CANTO XXIIIOn the green leaf mine eyes were fix’d, like hisWho throws away his days in idle chaseOf the diminutive, when thus I heardThe more than father warn me: “Son! our timeAsks thriftier using. Linger not: away.”Thereat my face and steps at once I turn’dToward the sages, by whose converse cheer’dI journey’d on, and felt no toil: and lo!A sound of weeping and a song: “My lips,O Lord!” and these so mingled, it gave birthTo pleasure and to pain. “O Sire, belov’d!Say what is this I hear?” Thus I inquir’d.“Spirits,” said he, “who as they go, perchance,Their debt of duty pay.” As on their roadThe thoughtful pilgrims, overtaking someNot known unto them, turn to them, and look,But stay not; thus, approaching from behindWith speedier motion, eyed us, as they pass’d,A crowd of spirits, silent and devout.The eyes of each were dark and hollow: paleTheir visage, and so lean withal, the bonesStood staring thro’ the skin. I do not thinkThus dry and meagre Erisicthon show’d,When pinc’ed by sharp-set famine to the quick.“Lo!” to myself I mus’d, “the race, who lostJerusalem, when Mary with dire beakPrey’d on her child.” The sockets seem’d as rings,From which the gems were drops. Who reads the nameOf man upon his forehead, there the MHad trac’d most plainly. Who would deem, that scentOf water and an apple, could have prov’dPowerful to generate such pining want,Not knowing how it wrought? While now I stoodWond’ring what thus could waste them (for the causeOf their gaunt hollowness and scaly rindAppear’d not) lo! a spirit turn’d his eyesIn their deep-sunken cell, and fasten’d thenOn me, then cried with vehemence aloud:“What grace is this vouchsaf’d me?” By his looksI ne’er had recogniz’d him: but the voiceBrought to my knowledge what his cheer conceal’d.Remembrance of his alter’d lineamentsWas kindled from that spark; and I agniz’dThe visage of Forese. “Ah! respectThis wan and leprous wither’d skin,” thus heSuppliant implor’d, “this macerated flesh.Speak to me truly of thyself. And whoAre those twain spirits, that escort thee there?Be it not said thou Scorn’st to talk with me.”“That face of thine,” I answer’d him, “which deadI once bewail’d, disposes me not lessFor weeping, when I see It thus transform’d.Say then, by Heav’n, what blasts ye thus? The whilstI wonder, ask not Speech from me: unaptIs he to speak, whom other will employs.”He thus: “The water and tee plant we pass’d,Virtue possesses, by th’ eternal willInfus’d, the which so pines me. Every spirit,Whose song bewails his gluttony indulg’dToo grossly, here in hunger and in thirstIs purified. The odour, which the fruit,And spray, that showers upon the verdure, breathe,Inflames us with desire to feed and drink.Nor once alone encompassing our routeWe come to add fresh fuel to the pain:Pain, said Iolace rather: for that willTo the tree leads us, by which Christ was ledTo call Elias, joyful when he paidOur ransom from his vein.” I answering thus:“Forese! from that day, in which the worldFor better life thou changedst, not five yearsHave circled. If the power of sinning moreWere first concluded in thee, ere thou knew’stThat kindly grief, which re-espouses usTo God, how hither art thou come so soon?I thought to find thee lower, there, where timeIs recompense for time.” He straight replied:“To drink up the sweet wormwood of afflictionI have been brought thus early by the tearsStream’d down my Nella’s cheeks. Her prayers devout,Her sighs have drawn me from the coast, where oftExpectance lingers, and have set me freeFrom th’ other circles. In the sight of GodSo much the dearer is my widow priz’d,She whom I lov’d so fondly, as she ranksMore singly eminent for virtuous deeds.The tract most barb’rous of Sardinia’s isle,Hath dames more chaste and modester by farThan that wherein I left her. O sweet brother!What wouldst thou have me say? A time to comeStands full within my view, to which this hourShall not be counted of an ancient date,When from the pulpit shall be loudly warn’dTh’ unblushing dames of Florence, lest they bareUnkerchief’d bosoms to the common gaze.What savage women hath the world e’er seen,What Saracens, for whom there needed scourgeOf spiritual or other discipline,To force them walk with cov’ring on their limbs!But did they see, the shameless ones, that Heav’nWafts on swift wing toward them, while I speak,Their mouths were op’d for howling: they shall tasteOf Borrow (unless foresight cheat me here)Or ere the cheek of him be cloth’d with downWho is now rock’d with lullaby asleep.Ah! now, my brother, hide thyself no more,Thou seest how not I alone but allGaze, where thou veil’st the intercepted sun.”Whence I replied: “If thou recall to mindWhat we were once together, even yetRemembrance of those days may grieve thee sore.That I forsook that life, was due to himWho there precedes me, some few evenings past,When she was round, who shines with sister lampTo his, that glisters yonder,” and I show’dThe sun. “Tis he, who through profoundest nightOf he true dead has brought me, with this fleshAs true, that follows. From that gloom the aidOf his sure comfort drew me on to climb,And climbing wind along this mountain-steep,Which rectifies in you whate’er the worldMade crooked and deprav’d I have his word,That he will bear me company as farAs till I come where Beatrice dwells:But there must leave me. Virgil is that spirit,Who thus hath promis’d,” and I pointed to him;“The other is that shade, for whom so lateYour realm, as he arose, exulting shookThrough every pendent cliff and rocky bound.”
