Paradiso: Canto X

Paradiso: Canto XLooking into his Son with all the LoveWhich each of them eternally breathes forth,The Primal and unutterable PowerWhate’er before the mind or eye revolvesWith so much order made, there can be noneWho this beholds without enjoying Him.Lift up then, Reader, to the lofty wheelsWith me thy vision straight unto that partWhere the one motion on the other strikes,And there begin to contemplate with joyThat Master’s art, who in himself so loves itThat never doth his eye depart therefrom.Behold how from that point goes branching offThe oblique circle, which conveys the planets,To satisfy the world that calls upon them;And if their pathway were not thus inflected,Much virtue in the heavens would be in vain,And almost every power below here dead.If from the straight line distant more or lessWere the departure, much would wanting beAbove and underneath of mundane order.Remain now, Reader, still upon thy bench,In thought pursuing that which is foretasted,If thou wouldst jocund be instead of weary.I’ve set before thee; henceforth feed thyself,For to itself diverteth all my careThat theme whereof I have been made the scribe.The greatest of the ministers of nature,Who with the power of heaven the world imprintsAnd measures with his light the time for us,With that part which above is called to mindConjoined, along the spirals was revolving,Where each time earlier he presents himself;And I was with him; but of the ascendingI was not conscious, saving as a manOf a first thought is conscious ere it come;And Beatrice, she who is seen to passFrom good to better, and so suddenlyThat not by time her action is expressed,How lucent in herself must she have been!And what was in the sun, wherein I entered,Apparent not by colour but by light,I, though I call on genius, art, and practice,Cannot so tell that it could be imagined;Believe one can, and let him long to see it.And if our fantasies too lowly areFor altitude so great, it is no marvel,Since o’er the sun was never eye could go.Such in this place was the fourth familyOf the high Father, who forever sates it,Showing how he breathes forth and how begets.And Beatrice began: “Give thanks, give thanksUnto the Sun of Angels, who to thisSensible one has raised thee by his grace!”Never was heart of mortal so disposedTo worship, nor to give itself to GodWith all its gratitude was it so ready,As at those words did I myself become;And all my love was so absorbed in Him,That in oblivion Beatrice was eclipsed.Nor this displeased her; but she smiled at itSo that the splendour of her laughing eyesMy single mind on many things divided.Lights many saw I, vivid and triumphant,Make us a centre and themselves a circle,More sweet in voice than luminous in aspect.Thus girt about the daughter of LatonaWe sometimes see, when pregnant is the air,So that it holds the thread which makes her zone.Within the court of Heaven, whence I return,Are many jewels found, so fair and preciousThey cannot be transported from the realm;And of them was the singing of those lights.Who takes not wings that he may fly up thither,The tidings thence may from the dumb await!As soon as singing thus those burning sunsHad round about us whirled themselves three times,Like unto stars neighbouring the steadfast poles,Ladies they seemed, not from the dance released,But who stop short, in silence listeningTill they have gathered the new melody.And within one I heard beginning: “WhenThe radiance of grace, by which is kindledTrue love, and which thereafter grows by loving,Within thee multiplied is so resplendentThat it conducts thee upward by that stair,Where without reascending none descends,Who should deny the wine out of his vialUnto thy thirst, in liberty were notExcept as water which descends not seaward.Fain wouldst thou know with what plants is enfloweredThis garland that encircles with delightThe Lady fair who makes thee strong for heaven.Of the lambs was I of the holy flockWhich Dominic conducteth by a roadWhere well one fattens if he strayeth not.He who is nearest to me on the rightMy brother and master was; and he AlbertusIs of Cologne, I Thomas of Aquinum.If thou of all the others wouldst be certain,Follow behind my speaking with thy sightUpward along the blessed garland turning.That next effulgence issues from the smileOf Gratian, who assisted both the courtsIn such wise that it pleased in Paradise.The other which near by adorns our choirThat Peter was who, e’en as the poor widow,Offered his treasure unto Holy Church.The fifth light, that among us is the fairest,Breathes forth from such a love, that all the worldBelow is greedy to learn tidings of it.Within it is the lofty mind, where knowledgeSo deep was put, that, if the true be true,To see so much there never rose a second.Thou seest next the lustre of that taper,Which in the flesh below looked most withinThe angelic nature and its ministry.Within that other little light is smilingThe advocate of the Christian centuries,Out of whose rhetoric Augustine was furnished.Now if thou trainest thy mind’s eye alongFrom light to light pursuant of my praise,With thirst already of the eighth thou waitest.By seeing every good therein exultsThe sainted soul, which the fallacious worldMakes manifest to him who listeneth well;The body whence ’twas hunted forth is lyingDown in Cieldauro, and from martyrdomAnd banishment it came unto this peace.See farther onward flame the burning breathOf Isidore, of Beda, and of RichardWho was in contemplation more than man.This, whence to me returneth thy regard,The light is of a spirit unto whomIn his grave meditations death seemed slow.It is the light eternal of Sigier,Who, reading lectures in the Street of Straw,Did syllogize invidious verities.”Then, as a horologe that calleth usWhat time the Bride of God is rising upWith matins to her Spouse that he may love her,Wherein one part the other draws and urges,Ting! ting! resounding with so sweet a note,That swells with love the spirit well disposed,Thus I beheld the glorious wheel move round,And render voice to voice, in modulationAnd sweetness that can not be comprehended,Excepting there where joy is made eternal.

