Constantine! to how much ill gave birth,Not thy conversion, but that plenteous dower,Which the first wealthy Father gain’d from thee!”Meanwhile, as thus I sung, he, whether wrathOr conscience smote him, violent upsprangSpinning on either sole. I do believeMy teacher well was pleas’d, with so compos’dA lip, he listen’d ever to the soundOf the true words I utter’d. In both armsHe caught, and to his bosom lifting meUpward retrac’d the way of his descent.Nor weary of his weight he press’d me close,Till to the summit of the rock we came,Our passage from the fourth to the fifth pier.His cherish’d burden there gently he plac’dUpon the rugged rock and steep, a pathNot easy for the clamb’ring goat to mount.Thence to my view another vale appear’d
Woe to thee, Simon Magus! woe to you,His wretched followers! who the things of God,Which should be wedded unto goodness, them,Rapacious as ye are, do prostituteFor gold and silver in adultery!Now must the trumpet sound for you, since yoursIs the third chasm. Upon the following vaultWe now had mounted, where the rock impendsDirectly o’er the centre of the foss.
Wisdom Supreme! how wonderful the art,Which thou dost manifest in heaven, in earth,And in the evil world, how just a meedAllotting by thy virtue unto all!
I saw the livid stone, throughout the sidesAnd in its bottom full of apertures,All equal in their width, and circular each,Nor ample less nor larger they appear’dThan in Saint John’s fair dome of me belov’dThose fram’d to hold the pure baptismal streams,One of the which I brake, some few years past,To save a whelming infant; and be thisA seal to undeceive whoever doubtsThe motive of my deed. From out the mouthOf every one, emerg’d a sinner’s feetAnd of the legs high upward as the calfThe rest beneath was hid. On either footThe soles were burning, whence the flexile jointsGlanc’d with such violent motion, as had snaptAsunder cords or twisted withs. As flame,Feeding on unctuous matter, glides alongThe surface, scarcely touching where it moves;So here, from heel to point, glided the flames.
“Master! say who is he, than all the restGlancing in fiercer agony, on whomA ruddier flame doth prey?” I thus inquir’d.
“If thou be willing,” he replied, “that ICarry thee down, where least the slope bank falls,He of himself shall tell thee and his wrongs.”
I then: “As pleases thee to me is best.Thou art my lord; and know’st that ne’er I quitThy will: what silence hides that knowest thou.”Thereat on the fourth pier we came, we turn’d,And on our left descended to the depth,A narrow strait and perforated close.Nor from his side my leader set me down,Till to his orifice he brought, whose limbQuiv’ring express’d his pang. “Whoe’er thou art,Sad spirit! thus revers’d, and as a stakeDriv’n in the soil!” I in these words began,“If thou be able, utter forth thy voice.”
There stood I like the friar, that doth shriveA wretch for murder doom’d, who e’en when fix’d,Calleth him back, whence death awhile delays.
He shouted: “Ha! already standest there?Already standest there, O Boniface!By many a year the writing play’d me false.So early dost thou surfeit with the wealth,For which thou fearedst not in guile to takeThe lovely lady, and then mangle her?”
I felt as those who, piercing not the driftOf answer made them, stand as if expos’dIn mockery, nor know what to reply,When Virgil thus admonish’d: “Tell him quick,I am not he, not he, whom thou believ’st.”
And I, as was enjoin’d me, straight replied.
That heard, the spirit all did wrench his feet,And sighing next in woeful accent spake:“What then of me requirest?” If to knowSo much imports thee, who I am, that thouHast therefore down the bank descended, learnThat in the mighty mantle I was rob’d,And of a she-bear was indeed the son,So eager to advance my whelps, that thereMy having in my purse above I stow’d,And here myself. Under my head are dragg’dThe rest, my predecessors in the guiltOf simony. Stretch’d at their length they lieAlong an opening in the rock. ’Midst themI also low shall fall, soon as he comes,For whom I took thee, when so hastilyI question’d. But already longer timeHath pass’d, since my souls kindled, and I thusUpturn’d have stood, than is his doom to standPlanted with fiery feet. For after him,One yet of deeds more ugly shall arrive,From forth the west, a shepherd without law,Fated to cover both his form and mine.He a new Jason shall be call’d, of whomIn Maccabees we read; and favour suchAs to that priest his king indulgent show’d,Shall be of France’s monarch shown to him.”
I know not if I here too far presum’d,But in this strain I answer’d: “Tell me now,What treasures from St. Peter at the firstOur Lord demanded, when he put the keysInto his charge? Surely he ask’d no moreBut, Follow me! Nor Peter nor the restOr gold or silver of Matthias took,When lots were cast upon the forfeit placeOf the condemned soul. Abide thou then;Thy punishment of right is merited:And look thou well to that ill-gotten coin,Which against Charles thy hardihood inspir’d.If reverence of the keys restrain’d me not,Which thou in happier time didst hold, I yetSeverer speech might use. Your avariceO’ercasts the world with mourning, under footTreading the good, and raising bad men up.Of shepherds, like to you, th’ EvangelistWas ware, when her, who sits upon the waves,With kings in filthy whoredom he beheld,She who with seven heads tower’d at her birth,And from ten horns her proof of glory drew,Long as her spouse in virtue took delight.Of gold and silver ye have made your god,Diff’ring wherein from the idolater,But he that worships one, a hundred ye?Ah, Constantine! to how much ill gave birth,Not thy conversion, but that plenteous dower,Which the first wealthy Father gain’d from thee!”
Meanwhile, as thus I sung, he, whether wrathOr conscience smote him, violent upsprangSpinning on either sole. I do believeMy teacher well was pleas’d, with so compos’dA lip, he listen’d ever to the soundOf the true words I utter’d. In both armsHe caught, and to his bosom lifting meUpward retrac’d the way of his descent.
Nor weary of his weight he press’d me close,Till to the summit of the rock we came,Our passage from the fourth to the fifth pier.His cherish’d burden there gently he plac’dUpon the rugged rock and steep, a pathNot easy for the clamb’ring goat to mount.
Thence to my view another vale appear’d