CANTO XVIIIThe teacher ended, and his high discourseConcluding, earnest in my looks inquir’dIf I appear’d content; and I, whom stillUnsated thirst to hear him urg’d, was mute,Mute outwardly, yet inwardly I said:“Perchance my too much questioning offendsBut he, true father, mark’d the secret wishBy diffidence restrain’d, and speaking, gaveMe boldness thus to speak: “Master, my SightGathers so lively virtue from thy beams,That all, thy words convey, distinct is seen.Wherefore I pray thee, father, whom this heartHolds dearest! thou wouldst deign by proof t’ unfoldThat love, from which as from their source thou bring’stAll good deeds and their opposite.” He then:“To what I now disclose be thy clear kenDirected, and thou plainly shalt beholdHow much those blind have err’d, who make themselvesThe guides of men. The soul, created aptTo love, moves versatile which way soe’erAught pleasing prompts her, soon as she is wak’dBy pleasure into act. Of substance trueYour apprehension forms its counterfeit,And in you the ideal shape presentingAttracts 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 seeksHis birth-place and his lasting seat, e’en thusEnters the captive soul into desire,Which is a spiritual motion, that ne’er restsBefore enjoyment of the thing it loves.Enough to show thee, how the truth from thoseIs hidden, who aver all love a thingPraise-worthy in itself: although perhapsIts substance seem still good. Yet if the waxBe good, it follows not th’ impression must.”“What love is,” I return’d, “thy words, O guide!And my own docile mind, reveal. Yet thenceNew doubts have sprung. For from without if loveBe offer’d to us, and the spirit knowsNo other footing, tend she right or wrong,Is no desert of hers.” He answering thus:“What reason here discovers I have powerTo show thee: that which lies beyond, expectFrom Beatrice, faith not reason’s task.Spirit, substantial form, with matter join’dNot in confusion mix’d, hath in itselfSpecific virtue of that union born,Which is not felt except it work, nor prov’dBut through effect, as vegetable lifeBy the green leaf. From whence his intellectDeduced its primal notices of things,Man therefore knows not, or his appetitesTheir first affections; such in you, as zealIn 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 voiceUttereth counsel, and whose word should keepThe 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 menWho reas’ning went to depth profoundest, mark’dThat innate freedom, and were thence induc’dTo leave their moral teaching to the world.Grant then, that from necessity ariseAll love that glows within you; to dismissOr harbour it, the pow’r is in yourselves.Remember, Beatrice, in her style,Denominates free choice by eminenceThe noble virtue, if in talk with theeShe touch upon that theme.” The moon, well nighTo midnight hour belated, made the starsAppear to wink and fade; and her broad diskSeem’d like a crag on fire, as up the vaultThat 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’dSolution plain and ample, stood as oneMusing in dreary slumber; but not longSlumber’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 heardIsmenus and Asopus, for his ThebesIf Bacchus’ help were needed; so came theseTumultuous, curving each his rapid step,By eagerness impell’d of holy love.Soon they o’ertook us; with such swiftness mov’dThe mighty crowd. Two spirits at their headCried weeping; “Blessed Mary sought with hasteThe hilly region. Caesar to subdueIlerda, darted in Marseilles his sting,And flew to Spain.”—“Oh tarry not: away;”The others shouted; “let not time be lostThrough slackness of affection. Hearty zealTo serve reanimates celestial grace.”“O ye, in whom intenser fervencyHaply supplies, where lukewarm erst ye fail’d,Slow or neglectful, to absolve your partOf good and virtuous, this man, who yet lives,(Credit my tale, though strange) desires t’ ascend,So morning rise to light us. Therefore sayWhich 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 willSpeeds our unwearied course. Vouchsafe us thenThy pardon, if our duty seem to theeDiscourteous rudeness. In Verona IWas abbot of San Zeno, when the handOf 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 placeOf its true pastor.” Whether more he spake,Or here was mute, I know not: he had spedE’en now so far beyond us. Yet thus muchI 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 remorseChiding their sin!” In rear of all the troopThese shouted: “First they died, to whom the seaOpen’d, or ever Jordan saw his heirs:And they, who with Aeneas to the endEndur’d not suffering, for their portion choseLife without glory.” Soon as they had fledPast reach of sight, new thought within me roseBy others follow’d fast, and each unlikeIts fellow: till led on from thought to thought,And pleasur’d with the fleeting train, mine eyeWas clos’d, and meditation chang’d to dream.
