CANTO XXIAgain mine eyes were fix’d on Beatrice,And with mine eyes my soul, that in her looksFound all contentment. Yet no smile she woreAnd, “Did I smile,” quoth she, “thou wouldst be straightLike Semele when into ashes turn’d:For, mounting these eternal palace-stairs,My beauty, which the loftier it climbs,As thou hast noted, still doth kindle more,So shines, that, were no temp’ring interpos’d,Thy mortal puissance would from its raysShrink, as the leaf doth from the thunderbolt.Into the seventh splendour are we wafted,That underneath the burning lion’s breastBeams, in this hour, commingled with his might,Thy mind be with thine eyes: and in them mirror’dThe shape, which in this mirror shall be shown.”Whoso can deem, how fondly I had fedMy sight upon her blissful countenance,May know, when to new thoughts I chang’d, what joyTo do the bidding of my heav’nly guide:In equal balance poising either weight.Within the crystal, which records the name,(As its remoter circle girds the world)Of that lov’d monarch, in whose happy reignNo ill had power to harm, I saw rear’d up,In colour like to sun-illumin’d gold.A ladder, which my ken pursued in vain,So lofty was the summit; down whose stepsI saw the splendours in such multitudeDescending, ev’ry light in heav’n, methought,Was shed thence. As the rooks, at dawn of dayBestirring them to dry their feathers chill,Some speed their way a-field, and homeward some,Returning, cross their flight, while some abideAnd wheel around their airy lodge; so seem’dThat glitterance, wafted on alternate wing,As upon certain stair it met, and clash’dIts shining. And one ling’ring near us, wax’dSo bright, that in my thought: said: “The love,Which this betokens me, admits no doubt.”Unwillingly from question I refrain,To her, by whom my silence and my speechAre order’d, looking for a sign: whence she,Who in the sight of Him, that seeth all,Saw wherefore I was silent, prompted meT’ indulge the fervent wish; and I began:“I am not worthy, of my own desert,That thou shouldst answer me; but for her sake,Who hath vouchsaf’d my asking, spirit blest!That in thy joy art shrouded! say the cause,Which bringeth thee so near: and wherefore, say,Doth the sweet symphony of ParadiseKeep silence here, pervading with such soundsOf rapt devotion ev’ry lower sphere?”“Mortal art thou in hearing as in sight;”Was the reply: “and what forbade the smileOf Beatrice interrupts our song.Only to yield thee gladness of my voice,And of the light that vests me, I thus farDescend these hallow’d steps: not that more loveInvites me; for lo! there aloft, as muchOr more of love is witness’d in those flames:But such my lot by charity assign’d,That makes us ready servants, as thou seest,To execute the counsel of the Highest.“That in this court,” said I, “O sacred lamp!Love no compulsion needs, but follows freeTh’ eternal Providence, I well discern:This harder find to deem, why of thy peersThou only to this office wert foredoom’d.”I had not ended, when, like rapid mill,Upon its centre whirl’d the light; and thenThe love, that did inhabit there, replied:“Splendour eternal, piercing through these folds,Its virtue to my vision knits, and thusSupported, lifts me so above myself,That on the sov’ran essence, which it wells from,I have the power to gaze: and hence the joy,Wherewith I sparkle, equaling with my blazeThe keenness of my sight. But not the soul,That is in heav’n most lustrous, nor the seraphThat hath his eyes most fix’d on God, shall solveWhat thou hast ask’d: for in th’ abyss it liesOf th’ everlasting statute sunk so low,That no created ken may fathom it.And, to the mortal world when thou return’st,Be this reported; that none henceforth dareDirect his footsteps to so dread a bourn.The mind, that here is radiant, on the earthIs wrapt in mist. Look then if she may do,Below, what passeth her ability,When she is ta’en to heav’n.” By words like theseAdmonish’d, I the question urg’d no more;And of the spirit humbly sued aloneT’ instruct me of its state. “’Twixt either shoreOf Italy, nor distant from thy land,A stony ridge ariseth, in such sort,The thunder doth not lift his voice so high,They call it Catria: at whose foot a cellIs sacred to the lonely Eremite,For worship set apart and holy rites.”A third time thus it spake; then added: “ThereSo firmly to God’s service I adher’d,That with no costlier viands than the juiceOf olives, easily I pass’d the heatsOf summer and the winter frosts, contentIn heav’n-ward musings. Rich were the returnsAnd fertile, which that cloister once was us’dTo render to these heavens: now ’t is fall’nInto a waste so empty, that ere longDetection must lay bare its vanityPietro Damiano there was I yclept:Pietro the sinner, when before I dweltBeside the Adriatic, in the houseOf our blest Lady. Near upon my closeOf mortal life, through much importuningI was constrain’d to wear the hat that stillFrom bad to worse it shifted.—Cephas came;He came, who was the Holy Spirit’s vessel,Barefoot and lean, eating their bread, as chanc’d,At the first table. Modern Shepherd’s needThose who on either hand may prop and lead them,So burly are they grown: and from behindOthers to hoist them. Down the palfrey’s sidesSpread their broad mantles, so as both the beastsAre cover’d with one skin. O patience! thouThat lookst on this and doth endure so long.”I at those accents saw the splendours downFrom step to step alight, and wheel, and wax,Each circuiting, more beautiful. Round thisThey came, and stay’d them; uttered them a shoutSo loud, it hath no likeness here: nor IWist what it spake, so deaf’ning was the thunder.”
