CANTO XXXSoon as the polar light, which never knowsSetting nor rising, nor the shadowy veilOf other cloud than sin, fair ornamentOf the first heav’n, to duty each one thereSafely convoying, as that lower dothThe steersman to his port, stood firmly fix’d;Forthwith the saintly tribe, who in the vanBetween the Gryphon and its radiance came,Did turn them to the car, as to their rest:And one, as if commission’d from above,In holy chant thrice shorted forth aloud:“Come, spouse, from Libanus!” and all the restTook up the song—At the last audit soThe blest shall rise, from forth his cavern eachUplifting lightly his new-vested flesh,As, on the sacred litter, at the voiceAuthoritative of that elder, sprangA hundred ministers and messengersOf life eternal. “Blessed thou! who com’st!”And, “O,” they cried, “from full hands scatter yeUnwith’ring lilies;” and, so saying, castFlowers over head and round them on all sides.I have beheld, ere now, at break of day,The eastern clime all roseate, and the skyOppos’d, one deep and beautiful serene,And the sun’s face so shaded, and with mistsAttemper’d at lids rising, that the eyeLong while endur’d the sight: thus in a cloudOf flowers, that from those hands angelic rose,And down, within and outside of the car,Fell showering, in white veil with olive wreath’d,A virgin in my view appear’d, beneathGreen mantle, rob’d in hue of living flame:And o’er my Spirit, that in former daysWithin her presence had abode so long,No shudd’ring terror crept. Mine eyes no moreHad knowledge of her; yet there mov’d from herA hidden virtue, at whose touch awak’d,The power of ancient love was strong within me.No sooner on my vision streaming, smoteThe heav’nly influence, which years past, and e’enIn childhood, thrill’d me, than towards Virgil ITurn’d me to leftward, panting, like a babe,That flees for refuge to his mother’s breast,If aught have terrified or work’d him woe:And would have cried: “There is no dram of blood,That doth not quiver in me. The old flameThrows out clear tokens of reviving fire:”But Virgil had bereav’d us of himself,Virgil, my best-lov’d father; Virgil, heTo whom I gave me up for safety: nor,All, our prime mother lost, avail’d to saveMy undew’d cheeks from blur of soiling tears.“Dante, weep not, that Virgil leaves thee: nay,Weep thou not yet: behooves thee feel the edgeOf other sword, and thou shalt weep for that.”As to the prow or stern, some admiralPaces the deck, inspiriting his crew,When ’mid the sail-yards all hands ply aloof;Thus on the left side of the car I saw,(Turning me at the sound of mine own name,Which here I am compell’d to register)The virgin station’d, who before appearedVeil’d in that festive shower angelical.Towards me, across the stream, she bent her eyes;Though from her brow the veil descending, boundWith foliage of Minerva, suffer’d notThat I beheld her clearly; then with actFull royal, still insulting o’er her thrall,Added, as one, who speaking keepeth backThe bitterest saying, to conclude the speech:“Observe me well. I am, in sooth, I amBeatrice. What! and hast thou deign’d at lastApproach the mountainnewest not, O man!Thy happiness is whole?” Down fell mine eyesOn the clear fount, but there, myself espying,Recoil’d, and sought the greensward: such a weightOf shame was on my forehead. With a mienOf that stern majesty, which doth surroundmother’s presence to her awe-struck child,She look’d; a flavour of such bitternessWas mingled in her pity. There her wordsBrake off, and suddenly the angels sang:“In thee, O gracious Lord, my hope hath been:”But went no farther than, “Thou Lord, hast setMy feet in ample room.” As snow, that liesAmidst the living rafters on the backOf Italy congeal’d when drifted highAnd closely pil’d by rough Sclavonian blasts,Breathe but the land whereon no shadow falls,And straightway melting it distils away,Like a fire-wasted taper: thus was I,Without a sigh or tear, or ever theseDid sing, that with the chiming of heav’n’s sphere,Still in their warbling chime: but when the strainOf dulcet symphony, express’d for meTheir soft compassion, more than could the words“Virgin, why so consum’st him?” then the ice,Congeal’d about my bosom, turn’d itselfTo spirit and water, and with