Purgatorio: Canto XVIIRemember, Reader, if e’er in the AlpsA mist o’ertook thee, through which thou couldst seeNot otherwise than through its membrane mole,How, when the vapours humid and condensedBegin to dissipate themselves, the sphereOf the sun feebly enters in among them,And thy imagination will be swiftIn coming to perceive how I re-sawThe sun at first, that was already setting.Thus, to the faithful footsteps of my MasterMating mine own, I issued from that cloudTo rays already dead on the low shores.O thou, Imagination, that dost steal usSo from without sometimes, that man perceives not,Although around may sound a thousand trumpets,Who moveth thee, if sense impel thee not?Moves thee a light, which in the heaven takes form,By self, or by a will that downward guides it.Of her impiety, who changed her formInto the bird that most delights in singing,In my imagining appeared the trace;And hereupon my mind was so withdrawnWithin itself, that from without there cameNothing that then might be received by it.Then reigned within my lofty fantasyOne crucified, disdainful and ferociousIn countenance, and even thus was dying.Around him were the great Ahasuerus,Esther his wife, and the just Mordecai,Who was in word and action so entire.And even as this image burst asunderOf its own self, in fashion of a bubbleIn which the water it was made of fails,There rose up in my vision a young maidenBitterly weeping, and she said: “O queen,Why hast thou wished in anger to be naught?Thou’st slain thyself, Lavinia not to lose;Now hast thou lost me; I am she who mourns,Mother, at thine ere at another’s ruin.”As sleep is broken, when upon a suddenNew light strikes in upon the eyelids closed,And broken quivers ere it dieth wholly,So this imagining of mine fell downAs soon as the effulgence smote my face,Greater by far than what is in our wont.I turned me round to see where I might be,When said a voice, “Here is the passage up;”Which from all other purposes removed me,And made my wish so full of eagernessTo look and see who was it that was speaking,It never rests till meeting face to face;But as before the sun, which quells the sight,And in its own excess its figure veils,Even so my power was insufficient here.“This is a spirit divine, who in the wayOf going up directs us without asking,And who with his own light himself conceals.He does with us as man doth with himself;For he who sees the need, and waits the asking,Malignly leans already tow’rds denial.Accord we now our feet to such inviting,Let us make haste to mount ere it grow dark;For then we could not till the day return.”Thus my Conductor said; and I and heTogether turned our footsteps to a stairway;And I, as soon as the first step I reached,Near me perceived a motion as of wings,And fanning in the face, and saying, “‘BeatiPacifici,’ who are without ill anger.”Already over us were so upliftedThe latest sunbeams, which the night pursues,That upon many sides the stars appeared.“O manhood mine, why dost thou vanish so?”I said within myself; for I perceivedThe vigour of my legs was put in truce.We at the point were where no more ascendsThe stairway upward, and were motionless,Even as a ship, which at the shore arrives;And I gave heed a little, if I might hearAught whatsoever in the circle new;Then to my Master turned me round and said:“Say, my sweet Father, what delinquencyIs purged here in the circle where we are?Although our feet may pause, pause not thy speech.”And he to me: “The love of good, remissIn what it should have done, is here restored;Here plied again the ill-belated oar;But still more openly to understand,Turn unto me thy mind, and thou shalt gatherSome profitable fruit from our delay.Neither Creator nor a creature ever,Son,” he began, “was destitute of loveNatural or spiritual; and thou knowest it.The natural was ever without error;But err the other may by evil object,Or by too much, or by too little vigour.While in the first it well directed is,And in the second moderates itself,It cannot be the cause of sinful pleasure;But when to ill it turns, and, with more careOr lesser than it ought, runs after good,’Gainst the Creator works his own creation.Hence thou mayst comprehend that love must beThe seed within yourselves of every virtue,And every act that merits punishment.Now inasmuch as never from the welfareOf its own subject can love turn its sight,From their own hatred all things are secure;And since we cannot think of any beingStanding alone, nor from the First divided,Of hating Him is all desire cut off.Hence if, discriminating, I judge well,The evil that one loves is of one’s neighbour,And this is born in three modes in your clay.There are, who, by abasement of their neighbour,Hope to excel, and therefore only longThat from his greatness he may be cast down;There are, who power, grace, honour, and renownFear they may lose because another rises,Thence are so sad that the reverse they love;And there are those whom injury seems to chafe,So that it makes them greedy for revenge,And such must needs shape out another’s harm.This threefold love is wept for down below;Now of the other will I have thee hear,That runneth after good with measure faulty.Each one confusedly a good conceivesWherein the mind may rest, and longeth for it;Therefore to overtake it each one strives.If languid love to look on this attract you,Or in attaining unto it, this cornice,After just penitence, torments you for it.There’s other good that does not make man happy;’Tis not felicity, ’tis not the goodEssence, of every good the fruit and root.The love that yields itself too much to thisAbove us is lamented in three circles;But how tripartite it may be described,I say not, that thou seek it for thyself.”