Again mine eyes were fix’d on Beatrice,And with mine eyes my soul, that in her looksFound all contentment. Yet no smile she woreAnd, “Did I smile,” quoth she, “thou wouldst be straightLike Semele when into ashes turn’d:For, mounting these eternal palace-stairs,My beauty, which the loftier it climbs,As thou hast noted, still doth kindle more,So shines, that, were no temp’ring interpos’d,Thy mortal puissance would from its raysShrink, as the leaf doth from the thunderbolt.Into the seventh splendour are we wafted,That underneath the burning lion’s breastBeams, in this hour, commingled with his might,Thy mind be with thine eyes: and in them mirror’dThe shape, which in this mirror shall be shown.”Whoso can deem, how fondly I had fedMy sight upon her blissful countenance,May know, when to new thoughts I chang’d, what joyTo do the bidding of my heav’nly guide:In equal balance poising either weight.Within the crystal, which records the name,(As its remoter circle girds the world)Of that lov’d monarch, in whose happy reignNo ill had power to harm, I saw rear’d up,In colour like to sun-illumin’d gold.
A ladder, which my ken pursued in vain,So lofty was the summit; down whose stepsI saw the splendours in such multitudeDescending, ev’ry light in heav’n, methought,Was shed thence. As the rooks, at dawn of dayBestirring them to dry their feathers chill,Some speed their way a-field, and homeward some,Returning, cross their flight, while some abideAnd wheel around their airy lodge; so seem’dThat glitterance, wafted on alternate wing,As upon certain stair it met, and clash’dIts shining. And one ling’ring near us, wax’dSo bright, that in my thought: said: “The love,Which this betokens me, admits no doubt.”Unwillingly from question I refrain,To her, by whom my silence and my speechAre order’d, looking for a sign: whence she,Who in the sight of Him, that seeth all,Saw wherefore I was silent, prompted meT’ indulge the fervent wish; and I began:“I am not worthy, of my own desert,That thou shouldst answer me; but for her sake,Who hath vouchsaf’d my asking, spirit blest!That in thy joy art shrouded! say the cause,Which bringeth thee so near: and wherefore, say,Doth the sweet symphony of ParadiseKeep silence here, pervading with such soundsOf rapt devotion ev’ry lower sphere?”“Mortal art thou in hearing as in sight;”Was the reply: “and what forbade the smileOf Beatrice interrupts our song.Only to yield thee gladness of my voice,And of the light that vests me, I thus farDescend these hallow’d steps: not that more loveInvites me; for lo! there aloft, as muchOr more of love is witness’d in those flames:But such my lot by charity assign’d,That makes us ready servants, as thou seest,To execute the counsel of the Highest.“That in this court,” said I, “O sacred lamp!Love no compulsion needs, but follows freeTh’ eternal Providence, I well discern:This harder find to deem, why of thy peersThou only to this office wert foredoom’d.”I had not ended, when, like rapid mill,Upon its centre whirl’d the light; and thenThe love, that did inhabit there, replied:“Splendour eternal, piercing through these folds,Its virtue to my vision knits, and thusSupported, lifts me so above myself,That on the sov’ran essence, which it wells from,I have the power to gaze: and hence the joy,Wherewith I sparkle, equaling with my blazeThe keenness of my sight. But not the soul,That is in heav’n most lustrous, nor the seraphThat hath his eyes most fix’d on God, shall solveWhat thou hast ask’d: for in th’ abyss it liesOf th’ everlasting statute sunk so low,That no created ken may fathom it.And, to the mortal world when thou return’st,Be this reported; that none henceforth dareDirect his footsteps to so dread a bourn.The mind, that here is radiant, on the earthIs wrapt in mist. Look then if she may do,Below, what passeth her ability,When she is ta’en to heav’n.” By words like theseAdmonish’d, I the question urg’d no more;And of the spirit humbly sued aloneT’ instruct me of its state. “’Twixt either shoreOf Italy, nor distant from thy land,A stony ridge ariseth, in such sort,The thunder doth not lift his voice so high,They call it Catria: at whose foot a cellIs sacred to the lonely Eremite,For worship set apart and holy rites.”A third time thus it spake; then added: “ThereSo firmly to God’s service I adher’d,That with no costlier viands than the juiceOf olives, easily I pass’d the heatsOf summer and the winter frosts, contentIn heav’n-ward musings. Rich were the returnsAnd fertile, which that cloister once was us’dTo render to these heavens: now ’t is fall’nInto a waste so empty, that ere longDetection must lay bare its vanityPietro Damiano there was I yclept:Pietro the sinner, when before I dweltBeside the Adriatic, in the houseOf our blest Lady. Near upon my closeOf mortal life, through much importuningI was constrain’d to wear the hat that stillFrom bad to worse it shifted.—Cephas came;He came, who was the Holy Spirit’s vessel,Barefoot and lean, eating their bread, as chanc’d,At the first table. Modern Shepherd’s needThose who on either hand may prop and lead them,So burly are they grown: and from behindOthers to hoist them. Down the palfrey’s sidesSpread their broad mantles, so as both the beastsAre cover’d with one skin. O patience! thouThat lookst on this and doth endure so long.”I at those accents saw the splendours downFrom step to step alight, and wheel, and wax,Each circuiting, more beautiful. Round thisThey came, and stay’d them; uttered them a shoutSo loud, it hath no likeness here: nor IWist what it spake, so deaf’ning was the thunder.”