The teacher ended, and his high discourseConcluding, earnest in my looks inquir’dIf I appear’d content; and I, whom stillUnsated thirst to hear him urg’d, was mute,Mute outwardly, yet inwardly I said:“Perchance my too much questioning offendsBut he, true father, mark’d the secret wishBy diffidence restrain’d, and speaking, gaveMe boldness thus to speak: “Master, my SightGathers so lively virtue from thy beams,That all, thy words convey, distinct is seen.Wherefore I pray thee, father, whom this heartHolds dearest! thou wouldst deign by proof t’ unfoldThat love, from which as from their source thou bring’stAll good deeds and their opposite.” He then:“To what I now disclose be thy clear kenDirected, and thou plainly shalt beholdHow much those blind have err’d, who make themselvesThe guides of men. The soul, created aptTo love, moves versatile which way soe’erAught pleasing prompts her, soon as she is wak’dBy pleasure into act. Of substance trueYour apprehension forms its counterfeit,And in you the ideal shape presentingAttracts 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 seeksHis birth-place and his lasting seat, e’en thusEnters the captive soul into desire,Which is a spiritual motion, that ne’er restsBefore enjoyment of the thing it loves.Enough to show thee, how the truth from thoseIs hidden, who aver all love a thingPraise-worthy in itself: although perhapsIts substance seem still good. Yet if the waxBe good, it follows not th’ impression must.”“What love is,” I return’d, “thy words, O guide!And my own docile mind, reveal. Yet thenceNew doubts have sprung. For from without if loveBe offer’d to us, and the spirit knowsNo other footing, tend she right or wrong,Is no desert of hers.” He answering thus:“What reason here discovers I have powerTo show thee: that which lies beyond, expectFrom Beatrice, faith not reason’s task.Spirit, substantial form, with matter join’dNot in confusion mix’d, hath in itselfSpecific virtue of that union born,Which is not felt except it work, nor prov’dBut through effect, as vegetable lifeBy the green leaf. From whence his intellectDeduced its primal notices of things,Man therefore knows not, or his appetitesTheir first affections; such in you, as zealIn 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 voiceUttereth counsel, and whose word should keepThe 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 menWho reas’ning went to depth profoundest, mark’dThat innate freedom, and were thence induc’dTo leave their moral teaching to the world.Grant then, that from necessity ariseAll love that glows within you; to dismissOr harbour it, the pow’r is in yourselves.Remember, Beatrice, in her style,Denominates free choice by eminenceThe noble virtue, if in talk with theeShe touch upon that theme.” The moon, well nighTo midnight hour belated, made the starsAppear to wink and fade; and her broad diskSeem’d like a crag on fire, as up the vaultThat 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’dSolution plain and ample, stood as oneMusing in dreary slumber; but not longSlumber’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 heardIsmenus and Asopus, for his ThebesIf Bacchus’ help were needed; so came theseTumultuous, curving each his rapid step,By eagerness impell’d of holy love.
Soon they o’ertook us; with such swiftness mov’dThe mighty crowd. Two spirits at their headCried weeping; “Blessed Mary sought with hasteThe hilly region. Caesar to subdueIlerda, darted in Marseilles his sting,And flew to Spain.”—“Oh tarry not: away;”The others shouted; “let not time be lostThrough slackness of affection. Hearty zealTo serve reanimates celestial grace.”
“O ye, in whom intenser fervencyHaply supplies, where lukewarm erst ye fail’d,Slow or neglectful, to absolve your partOf good and virtuous, this man, who yet lives,(Credit my tale, though strange) desires t’ ascend,So morning rise to light us. Therefore sayWhich 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 willSpeeds our unwearied course. Vouchsafe us thenThy pardon, if our duty seem to theeDiscourteous rudeness. In Verona IWas abbot of San Zeno, when the handOf 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 placeOf its true pastor.” Whether more he spake,Or here was mute, I know not: he had spedE’en now so far beyond us. Yet thus muchI 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 remorseChiding their sin!” In rear of all the troopThese shouted: “First they died, to whom the seaOpen’d, or ever Jordan saw his heirs:And they, who with Aeneas to the endEndur’d not suffering, for their portion choseLife without glory.” Soon as they had fledPast reach of sight, new thought within me roseBy others follow’d fast, and each unlikeIts fellow: till led on from thought to thought,And pleasur’d with the fleeting train, mine eyeWas clos’d, and meditation chang’d to dream.