Remember, Reader, if e’er in the AlpsA mist o’ertook thee, through which thou couldst seeNot otherwise than through its membrane mole,
How, when the vapours humid and condensedBegin to dissipate themselves, the sphereOf the sun feebly enters in among them,
And thy imagination will be swiftIn coming to perceive how I re-sawThe sun at first, that was already setting.
Thus, to the faithful footsteps of my MasterMating mine own, I issued from that cloudTo rays already dead on the low shores.
O thou, Imagination, that dost steal usSo from without sometimes, that man perceives not,Although around may sound a thousand trumpets,
Who moveth thee, if sense impel thee not?Moves thee a light, which in the heaven takes form,By self, or by a will that downward guides it.
Of her impiety, who changed her formInto the bird that most delights in singing,In my imagining appeared the trace;
And hereupon my mind was so withdrawnWithin itself, that from without there cameNothing that then might be received by it.
Then reigned within my lofty fantasyOne crucified, disdainful and ferociousIn countenance, and even thus was dying.
Around him were the great Ahasuerus,Esther his wife, and the just Mordecai,Who was in word and action so entire.
And even as this image burst asunderOf its own self, in fashion of a bubbleIn which the water it was made of fails,
There rose up in my vision a young maidenBitterly weeping, and she said: “O queen,Why hast thou wished in anger to be naught?
Thou’st slain thyself, Lavinia not to lose;Now hast thou lost me; I am she who mourns,Mother, at thine ere at another’s ruin.”
As sleep is broken, when upon a suddenNew light strikes in upon the eyelids closed,And broken quivers ere it dieth wholly,
So this imagining of mine fell downAs soon as the effulgence smote my face,Greater by far than what is in our wont.
I turned me round to see where I might be,When said a voice, “Here is the passage up;”Which from all other purposes removed me,
And made my wish so full of eagernessTo look and see who was it that was speaking,It never rests till meeting face to face;
But as before the sun, which quells the sight,And in its own excess its figure veils,Even so my power was insufficient here.
“This is a spirit divine, who in the wayOf going up directs us without asking,And who with his own light himself conceals.
He does with us as man doth with himself;For he who sees the need, and waits the asking,Malignly leans already tow’rds denial.
Accord we now our feet to such inviting,Let us make haste to mount ere it grow dark;For then we could not till the day return.”
Thus my Conductor said; and I and heTogether turned our footsteps to a stairway;And I, as soon as the first step I reached,
Near me perceived a motion as of wings,And fanning in the face, and saying, “‘BeatiPacifici,’ who are without ill anger.”
Already over us were so upliftedThe latest sunbeams, which the night pursues,That upon many sides the stars appeared.
“O manhood mine, why dost thou vanish so?”I said within myself; for I perceivedThe vigour of my legs was put in truce.
We at the point were where no more ascendsThe stairway upward, and were motionless,Even as a ship, which at the shore arrives;
And I gave heed a little, if I might hearAught whatsoever in the circle new;Then to my Master turned me round and said:
“Say, my sweet Father, what delinquencyIs purged here in the circle where we are?Although our feet may pause, pause not thy speech.”
And he to me: “The love of good, remissIn what it should have done, is here restored;Here plied again the ill-belated oar;
But still more openly to understand,Turn unto me thy mind, and thou shalt gatherSome profitable fruit from our delay.
Neither Creator nor a creature ever,Son,” he began, “was destitute of loveNatural or spiritual; and thou knowest it.
The natural was ever without error;But err the other may by evil object,Or by too much, or by too little vigour.
While in the first it well directed is,And in the second moderates itself,It cannot be the cause of sinful pleasure;
But when to ill it turns, and, with more careOr lesser than it ought, runs after good,’Gainst the Creator works his own creation.
Hence thou mayst comprehend that love must beThe seed within yourselves of every virtue,And every act that merits punishment.
Now inasmuch as never from the welfareOf its own subject can love turn its sight,From their own hatred all things are secure;
And since we cannot think of any beingStanding alone, nor from the First divided,Of hating Him is all desire cut off.
Hence if, discriminating, I judge well,The evil that one loves is of one’s neighbour,And this is born in three modes in your clay.
There are, who, by abasement of their neighbour,Hope to excel, and therefore only longThat from his greatness he may be cast down;
There are, who power, grace, honour, and renownFear they may lose because another rises,Thence are so sad that the reverse they love;
And there are those whom injury seems to chafe,So that it makes them greedy for revenge,And such must needs shape out another’s harm.
This threefold love is wept for down below;Now of the other will I have thee hear,That runneth after good with measure faulty.
Each one confusedly a good conceivesWherein the mind may rest, and longeth for it;Therefore to overtake it each one strives.
If languid love to look on this attract you,Or in attaining unto it, this cornice,After just penitence, torments you for it.
There’s other good that does not make man happy;’Tis not felicity, ’tis not the goodEssence, of every good the fruit and root.
The love that yields itself too much to thisAbove us is lamented in three circles;But how tripartite it may be described,
I say not, that thou seek it for thyself.”