CANTO XXIXNo longer than what time Latona’s twinsCover’d of Libra and the fleecy star,Together both, girding the’ horizon hang,In even balance from the zenith pois’d,Till from that verge, each, changing hemisphere,Part the nice level; e’en so brief a spaceDid Beatrice’s silence hold. A smileBat painted on her cheek; and her fix’d gazeBent on the point, at which my vision fail’d:When thus her words resuming she began:“I speak, nor what thou wouldst inquire demand;For I have mark’d it, where all time and placeAre present. Not for increase to himselfOf good, which may not be increas’d, but forthTo manifest his glory by its beams,Inhabiting his own eternity,Beyond time’s limit or what bound soe’erTo circumscribe his being, as he will’d,Into new natures, like unto himself,Eternal Love unfolded. Nor before,As if in dull inaction torpid lay.For not in process of before or aftUpon these waters mov’d the Spirit of God.Simple and mix’d, both form and substance, forthTo perfect being started, like three dartsShot from a bow three-corded. And as rayIn crystal, glass, and amber, shines entire,E’en at the moment of its issuing; thusDid, from th’ eternal Sovran, beam entireHis threefold operation, at one actProduc’d coeval. Yet in order eachCreated his due station knew: those highest,Who pure intelligence were made: mere powerThe lowest: in the midst, bound with strict league,Intelligence and power, unsever’d bond.Long tract of ages by the angels past,Ere the creating of another world,Describ’d on Jerome’s pages thou hast seen.But that what I disclose to thee is true,Those penmen, whom the Holy Spirit mov’dIn many a passage of their sacred bookAttest; as thou by diligent search shalt findAnd reason in some sort discerns the same,Who scarce would grant the heav’nly ministersOf their perfection void, so long a space.Thus when and where these spirits of love were made,Thou know’st, and how: and knowing hast allay’dThy thirst, which from the triple question rose.Ere one had reckon’d twenty, e’en so soonPart of the angels fell: and in their fallConfusion to your elements ensued.The others kept their station: and this task,Whereon thou lookst, began with such delight,That they surcease not ever, day nor night,Their circling. Of that fatal lapse the causeWas the curst pride of him, whom thou hast seenPent with the world’s incumbrance. Those, whom hereThou seest, were lowly to confess themselvesOf his free bounty, who had made them aptFor ministries so high: therefore their viewsWere by enlight’ning grace and their own meritExalted; so that in their will confirm’dThey stand, nor feel to fall. For do not doubt,But to receive the grace, which heav’n vouchsafes,Is meritorious, even as the soulWith prompt affection welcometh the guest.Now, without further help, if with good heedMy words thy mind have treasur’d, thou henceforthThis consistory round about mayst scan,And gaze thy fill. But since thou hast on earthHeard vain disputers, reasoners in the schools,Canvas the’ angelic nature, and disputeIts powers of apprehension, memory, choice;Therefore, ’tis well thou take from me the truth,Pure and without disguise, which they below,Equivocating, darken and perplex.“Know thou, that, from the first, these substances,Rejoicing in the countenance of God,Have held unceasingly their view, intentUpon the glorious vision, from the whichNaught absent is nor hid: where then no changeOf newness with succession interrupts,Remembrance there needs none to gather upDivided thought and images remote“So that men, thus at variance with the truthDream, though their eyes be open; reckless someOf error; others well aware they err,To whom more guilt and shame are justly due.Each the known track of sage philosophyDeserts, and has a byway of his own:So much the restless eagerness to shineAnd love of singularity prevail.Yet this, offensive as it is, provokesHeav’n’s anger less, than when the book of GodIs forc’d to yield to man’s authority,Or from its straightness warp’d: no reck’ning madeWhat blood the sowing of it in the worldHas cost; what favour for himself he wins,Who meekly clings to it. The aim of allIs how to shine: e’en they, whose office isTo preach the Gospel, let the gospel sleep,And pass their own inventions off instead.One tells, how at Christ’s suffering the wan moonBent back her steps, and shadow’d o’er the sunWith intervenient disk, as she withdrew:Another, how the light shrouded itselfWithin its tabernacle, and left darkThe Spaniard and the Indian, with the Jew.Such fables Florence in her pulpit hears,Bandied about more frequent, than the namesOf Bindi and of Lapi in her streets.The sheep, meanwhile, poor witless ones, returnFrom pasture, fed with wind: and what availsFor their excuse, they do not see their harm?Christ said not to his first conventicle,‘Go forth and preach impostures to the world,’But gave them truth to build on; and the soundWas mighty on their lips; nor needed they,Beside the gospel, other spear or shield,To aid them in their warfare for the faith.The preacher now provides himself with storeOf jests and gibes; and, so there be no lackOf laughter, while he vents them, his big cowlDistends, and he has won the meed he sought:Could but the vulgar catch a glimpse the whileOf that dark bird which nestles in his hood,They scarce would wait to hear the blessing said.Which now the dotards hold in such esteem,That every counterfeit, who spreads abroadThe hands of holy promise, finds a throngOf credulous fools beneath. Saint AnthonyFattens with this his swine, and others worseThan swine, who diet at his lazy board,Paying with unstamp’d metal for their fare.“But (for we far have wander’d) let us seekThe forward path again; so as the wayBe shorten’d with the time. No mortal tongueNor thought of man hath ever reach’d so far,That of these natures he might count the tribes.What Daniel of their thousands hath reveal’dWith finite number infinite conceals.The fountain at whose source these drink their beams,With light supplies them in as many modes,As there are splendours, that it shines on: eachAccording to the virtue it conceives,Differing in love and sweet affection.Look then how lofty and how huge in breadthThe’ eternal might, which, broken and dispers’dOver such countless mirrors, yet remainsWhole in itself and one, as at the first.”