anguish forthGush’d through the lips and eyelids from the heart.Upon the chariot’s right edge still she stood,Immovable, and thus address’d her wordsTo those bright semblances with pity touch’d:“Ye in th’ eternal day your vigils keep,So that nor night nor slumber, with close stealth,Conveys from you a single step in allThe goings on of life: thence with more heedI shape mine answer, for his ear intended,Who there stands weeping, that the sorrow nowMay equal the transgression. Not aloneThrough operation of the mighty orbs,That mark each seed to some predestin’d aim,As with aspect or fortunate or illThe constellations meet, but through benignLargess of heav’nly graces, which rain downFrom such a height, as mocks our vision, this manWas in the freshness of his being, such,So gifted virtually, that in himAll better habits wond’rously had thriv’d.The more of kindly strength is in the soil,So much doth evil seed and lack of cultureMar it the more, and make it run to wildness.These looks sometime upheld him; for I show’dMy youthful eyes, and led him by their lightIn upright walking. Soon as I had reach’dThe threshold of my second age, and chang’dMy mortal for immortal, then he left me,And gave himself to others. When from fleshTo spirit I had risen, and increaseOf beauty and of virtue circled me,I was less dear to him, and valued less.His steps were turn’d into deceitful ways,Following false images of good, that makeNo promise perfect. Nor avail’d me aughtTo sue for inspirations, with the which,I, both in dreams of night, and otherwise,Did call him back; of them so little reck’d him,Such depth he fell, that all device was shortOf his preserving, save that he should viewThe children of perdition. To this endI visited the purlieus of the dead:And one, who hath conducted him thus high,Receiv’d my supplications urg’d with weeping.It were a breaking of God’s high decree,If Lethe should be past, and such food tastedWithout the cost of some repentant tear.”
Soon as the polar light, which never knowsSetting nor rising, nor the shadowy veilOf other cloud than sin, fair ornamentOf the first heav’n, to duty each one thereSafely convoying, as that lower dothThe steersman to his port, stood firmly fix’d;Forthwith the saintly tribe, who in the vanBetween the Gryphon and its radiance came,Did turn them to the car, as to their rest:And one, as if commission’d from above,In holy chant thrice shorted forth aloud:“Come, spouse, from Libanus!” and all the restTook up the song—At the last audit soThe blest shall rise, from forth his cavern eachUplifting lightly his new-vested flesh,As, on the sacred litter, at the voiceAuthoritative of that elder, sprangA hundred ministers and messengersOf life eternal. “Blessed thou! who com’st!”And, “O,” they cried, “from full hands scatter yeUnwith’ring lilies;” and, so saying, castFlowers over head and round them on all sides.
I have beheld, ere now, at break of day,The eastern clime all roseate, and the skyOppos’d, one deep and beautiful serene,And the sun’s face so shaded, and with mistsAttemper’d at lids rising, that the eyeLong while endur’d the sight: thus in a cloudOf flowers, that from those hands angelic rose,And down, within and outside of the car,Fell showering, in white veil with olive wreath’d,A virgin in my view appear’d, beneathGreen mantle, rob’d in hue of living flame:
And o’er my Spirit, that in former daysWithin her presence had abode so long,No shudd’ring terror crept. Mine eyes no moreHad knowledge of her; yet there mov’d from herA hidden virtue, at whose touch awak’d,The power of ancient love was strong within me.
No sooner on my vision streaming, smoteThe heav’nly influence, which years past, and e’enIn childhood, thrill’d me, than towards Virgil ITurn’d me to leftward, panting, like a babe,That flees for refuge to his mother’s breast,If aught have terrified or work’d him woe:And would have cried: “There is no dram of blood,That doth not quiver in me. The old flameThrows out clear tokens of reviving fire:”But Virgil had bereav’d us of himself,Virgil, my best-lov’d father; Virgil, heTo whom I gave me up for safety: nor,All, our prime mother lost, avail’d to saveMy undew’d cheeks from blur of soiling tears.