Looking into his Son with all the LoveWhich each of them eternally breathes forth,The Primal and unutterable Power

Whate’er before the mind or eye revolvesWith so much order made, there can be noneWho this beholds without enjoying Him.

Lift up then, Reader, to the lofty wheelsWith me thy vision straight unto that partWhere the one motion on the other strikes,

And there begin to contemplate with joyThat Master’s art, who in himself so loves itThat never doth his eye depart therefrom.

Behold how from that point goes branching offThe oblique circle, which conveys the planets,To satisfy the world that calls upon them;

And if their pathway were not thus inflected,Much virtue in the heavens would be in vain,And almost every power below here dead.

If from the straight line distant more or lessWere the departure, much would wanting beAbove and underneath of mundane order.

Remain now, Reader, still upon thy bench,In thought pursuing that which is foretasted,If thou wouldst jocund be instead of weary.

I’ve set before thee; henceforth feed thyself,For to itself diverteth all my careThat theme whereof I have been made the scribe.

The greatest of the ministers of nature,Who with the power of heaven the world imprintsAnd measures with his light the time for us,

With that part which above is called to mindConjoined, along the spirals was revolving,Where each time earlier he presents himself;

And I was with him; but of the ascendingI was not conscious, saving as a manOf a first thought is conscious ere it come;

And Beatrice, she who is seen to passFrom good to better, and so suddenlyThat not by time her action is expressed,

How lucent in herself must she have been!And what was in the sun, wherein I entered,Apparent not by colour but by light,

I, though I call on genius, art, and practice,Cannot so tell that it could be imagined;Believe one can, and let him long to see it.

And if our fantasies too lowly areFor altitude so great, it is no marvel,Since o’er the sun was never eye could go.

Such in this place was the fourth familyOf the high Father, who forever sates it,Showing how he breathes forth and how begets.

And Beatrice began: “Give thanks, give thanksUnto the Sun of Angels, who to thisSensible one has raised thee by his grace!”

Never was heart of mortal so disposedTo worship, nor to give itself to GodWith all its gratitude was it so ready,

As at those words did I myself become;And all my love was so absorbed in Him,That in oblivion Beatrice was eclipsed.

Nor this displeased her; but she smiled at itSo that the splendour of her laughing eyesMy single mind on many things divided.

Lights many saw I, vivid and triumphant,Make us a centre and themselves a circle,More sweet in voice than luminous in aspect.

Thus girt about the daughter of LatonaWe sometimes see, when pregnant is the air,So that it holds the thread which makes her zone.

Within the court of Heaven, whence I return,Are many jewels found, so fair and preciousThey cannot be transported from the realm;

And of them was the singing of those lights.Who takes not wings that he may fly up thither,The tidings thence may from the dumb await!

As soon as singing thus those burning sunsHad round about us whirled themselves three times,Like unto stars neighbouring the steadfast poles,

Ladies they seemed, not from the dance released,But who stop short, in silence listeningTill they have gathered the new melody.

And within one I heard beginning: “WhenThe radiance of grace, by which is kindledTrue love, and which thereafter grows by loving,

Within thee multiplied is so resplendentThat it conducts thee upward by that stair,Where without reascending none descends,

Who should deny the wine out of his vialUnto thy thirst, in liberty were notExcept as water which descends not seaward.

Fain wouldst thou know with what plants is enfloweredThis garland that encircles with delightThe Lady fair who makes thee strong for heaven.

Of the lambs was I of the holy flockWhich Dominic conducteth by a roadWhere well one fattens if he strayeth not.

He who is nearest to me on the rightMy brother and master was; and he AlbertusIs of Cologne, I Thomas of Aquinum.

If thou of all the others wouldst be certain,Follow behind my speaking with thy sightUpward along the blessed garland turning.

That next effulgence issues from the smileOf Gratian, who assisted both the courtsIn such wise that it pleased in Paradise.

The other which near by adorns our choirThat Peter was who, e’en as the poor widow,Offered his treasure unto Holy Church.

The fifth light, that among us is the fairest,Breathes forth from such a love, that all the worldBelow is greedy to learn tidings of it.

Within it is the lofty mind, where knowledgeSo deep was put, that, if the true be true,To see so much there never rose a second.

Thou seest next the lustre of that taper,Which in the flesh below looked most withinThe angelic nature and its ministry.

Within that other little light is smilingThe advocate of the Christian centuries,Out of whose rhetoric Augustine was furnished.

Now if thou trainest thy mind’s eye alongFrom light to light pursuant of my praise,With thirst already of the eighth thou waitest.

By seeing every good therein exultsThe sainted soul, which the fallacious worldMakes manifest to him who listeneth well;

The body whence ’twas hunted forth is lyingDown in Cieldauro, and from martyrdomAnd banishment it came unto this peace.

See farther onward flame the burning breathOf Isidore, of Beda, and of RichardWho was in contemplation more than man.

This, whence to me returneth thy regard,The light is of a spirit unto whomIn his grave meditations death seemed slow.

It is the light eternal of Sigier,Who, reading lectures in the Street of Straw,Did syllogize invidious verities.”

Then, as a horologe that calleth usWhat time the Bride of God is rising upWith matins to her Spouse that he may love her,

Wherein one part the other draws and urges,Ting! ting! resounding with so sweet a note,That swells with love the spirit well disposed,

Thus I beheld the glorious wheel move round,And render voice to voice, in modulationAnd sweetness that can not be comprehended,

Excepting there where joy is made eternal.


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