CANTO XIO thou Almighty Father, who dost makeThe heavens thy dwelling, not in bounds confin’d,But that with love intenser there thou view’stThy primal effluence, hallow’d be thy name:Join each created being to extolThy might, for worthy humblest thanks and praiseIs thy blest Spirit. May thy kingdom’s peaceCome unto us; for we, unless it come,With all our striving thither tend in vain.As of their will the angels unto theeTender meet sacrifice, circling thy throneWith loud hosannas, so of theirs be doneBy saintly men on earth. Grant us this dayOur daily manna, without which he roamsThrough this rough desert retrograde, who mostToils to advance his steps. As we to eachPardon the evil done us, pardon thouBenign, and of our merit take no count.’Gainst the old adversary prove thou notOur virtue easily subdu’d; but freeFrom his incitements and defeat his wiles.This last petition, dearest Lord! is madeNot for ourselves, since that were needless now,But for their sakes who after us remain.”Thus for themselves and us good speed imploring,Those spirits went beneath a weight like thatWe sometimes feel in dreams, all, sore beset,But with unequal anguish, wearied all,Round the first circuit, purging as they go,The world’s gross darkness off: In our behalfIf there vows still be offer’d, what can hereFor them be vow’d and done by such, whose willsHave root of goodness in them? Well beseemsThat we should help them wash away the stainsThey carried hence, that so made pure and light,They may spring upward to the starry spheres.“Ah! so may mercy-temper’d justice ridYour burdens speedily, that ye have powerTo stretch your wing, which e’en to your desireShall lift you, as ye show us on which handToward the ladder leads the shortest way.And if there be more passages than one,Instruct us of that easiest to ascend;For this man who comes with me, and bears yetThe charge of fleshly raiment Adam left him,Despite his better will but slowly mounts.”From whom the answer came unto these words,Which my guide spake, appear’d not; but ’twas said“Along the bank to rightward come with us,And ye shall find a pass that mocks not toilOf living man to climb: and were it notThat I am hinder’d by the rock, wherewithThis arrogant neck is tam’d, whence needs I stoopMy visage to the ground, him, who yet lives,Whose name thou speak’st not him I fain would view.To mark if e’er I knew him? and to craveHis pity for the fardel that I bear.I was of Latiun, of a Tuscan hornA mighty one: Aldobranlesco’s nameMy sire’s, I know not if ye e’er have heard.My old blood and forefathers’ gallant deedsMade me so haughty, that I clean forgotThe common mother, and to such excess,Wax’d in my scorn of all men, that I fell,Fell therefore; by what fate Sienna’s sons,Each child in Campagnatico, can tell.I am Omberto; not me only prideHath injur’d, but my kindred all involv’dIn mischief with her. Here my lot ordainsUnder this weight to groan, till I appeaseGod’s angry justice, since I did it notAmongst the living, here amongst the dead.”List’ning I bent my visage down: and one(Not he who spake) twisted beneath the weightThat urg’d him, saw me, knew me straight, and call’d,Holding his eyes With difficulty fix’dIntent upon me, stooping as I wentCompanion of their way. “O!” I exclaim’d,“Art thou not Oderigi, art not thouAgobbio’s glory, glory of that artWhich they of Paris call the limmer’s skill?”“Brother!” said he, “with tints that gayer smile,Bolognian Franco’s pencil lines the leaves.His all the honour now; mine borrow’d light.In truth I had not been thus courteous to him,The whilst I liv’d, through eagerness of zealFor that pre-eminence my heart was bent on.Here of such pride the forfeiture is paid.Nor were I even here; if, able stillTo sin, I had not turn’d me unto God.O powers of man! how vain your glory, nipp’dE’en in its height of verdure, if an ageLess bright succeed not! Cimabue thoughtTo lord it over painting’s field; and nowThe cry is Giotto’s, and his name eclips’d.Thus hath one Guido from the other snatch’dThe letter’d prize: and he perhaps is born,Who shall drive either from their nest. The noiseOf worldly fame is but a blast of wind,That blows from divers points, and shifts its nameShifting the point it blows from. Shalt thou moreLive in the mouths of mankind, if thy fleshPart shrivel’d from thee, than if thou hadst died,Before the coral and the pap were left,Or ere some thousand years have passed? and thatIs, to eternity compar’d, a space,Briefer than is the twinkling of an eyeTo the heaven’s slowest orb. He there who treadsSo leisurely before me, far and wideThrough Tuscany resounded once; and nowIs in Sienna scarce with whispers nam’d:There was he sov’reign, when destruction caughtThe madd’ning rage of Florence, in that dayProud as she now is loathsome. Your renownIs as the herb, whose hue doth come and go,And his might withers it, by whom it sprangCrude from the lap of earth.” I thus to him:“True are thy sayings: to my heart they breatheThe kindly spirit of meekness, and allayWhat tumours rankle there. But who is heOf whom thou spak’st but now?”—“This,” he replied,“Is Provenzano. He is here, becauseHe reach’d, with grasp presumptuous, at the swayOf all Sienna. Thus he still hath gone,Thus goeth never-resting, since he died.Such is th’ acquittance render’d back of him,Who, beyond measure, dar’d on earth.” I then:“If soul that to the verge of life delaysRepentance, linger in that lower space,Nor hither mount, unless good prayers befriend,How chanc’d admittance was vouchsaf’d to him?”“When at his glory’s topmost height,” said he,“Respect of dignity all cast aside,Freely He fix’d him on Sienna’s plain,A suitor to redeem his suff’ring friend,Who languish’d in the prison-house of Charles,Nor for his sake refus’d through every veinTo tremble. More I will not say; and dark,I know, my words are, but thy neighbours soonShall help thee to a comment on the text.This is the work, that from these limits freed him.”