On the green leaf mine eyes were fix’d, like hisWho throws away his days in idle chaseOf the diminutive, when thus I heardThe more than father warn me: “Son! our timeAsks thriftier using. Linger not: away.”
Thereat my face and steps at once I turn’dToward the sages, by whose converse cheer’dI journey’d on, and felt no toil: and lo!A sound of weeping and a song: “My lips,O Lord!” and these so mingled, it gave birthTo pleasure and to pain. “O Sire, belov’d!Say what is this I hear?” Thus I inquir’d.
“Spirits,” said he, “who as they go, perchance,Their debt of duty pay.” As on their roadThe thoughtful pilgrims, overtaking someNot known unto them, turn to them, and look,But stay not; thus, approaching from behindWith speedier motion, eyed us, as they pass’d,A crowd of spirits, silent and devout.The eyes of each were dark and hollow: paleTheir visage, and so lean withal, the bonesStood staring thro’ the skin. I do not thinkThus dry and meagre Erisicthon show’d,When pinc’ed by sharp-set famine to the quick.
“Lo!” to myself I mus’d, “the race, who lostJerusalem, when Mary with dire beakPrey’d on her child.” The sockets seem’d as rings,From which the gems were drops. Who reads the nameOf man upon his forehead, there the MHad trac’d most plainly. Who would deem, that scentOf water and an apple, could have prov’dPowerful to generate such pining want,Not knowing how it wrought? While now I stoodWond’ring what thus could waste them (for the causeOf their gaunt hollowness and scaly rindAppear’d not) lo! a spirit turn’d his eyesIn their deep-sunken cell, and fasten’d thenOn me, then cried with vehemence aloud:“What grace is this vouchsaf’d me?” By his looksI ne’er had recogniz’d him: but the voiceBrought to my knowledge what his cheer conceal’d.Remembrance of his alter’d lineamentsWas kindled from that spark; and I agniz’dThe visage of Forese. “Ah! respectThis wan and leprous wither’d skin,” thus heSuppliant implor’d, “this macerated flesh.Speak to me truly of thyself. And whoAre those twain spirits, that escort thee there?Be it not said thou Scorn’st to talk with me.”
“That face of thine,” I answer’d him, “which deadI once bewail’d, disposes me not lessFor weeping, when I see It thus transform’d.Say then, by Heav’n, what blasts ye thus? The whilstI wonder, ask not Speech from me: unaptIs he to speak, whom other will employs.”
He thus: “The water and tee plant we pass’d,Virtue possesses, by th’ eternal willInfus’d, the which so pines me. Every spirit,Whose song bewails his gluttony indulg’dToo grossly, here in hunger and in thirstIs purified. The odour, which the fruit,And spray, that showers upon the verdure, breathe,Inflames us with desire to feed and drink.Nor once alone encompassing our routeWe come to add fresh fuel to the pain:Pain, said Iolace rather: for that willTo the tree leads us, by which Christ was ledTo call Elias, joyful when he paidOur ransom from his vein.” I answering thus:“Forese! from that day, in which the worldFor better life thou changedst, not five yearsHave circled. If the power of sinning moreWere first concluded in thee, ere thou knew’stThat kindly grief, which re-espouses usTo God, how hither art thou come so soon?I thought to find thee lower, there, where timeIs recompense for time.” He straight replied:“To drink up the sweet wormwood of afflictionI have been brought thus early by the tearsStream’d down my Nella’s cheeks. Her prayers devout,Her sighs have drawn me from the coast, where oftExpectance lingers, and have set me freeFrom th’ other circles. In the sight of GodSo much the dearer is my widow priz’d,She whom I lov’d so fondly, as she ranksMore singly eminent for virtuous deeds.The tract most barb’rous of Sardinia’s isle,Hath dames more chaste and modester by farThan that wherein I left her. O sweet brother!What wouldst thou have me say? A time to comeStands full within my view, to which this hourShall not be counted of an ancient date,When from the pulpit shall be loudly warn’dTh’ unblushing dames of Florence, lest they bareUnkerchief’d bosoms to the common gaze.What savage women hath the world e’er seen,What Saracens, for whom there needed scourgeOf spiritual or other discipline,To force them walk with cov’ring on their limbs!But did they see, the shameless ones, that Heav’nWafts on swift wing toward them, while I speak,Their mouths were op’d for howling: they shall tasteOf Borrow (unless foresight cheat me here)Or ere the cheek of him be cloth’d with downWho is now rock’d with lullaby asleep.Ah! now, my brother, hide thyself no more,Thou seest how not I alone but allGaze, where thou veil’st the intercepted sun.”
Whence I replied: “If thou recall to mindWhat we were once together, even yetRemembrance of those days may grieve thee sore.That I forsook that life, was due to himWho there precedes me, some few evenings past,When she was round, who shines with sister lampTo his, that glisters yonder,” and I show’dThe sun. “Tis he, who through profoundest nightOf he true dead has brought me, with this fleshAs true, that follows. From that gloom the aidOf his sure comfort drew me on to climb,And climbing wind along this mountain-steep,Which rectifies in you whate’er the worldMade crooked and deprav’d I have his word,That he will bear me company as farAs till I come where Beatrice dwells:But there must leave me. Virgil is that spirit,Who thus hath promis’d,” and I pointed to him;“The other is that shade, for whom so lateYour realm, as he arose, exulting shookThrough every pendent cliff and rocky bound.”