CANTO VIIAfter their courteous greetings joyfullySev’n times exchang’d, Sordello backward drewExclaiming, “Who are ye?” “Before this mountBy spirits worthy of ascent to GodWas sought, my bones had by Octavius’ careBeen buried. I am Virgil, for no sinDepriv’d of heav’n, except for lack of faith.”So answer’d him in few my gentle guide.As one, who aught before him suddenlyBeholding, whence his wonder riseth, cries“It is yet is not,” wav’ring in belief;Such he appear’d; then downward bent his eyes,And drawing near with reverential step,Caught him, where of mean estate might claspHis lord. “Glory of Latium!” he exclaim’d,“In whom our tongue its utmost power display’d!Boast of my honor’d birth-place! what desertOf mine, what favour rather undeserv’d,Shows thee to me? If I to hear that voiceAm worthy, say if from below thou com’stAnd from what cloister’s pale?”—“Through every orbOf that sad region,” he reply’d, “thus farAm I arriv’d, by heav’nly influence ledAnd with such aid I come. There is a placeThere underneath, not made by torments sad,But by dun shades alone; where mourning’s voiceSounds not of anguish sharp, but breathes in sighs.“There I with little innocents abide,Who by death’s fangs were bitten, ere exemptFrom human taint. There I with those abide,Who the three holy virtues put not on,But understood the rest, and without blameFollow’d them all. But if thou know’st and canst,Direct us, how we soonest may arrive,Where Purgatory its true beginning takes.”He answer’d thus: “We have no certain placeAssign’d us: upwards I may go or round,Far as I can, I join thee for thy guide.But thou beholdest now how day declines:And upwards to proceed by night, our powerExcels: therefore it may be well to chooseA place of pleasant sojourn. To the rightSome spirits sit apart retir’d. If thouConsentest, I to these will lead thy steps:And thou wilt know them, not without delight.”“How chances this?” was answer’d; “who so wish’dTo ascend by night, would he be thence debarr’dBy other, or through his own weakness fail?”The good Sordello then, along the groundTrailing his finger, spoke: “Only this lineThou shalt not overpass, soon as the sunHath disappear’d; not that aught else impedesThy going upwards, save the shades of night.These with the wont of power perplex the will.With them thou haply mightst return beneath,Or to and fro around the mountain’s sideWander, while day is in the horizon shut.”My master straight, as wond’ring at his speech,Exclaim’d: “Then lead us quickly, where thou sayst,That, while we stay, we may enjoy delight.”A little space we were remov’d from thence,When I perceiv’d the mountain hollow’d out.Ev’n as large valleys hollow’d out on earth,“That way,” the’ escorting spirit cried, “we go,Where in a bosom the high bank recedes:And thou await renewal of the day.”Betwixt the steep and plain a crooked pathLed us traverse into the ridge’s side,Where more than half the sloping edge expires.Refulgent gold, and silver thrice refin’d,And scarlet grain and ceruse, Indian woodOf lucid dye serene, fresh emeraldsBut newly broken, by the herbs and flowersPlac’d in that fair recess, in color allHad been surpass’d, as great surpasses less.Nor nature only there lavish’d her hues,But of the sweetness of a thousand smellsA rare and undistinguish’d fragrance made.“Salve Regina,” on the grass and flowersHere chanting I beheld those spirits sitWho not beyond the valley could be seen.“Before the west’ring sun sink to his bed,”Began the Mantuan, who our steps had turn’d,“’Mid those desires not that I lead ye on.For from this eminence ye shall discernBetter the acts and visages of all,Than in the nether vale among them mix’d.He, who sits high above the rest, and seemsTo have neglected that he should have done,And to the others’ song moves not his lip,The Emperor Rodolph call, who might have heal’dThe wounds whereof fair Italy hath died,So that by others she revives but slowly,He, who with kindly visage comforts him,Sway’d in that country, where the water springs,That Moldaw’s river to the Elbe, and ElbeRolls to the ocean: Ottocar his name:Who in his swaddling clothes was of more worthThan Winceslaus his son, a bearded man,Pamper’d with rank luxuriousness and ease.And that one with the nose depress, who closeIn counsel seems with him of gentle look,Flying expir’d, with’ring the lily’s flower.Look there how he doth knock against his breast!The other ye behold, who for his cheekMakes of one hand a couch, with frequent sighs.They are the father and the father-in-lawOf Gallia’s bane: his vicious life they knowAnd foul; thence comes the grief that rends them thus.“He, so robust of limb, who measure keepsIn song, with him of feature prominent,With ev’ry virtue bore his girdle brac’d.And if that stripling who behinds him sits,King after him had liv’d, his virtue thenFrom vessel to like vessel had been pour’d;Which may not of the other heirs be said.By James and Frederick his realms are held;Neither the better heritage obtains.Rarely into the branches of the treeDoth human worth mount up; and so ordainsHe who bestows it, that as his free giftIt may be call’d. To Charles my words applyNo less than to his brother in the song;Which Pouille and Provence now with grief confess.So much that plant degenerates from its seed,As more than Beatrice and MargaretCostanza still boasts of her valorous spouse.“Behold the king of simple life and plain,Harry of England, sitting there alone:He through his branches better issue spreads.“That one, who on the ground beneath the restSits lowest, yet his gaze directs aloft,Us William, that brave Marquis, for whose causeThe deed of Alexandria and his warMakes Conferrat and Canavese weep.”