“Dante, weep not, that Virgil leaves thee: nay,Weep thou not yet: behooves thee feel the edgeOf other sword, and thou shalt weep for that.”
As to the prow or stern, some admiralPaces the deck, inspiriting his crew,When ’mid the sail-yards all hands ply aloof;Thus on the left side of the car I saw,(Turning me at the sound of mine own name,Which here I am compell’d to register)The virgin station’d, who before appearedVeil’d in that festive shower angelical.
Towards me, across the stream, she bent her eyes;Though from her brow the veil descending, boundWith foliage of Minerva, suffer’d notThat I beheld her clearly; then with actFull royal, still insulting o’er her thrall,Added, as one, who speaking keepeth backThe bitterest saying, to conclude the speech:“Observe me well. I am, in sooth, I amBeatrice. What! and hast thou deign’d at lastApproach the mountainnewest not, O man!Thy happiness is whole?” Down fell mine eyesOn the clear fount, but there, myself espying,Recoil’d, and sought the greensward: such a weightOf shame was on my forehead. With a mienOf that stern majesty, which doth surroundmother’s presence to her awe-struck child,She look’d; a flavour of such bitternessWas mingled in her pity. There her wordsBrake off, and suddenly the angels sang:“In thee, O gracious Lord, my hope hath been:”But went no farther than, “Thou Lord, hast setMy feet in ample room.” As snow, that liesAmidst the living rafters on the backOf Italy congeal’d when drifted highAnd closely pil’d by rough Sclavonian blasts,Breathe but the land whereon no shadow falls,And straightway melting it distils away,Like a fire-wasted taper: thus was I,Without a sigh or tear, or ever theseDid sing, that with the chiming of heav’n’s sphere,Still in their warbling chime: but when the strainOf dulcet symphony, express’d for meTheir soft compassion, more than could the words“Virgin, why so consum’st him?” then the ice,Congeal’d about my bosom, turn’d itselfTo spirit and water, and with anguish forthGush’d through the lips and eyelids from the heart.
Upon the chariot’s right edge still she stood,Immovable, and thus address’d her wordsTo those bright semblances with pity touch’d:“Ye in th’ eternal day your vigils keep,So that nor night nor slumber, with close stealth,Conveys from you a single step in allThe goings on of life: thence with more heedI shape mine answer, for his ear intended,Who there stands weeping, that the sorrow nowMay equal the transgression. Not aloneThrough operation of the mighty orbs,That mark each seed to some predestin’d aim,As with aspect or fortunate or illThe constellations meet, but through benignLargess of heav’nly graces, which rain downFrom such a height, as mocks our vision, this manWas in the freshness of his being, such,So gifted virtually, that in himAll better habits wond’rously had thriv’d.The more of kindly strength is in the soil,So much doth evil seed and lack of cultureMar it the more, and make it run to wildness.These looks sometime upheld him; for I show’dMy youthful eyes, and led him by their lightIn upright walking. Soon as I had reach’dThe threshold of my second age, and chang’dMy mortal for immortal, then he left me,And gave himself to others. When from fleshTo spirit I had risen, and increaseOf beauty and of virtue circled me,I was less dear to him, and valued less.His steps were turn’d into deceitful ways,Following false images of good, that makeNo promise perfect. Nor avail’d me aughtTo sue for inspirations, with the which,I, both in dreams of night, and otherwise,Did call him back; of them so little reck’d him,Such depth he fell, that all device was shortOf his preserving, save that he should viewThe children of perdition. To this endI visited the purlieus of the dead:And one, who hath conducted him thus high,Receiv’d my supplications urg’d with weeping.It were a breaking of God’s high decree,If Lethe should be past, and such food tastedWithout the cost of some repentant tear.”