CANTO XVIO slight respect of man’s nobility!I never shall account it marvelous,That our infirm affection here belowThou mov’st to boasting, when I could not choose,E’en in that region of unwarp’d desire,In heav’n itself, but make my vaunt in thee!Yet cloak thou art soon shorten’d, for that time,Unless thou be eked out from day to day,Goes round thee with his shears. Resuming thenWith greeting such, as Rome, was first to bear,But since hath disaccustom’d I began;And Beatrice, that a little spaceWas sever’d, smil’d reminding me of her,Whose cough embolden’d (as the story holds)To first offence the doubting Guenever.“You are my sire,” said I, “you give me heartFreely to speak my thought: above myselfYou raise me. Through so many streams with joyMy soul is fill’d, that gladness wells from it;So that it bears the mighty tide, and bursts notSay then, my honour’d stem! what ancestorsWhere those you sprang from, and what years were mark’dIn your first childhood? Tell me of the fold,That hath Saint John for guardian, what was thenIts state, and who in it were highest seated?”As embers, at the breathing of the wind,Their flame enliven, so that light I sawShine at my blandishments; and, as it grewMore fair to look on, so with voice more sweet,Yet not in this our modern phrase, forthwithIt answer’d: “From the day, when it was said‘Hail Virgin!’ to the throes, by which my mother,Who now is sainted, lighten’d her of meWhom she was heavy with, this fire had come,Five hundred fifty times and thrice, its beamsTo reilumine underneath the footOf its own lion. They, of whom I sprang,And I, had there our birth-place, where the lastPartition of our city first is reach’dBy him, that runs her annual game. Thus muchSuffice of my forefathers: who they were,And whence they hither came, more honourableIt is to pass in silence than to tell.All those, who in that time were there from MarsUntil the Baptist, fit to carry arms,Were but the fifth of them this day alive.But then the citizen’s blood, that now is mix’dFrom Campi and Certaldo and Fighine,Ran purely through the last mechanic’s veins.O how much better were it, that these peopleWere neighbours to you, and that at GalluzzoAnd at Trespiano, ye should have your bound’ry,Than to have them within, and bear the stenchOf Aguglione’s hind, and Signa’s, him,That hath his eye already keen for bart’ring!Had not the people, which of all the worldDegenerates most, been stepdame unto Caesar,But, as a mother, gracious to her son;Such one, as hath become a Florentine,And trades and traffics, had been turn’d adriftTo Simifonte, where his grandsire ply’dThe beggar’s craft. The Conti were possess’dOf Montemurlo still: the Cerchi stillWere in Acone’s parish; nor had haplyFrom Valdigrieve past the Buondelmonte.The city’s malady hath ever sourceIn the confusion of its persons, asThe body’s, in variety of food:And the blind bull falls with a steeper plunge,Than the blind lamb; and oftentimes one swordDoth more and better execution,Than five. Mark Luni, Urbisaglia mark,How they are gone, and after them how goChiusi and Sinigaglia; and ’twill seemNo longer new or strange to thee to hear,That families fail, when cities have their end.All things, that appertain t’ ye, like yourselves,Are mortal: but mortality in someYe mark not, they endure so long, and youPass by so suddenly. And as the moonDoth, by the rolling of her heav’nly sphere,Hide and reveal the strand unceasingly;So fortune deals with Florence. Hence admire notAt what of them I tell thee, whose renownTime covers, the first Florentines. I sawThe Ughi, Catilini and Filippi,The Alberichi, Greci and Ormanni,Now in their wane, illustrious