O thou Almighty Father, who dost makeThe heavens thy dwelling, not in bounds confin’d,But that with love intenser there thou view’stThy primal effluence, hallow’d be thy name:Join each created being to extolThy might, for worthy humblest thanks and praiseIs thy blest Spirit. May thy kingdom’s peaceCome unto us; for we, unless it come,With all our striving thither tend in vain.As of their will the angels unto theeTender meet sacrifice, circling thy throneWith loud hosannas, so of theirs be doneBy saintly men on earth. Grant us this dayOur daily manna, without which he roamsThrough this rough desert retrograde, who mostToils to advance his steps. As we to eachPardon the evil done us, pardon thouBenign, and of our merit take no count.’Gainst the old adversary prove thou notOur virtue easily subdu’d; but freeFrom his incitements and defeat his wiles.This last petition, dearest Lord! is madeNot for ourselves, since that were needless now,But for their sakes who after us remain.”
Thus for themselves and us good speed imploring,Those spirits went beneath a weight like thatWe sometimes feel in dreams, all, sore beset,But with unequal anguish, wearied all,Round the first circuit, purging as they go,The world’s gross darkness off: In our behalfIf there vows still be offer’d, what can hereFor them be vow’d and done by such, whose willsHave root of goodness in them? Well beseemsThat we should help them wash away the stainsThey carried hence, that so made pure and light,They may spring upward to the starry spheres.
“Ah! so may mercy-temper’d justice ridYour burdens speedily, that ye have powerTo stretch your wing, which e’en to your desireShall lift you, as ye show us on which handToward the ladder leads the shortest way.And if there be more passages than one,Instruct us of that easiest to ascend;For this man who comes with me, and bears yetThe charge of fleshly raiment Adam left him,Despite his better will but slowly mounts.”From whom the answer came unto these words,Which my guide spake, appear’d not; but ’twas said
“Along the bank to rightward come with us,And ye shall find a pass that mocks not toilOf living man to climb: and were it notThat I am hinder’d by the rock, wherewithThis arrogant neck is tam’d, whence needs I stoopMy visage to the ground, him, who yet lives,Whose name thou speak’st not him I fain would view.To mark if e’er I knew him? and to craveHis pity for the fardel that I bear.I was of Latiun, of a Tuscan hornA mighty one: Aldobranlesco’s nameMy sire’s, I know not if ye e’er have heard.My old blood and forefathers’ gallant deedsMade me so haughty, that I clean forgotThe common mother, and to such excess,Wax’d in my scorn of all men, that I fell,Fell therefore; by what fate Sienna’s sons,Each child in Campagnatico, can tell.I am Omberto; not me only prideHath injur’d, but my kindred all involv’dIn mischief with her. Here my lot ordainsUnder this weight to groan, till I appeaseGod’s angry justice, since I did it notAmongst the living, here amongst the dead.”
List’ning I bent my visage down: and one(Not he who spake) twisted beneath the weightThat urg’d him, saw me, knew me straight, and call’d,Holding his eyes With difficulty fix’dIntent upon me, stooping as I wentCompanion of their way. “O!” I exclaim’d,
“Art thou not Oderigi, art not thouAgobbio’s glory, glory of that artWhich they of Paris call the limmer’s skill?”
“Brother!” said he, “with tints that gayer smile,Bolognian Franco’s pencil lines the leaves.His all the honour now; mine borrow’d light.In truth I had not been thus courteous to him,The whilst I liv’d, through eagerness of zealFor that pre-eminence my heart was bent on.Here of such pride the forfeiture is paid.Nor were I even here; if, able stillTo sin, I had not turn’d me unto God.O powers of man! how vain your glory, nipp’dE’en in its height of verdure, if an ageLess bright succeed not! Cimabue thoughtTo lord it over painting’s field; and nowThe cry is Giotto’s, and his name eclips’d.Thus hath one Guido from the other snatch’dThe letter’d prize: and he perhaps is born,Who shall drive either from their nest. The noiseOf worldly fame is but a blast of wind,That blows from divers points, and shifts its nameShifting the point it blows from. Shalt thou moreLive in the mouths of mankind, if thy fleshPart shrivel’d from thee, than if thou hadst died,Before the coral and the pap were left,Or ere some thousand years have passed? and thatIs, to eternity compar’d, a space,Briefer than is the twinkling of an eyeTo the heaven’s slowest orb. He there who treadsSo leisurely before me, far and wideThrough Tuscany resounded once; and nowIs in Sienna scarce with whispers nam’d:There was he sov’reign, when destruction caughtThe madd’ning rage of Florence, in that dayProud as she now is loathsome. Your renownIs as the herb, whose hue doth come and go,And his might withers it, by whom it sprangCrude from the lap of earth.” I thus to him:“True are thy sayings: to my heart they breatheThe kindly spirit of meekness, and allayWhat tumours rankle there. But who is heOf whom thou spak’st but now?”—“This,” he replied,“Is Provenzano. He is here, becauseHe reach’d, with grasp presumptuous, at the swayOf all Sienna. Thus he still hath gone,Thus goeth never-resting, since he died.Such is th’ acquittance render’d back of him,Who, beyond measure, dar’d on earth.” I then:“If soul that to the verge of life delaysRepentance, linger in that lower space,Nor hither mount, unless good prayers befriend,How chanc’d admittance was vouchsaf’d to him?”
“When at his glory’s topmost height,” said he,“Respect of dignity all cast aside,Freely He fix’d him on Sienna’s plain,A suitor to redeem his suff’ring friend,Who languish’d in the prison-house of Charles,Nor for his sake refus’d through every veinTo tremble. More I will not say; and dark,I know, my words are, but thy neighbours soonShall help thee to a comment on the text.This is the work, that from these limits freed him.”