After their courteous greetings joyfullySev’n times exchang’d, Sordello backward drewExclaiming, “Who are ye?” “Before this mountBy spirits worthy of ascent to GodWas sought, my bones had by Octavius’ careBeen buried. I am Virgil, for no sinDepriv’d of heav’n, except for lack of faith.”
So answer’d him in few my gentle guide.
As one, who aught before him suddenlyBeholding, whence his wonder riseth, cries“It is yet is not,” wav’ring in belief;Such he appear’d; then downward bent his eyes,And drawing near with reverential step,Caught him, where of mean estate might claspHis lord. “Glory of Latium!” he exclaim’d,“In whom our tongue its utmost power display’d!Boast of my honor’d birth-place! what desertOf mine, what favour rather undeserv’d,Shows thee to me? If I to hear that voiceAm worthy, say if from below thou com’stAnd from what cloister’s pale?”—“Through every orbOf that sad region,” he reply’d, “thus farAm I arriv’d, by heav’nly influence ledAnd with such aid I come. There is a placeThere underneath, not made by torments sad,But by dun shades alone; where mourning’s voiceSounds not of anguish sharp, but breathes in sighs.
“There I with little innocents abide,Who by death’s fangs were bitten, ere exemptFrom human taint. There I with those abide,Who the three holy virtues put not on,But understood the rest, and without blameFollow’d them all. But if thou know’st and canst,Direct us, how we soonest may arrive,Where Purgatory its true beginning takes.”
He answer’d thus: “We have no certain placeAssign’d us: upwards I may go or round,Far as I can, I join thee for thy guide.But thou beholdest now how day declines:And upwards to proceed by night, our powerExcels: therefore it may be well to chooseA place of pleasant sojourn. To the rightSome spirits sit apart retir’d. If thouConsentest, I to these will lead thy steps:And thou wilt know them, not without delight.”
“How chances this?” was answer’d; “who so wish’dTo ascend by night, would he be thence debarr’dBy other, or through his own weakness fail?”
The good Sordello then, along the groundTrailing his finger, spoke: “Only this lineThou shalt not overpass, soon as the sunHath disappear’d; not that aught else impedesThy going upwards, save the shades of night.These with the wont of power perplex the will.With them thou haply mightst return beneath,Or to and fro around the mountain’s sideWander, while day is in the horizon shut.”
My master straight, as wond’ring at his speech,Exclaim’d: “Then lead us quickly, where thou sayst,That, while we stay, we may enjoy delight.”
A little space we were remov’d from thence,When I perceiv’d the mountain hollow’d out.Ev’n as large valleys hollow’d out on earth,
“That way,” the’ escorting spirit cried, “we go,Where in a bosom the high bank recedes:And thou await renewal of the day.”
Betwixt the steep and plain a crooked pathLed us traverse into the ridge’s side,Where more than half the sloping edge expires.Refulgent gold, and silver thrice refin’d,And scarlet grain and ceruse, Indian woodOf lucid dye serene, fresh emeraldsBut newly broken, by the herbs and flowersPlac’d in that fair recess, in color allHad been surpass’d, as great surpasses less.Nor nature only there lavish’d her hues,But of the sweetness of a thousand smellsA rare and undistinguish’d fragrance made.
“Salve Regina,” on the grass and flowersHere chanting I beheld those spirits sitWho not beyond the valley could be seen.
“Before the west’ring sun sink to his bed,”Began the Mantuan, who our steps had turn’d,
“’Mid those desires not that I lead ye on.For from this eminence ye shall discernBetter the acts and visages of all,Than in the nether vale among them mix’d.He, who sits high above the rest, and seemsTo have neglected that he should have done,And to the others’ song moves not his lip,The Emperor Rodolph call, who might have heal’dThe wounds whereof fair Italy hath died,So that by others she revives but slowly,He, who with kindly visage comforts him,Sway’d in that country, where the water springs,That Moldaw’s river to the Elbe, and ElbeRolls to the ocean: Ottocar his name:Who in his swaddling clothes was of more worthThan Winceslaus his son, a bearded man,Pamper’d with rank luxuriousness and ease.And that one with the nose depress, who closeIn counsel seems with him of gentle look,Flying expir’d, with’ring the lily’s flower.Look there how he doth knock against his breast!The other ye behold, who for his cheekMakes of one hand a couch, with frequent sighs.They are the father and the father-in-lawOf Gallia’s bane: his vicious life they knowAnd foul; thence comes the grief that rends them thus.
“He, so robust of limb, who measure keepsIn song, with him of feature prominent,With ev’ry virtue bore his girdle brac’d.And if that stripling who behinds him sits,King after him had liv’d, his virtue thenFrom vessel to like vessel had been pour’d;Which may not of the other heirs be said.By James and Frederick his realms are held;Neither the better heritage obtains.Rarely into the branches of the treeDoth human worth mount up; and so ordainsHe who bestows it, that as his free giftIt may be call’d. To Charles my words applyNo less than to his brother in the song;Which Pouille and Provence now with grief confess.So much that plant degenerates from its seed,As more than Beatrice and MargaretCostanza still boasts of her valorous spouse.
“Behold the king of simple life and plain,Harry of England, sitting there alone:He through his branches better issue spreads.
“That one, who on the ground beneath the restSits lowest, yet his gaze directs aloft,Us William, that brave Marquis, for whose causeThe deed of Alexandria and his warMakes Conferrat and Canavese weep.”