citizens:And great as ancient, of Sannella him,With him of Arca saw, and SoldanieriAnd Ardinghi, and Bostichi. At the poop,That now is laden with new felony,So cumb’rous it may speedily sink the bark,The Ravignani sat, of whom is sprungThe County Guido, and whoso hath sinceHis title from the fam’d Bellincione ta’en.Fair governance was yet an art well priz’dBy him of Pressa: Galigaio show’dThe gilded hilt and pommel, in his house.The column, cloth’d with verrey, still was seenUnshaken: the Sacchetti still were great,Giouchi, Sifanti, Galli and Barucci,With them who blush to hear the bushel nam’d.Of the Calfucci still the branchy trunkWas in its strength: and to the curule chairsSizii and Arigucci yet were drawn.How mighty them I saw, whom since their prideHath undone! and in all her goodly deedsFlorence was by the bullets of bright goldO’erflourish’d. Such the sires of those, who now,As surely as your church is vacant, flockInto her consistory, and at leisureThere stall them and grow fat. The o’erweening brood,That plays the dragon after him that flees,But unto such, as turn and show the tooth,Ay or the purse, is gentle as a lamb,Was on its rise, but yet so slight esteem’d,That Ubertino of Donati grudg’dHis father-in-law should yoke him to its tribe.Already Caponsacco had descendedInto the mart from Fesole: and GiudaAnd Infangato were good citizens.A thing incredible I tell, tho’ true:The gateway, named from those of Pera, ledInto the narrow circuit of your walls.Each one, who bears the sightly quarteringsOf the great Baron (he whose name and worthThe festival of Thomas still revives)His knighthood and his privilege retain’d;Albeit one, who borders them With gold,This day is mingled with the common herd.In Borgo yet the Gualterotti dwelt,And Importuni: well for its reposeHad it still lack’d of newer neighbourhood.The house, from whence your tears have had their spring,Through the just anger that hath murder’d yeAnd put a period to your gladsome days,Was honour’d, it, and those consorted with it.O Buondelmonte! what ill counselingPrevail’d on thee to break the plighted bondMany, who now are weeping, would rejoice,Had God to Ema giv’n thee, the first timeThou near our city cam’st. But so was doom’d:On that maim’d stone set up to guard the bridge,At thy last peace, the victim, Florence! fell.With these and others like to them, I sawFlorence in such assur’d tranquility,She had no cause at which to grieve: with theseSaw her so glorious and so just, that ne’erThe lily from the lance had hung reverse,Or through division been with vermeil dyed.”
O slight respect of man’s nobility!I never shall account it marvelous,That our infirm affection here belowThou mov’st to boasting, when I could not choose,E’en in that region of unwarp’d desire,In heav’n itself, but make my vaunt in thee!Yet cloak thou art soon shorten’d, for that time,Unless thou be eked out from day to day,Goes round thee with his shears. Resuming thenWith greeting such, as Rome, was first to bear,But since hath disaccustom’d I began;And Beatrice, that a little spaceWas sever’d, smil’d reminding me of her,Whose cough embolden’d (as the story holds)To first offence the doubting Guenever.
“You are my sire,” said I, “you give me heartFreely to speak my thought: above myselfYou raise me. Through so many streams with joyMy soul is fill’d, that gladness wells from it;So that it bears the mighty tide, and bursts notSay then, my honour’d stem! what ancestorsWhere those you sprang from, and what years were mark’dIn your first childhood? Tell me of the fold,That hath Saint John for guardian, what was thenIts state, and who in it were highest seated?”