No longer than what time Latona’s twinsCover’d of Libra and the fleecy star,Together both, girding the’ horizon hang,In even balance from the zenith pois’d,Till from that verge, each, changing hemisphere,Part the nice level; e’en so brief a spaceDid Beatrice’s silence hold. A smileBat painted on her cheek; and her fix’d gazeBent on the point, at which my vision fail’d:When thus her words resuming she began:“I speak, nor what thou wouldst inquire demand;For I have mark’d it, where all time and placeAre present. Not for increase to himselfOf good, which may not be increas’d, but forthTo manifest his glory by its beams,Inhabiting his own eternity,Beyond time’s limit or what bound soe’erTo circumscribe his being, as he will’d,Into new natures, like unto himself,Eternal Love unfolded. Nor before,As if in dull inaction torpid lay.For not in process of before or aftUpon these waters mov’d the Spirit of God.Simple and mix’d, both form and substance, forthTo perfect being started, like three dartsShot from a bow three-corded. And as rayIn crystal, glass, and amber, shines entire,E’en at the moment of its issuing; thusDid, from th’ eternal Sovran, beam entireHis threefold operation, at one actProduc’d coeval. Yet in order eachCreated his due station knew: those highest,Who pure intelligence were made: mere powerThe lowest: in the midst, bound with strict league,Intelligence and power, unsever’d bond.Long tract of ages by the angels past,Ere the creating of another world,Describ’d on Jerome’s pages thou hast seen.But that what I disclose to thee is true,Those penmen, whom the Holy Spirit mov’dIn many a passage of their sacred bookAttest; as thou by diligent search shalt findAnd reason in some sort discerns the same,Who scarce would grant the heav’nly ministersOf their perfection void, so long a space.Thus when and where these spirits of love were made,Thou know’st, and how: and knowing hast allay’dThy thirst, which from the triple question rose.Ere one had reckon’d twenty, e’en so soonPart of the angels fell: and in their fallConfusion to your elements ensued.The others kept their station: and this task,Whereon thou lookst, began with such delight,That they surcease not ever, day nor night,Their circling. Of that fatal lapse the causeWas the curst pride of him, whom thou hast seenPent with the world’s incumbrance. Those, whom hereThou seest, were lowly to confess themselvesOf his free bounty, who had made them aptFor ministries so high: therefore their viewsWere by enlight’ning grace and their own meritExalted; so that in their will confirm’dThey stand, nor feel to fall. For do not doubt,But to receive the grace, which heav’n vouchsafes,Is meritorious, even as the soulWith prompt affection welcometh the guest.Now, without further help, if with good heedMy words thy mind have treasur’d, thou henceforthThis consistory round about mayst scan,And gaze thy fill. But since thou hast on earthHeard vain disputers, reasoners in the schools,Canvas the’ angelic nature, and disputeIts powers of apprehension, memory, choice;Therefore, ’tis well thou take from me the truth,Pure and without disguise, which they below,Equivocating, darken and perplex.
“Know thou, that, from the first, these substances,Rejoicing in the countenance of God,Have held unceasingly their view, intentUpon the glorious vision, from the whichNaught absent is nor hid: where then no changeOf newness with succession interrupts,Remembrance there needs none to gather upDivided thought and images remote
“So that men, thus at variance with the truthDream, though their eyes be open; reckless someOf error; others well aware they err,To whom more guilt and shame are justly due.Each the known track of sage philosophyDeserts, and has a byway of his own:So much the restless eagerness to shineAnd love of singularity prevail.Yet this, offensive as it is, provokesHeav’n’s anger less, than when the book of GodIs forc’d to yield to man’s authority,Or from its straightness warp’d: no reck’ning madeWhat blood the sowing of it in the worldHas cost; what favour for himself he wins,Who meekly clings to it. The aim of allIs how to shine: e’en they, whose office isTo preach the Gospel, let the gospel sleep,And pass their own inventions off instead.One tells, how at Christ’s suffering the wan moonBent back her steps, and shadow’d o’er the sunWith intervenient disk, as she withdrew:Another, how the light shrouded itselfWithin its tabernacle, and left darkThe Spaniard and the Indian, with the Jew.Such fables Florence in her pulpit hears,Bandied about more frequent, than the namesOf Bindi and of Lapi in her streets.The sheep, meanwhile, poor witless ones, returnFrom pasture, fed with wind: and what availsFor their excuse, they do not see their harm?Christ said not to his first conventicle,‘Go forth and preach impostures to the world,’But gave them truth to build on; and the soundWas mighty on their lips; nor needed they,Beside the gospel, other spear or shield,To aid them in their warfare for the faith.The preacher now provides himself with storeOf jests and gibes; and, so there be no lackOf laughter, while he vents them, his big cowlDistends, and he has won the meed he sought:Could but the vulgar catch a glimpse the whileOf that dark bird which nestles in his hood,They scarce would wait to hear the blessing said.Which now the dotards hold in such esteem,That every counterfeit, who spreads abroadThe hands of holy promise, finds a throngOf credulous fools beneath. Saint AnthonyFattens with this his swine, and others worseThan swine, who diet at his lazy board,Paying with unstamp’d metal for their fare.
“But (for we far have wander’d) let us seekThe forward path again; so as the wayBe shorten’d with the time. No mortal tongueNor thought of man hath ever reach’d so far,That of these natures he might count the tribes.What Daniel of their thousands hath reveal’dWith finite number infinite conceals.The fountain at whose source these drink their beams,With light supplies them in as many modes,As there are splendours, that it shines on: eachAccording to the virtue it conceives,Differing in love and sweet affection.Look then how lofty and how huge in breadthThe’ eternal might, which, broken and dispers’dOver such countless mirrors, yet remainsWhole in itself and one, as at the first.”