As embers, at the breathing of the wind,Their flame enliven, so that light I sawShine at my blandishments; and, as it grewMore fair to look on, so with voice more sweet,Yet not in this our modern phrase, forthwithIt answer’d: “From the day, when it was said‘Hail Virgin!’ to the throes, by which my mother,Who now is sainted, lighten’d her of meWhom she was heavy with, this fire had come,Five hundred fifty times and thrice, its beamsTo reilumine underneath the footOf its own lion. They, of whom I sprang,And I, had there our birth-place, where the lastPartition of our city first is reach’dBy him, that runs her annual game. Thus muchSuffice of my forefathers: who they were,And whence they hither came, more honourableIt is to pass in silence than to tell.All those, who in that time were there from MarsUntil the Baptist, fit to carry arms,Were but the fifth of them this day alive.But then the citizen’s blood, that now is mix’dFrom Campi and Certaldo and Fighine,Ran purely through the last mechanic’s veins.O how much better were it, that these peopleWere neighbours to you, and that at GalluzzoAnd at Trespiano, ye should have your bound’ry,Than to have them within, and bear the stenchOf Aguglione’s hind, and Signa’s, him,That hath his eye already keen for bart’ring!Had not the people, which of all the worldDegenerates most, been stepdame unto Caesar,But, as a mother, gracious to her son;Such one, as hath become a Florentine,And trades and traffics, had been turn’d adriftTo Simifonte, where his grandsire ply’dThe beggar’s craft. The Conti were possess’dOf Montemurlo still: the Cerchi stillWere in Acone’s parish; nor had haplyFrom Valdigrieve past the Buondelmonte.The city’s malady hath ever sourceIn the confusion of its persons, asThe body’s, in variety of food:And the blind bull falls with a steeper plunge,Than the blind lamb; and oftentimes one swordDoth more and better execution,Than five. Mark Luni, Urbisaglia mark,How they are gone, and after them how goChiusi and Sinigaglia; and ’twill seemNo longer new or strange to thee to hear,That families fail, when cities have their end.All things, that appertain t’ ye, like yourselves,Are mortal: but mortality in someYe mark not, they endure so long, and youPass by so suddenly. And as the moonDoth, by the rolling of her heav’nly sphere,Hide and reveal the strand unceasingly;So fortune deals with Florence. Hence admire notAt what of them I tell thee, whose renownTime covers, the first Florentines. I sawThe Ughi, Catilini and Filippi,The Alberichi, Greci and Ormanni,Now in their wane, illustrious citizens:And great as ancient, of Sannella him,With him of Arca saw, and SoldanieriAnd Ardinghi, and Bostichi. At the poop,That now is laden with new felony,So cumb’rous it may speedily sink the bark,The Ravignani sat, of whom is sprungThe County Guido, and whoso hath sinceHis title from the fam’d Bellincione ta’en.Fair governance was yet an art well priz’dBy him of Pressa: Galigaio show’dThe gilded hilt and pommel, in his house.The column, cloth’d with verrey, still was seenUnshaken: the Sacchetti still were great,Giouchi, Sifanti, Galli and Barucci,With them who blush to hear the bushel nam’d.Of the Calfucci still the branchy trunkWas in its strength: and to the curule chairsSizii and Arigucci yet were drawn.How mighty them I saw, whom since their prideHath undone! and in all her goodly deedsFlorence was by the bullets of bright goldO’erflourish’d. Such the sires of those, who now,As surely as your church is vacant, flockInto her consistory, and at leisureThere stall them and grow fat. The o’erweening brood,That plays the dragon after him that flees,But unto such, as turn and show the tooth,Ay or the purse, is gentle as a lamb,Was on its rise, but yet so slight esteem’d,That Ubertino of Donati grudg’dHis father-in-law should yoke him to its tribe.Already Caponsacco had descendedInto the mart from Fesole: and GiudaAnd Infangato were good citizens.A thing incredible I tell, tho’ true:The gateway, named from those of Pera, ledInto the narrow circuit of your walls.Each one, who bears the sightly quarteringsOf the great Baron (he whose name and worthThe festival of Thomas still revives)His knighthood and his privilege retain’d;Albeit one, who borders them With gold,This day is mingled with the common herd.In Borgo yet the Gualterotti dwelt,And Importuni: well for its reposeHad it still lack’d of newer neighbourhood.The house, from whence your tears have had their spring,Through the just anger that hath murder’d yeAnd put a period to your gladsome days,Was honour’d, it, and those consorted with it.O Buondelmonte! what ill counselingPrevail’d on thee to break the plighted bondMany, who now are weeping, would rejoice,Had God to Ema giv’n thee, the first timeThou near our city cam’st. But so was doom’d:On that maim’d stone set up to guard the bridge,At thy last peace, the victim, Florence! fell.With these and others like to them, I sawFlorence in such assur’d tranquility,She had no cause at which to grieve: with theseSaw her so glorious and so just, that ne’erThe lily from the lance had hung reverse,Or through division been with vermeil dyed.”