CANTO XWhen we had passed the threshold of the gate(Which the soul’s ill affection doth disuse,Making the crooked seem the straighter path),I heard its closing sound. Had mine eyes turn’d,For that offence what plea might have avail’d?We mounted up the riven rock, that woundOn either side alternate, as the waveFlies and advances. “Here some little artBehooves us,” said my leader, “that our stepsObserve the varying flexure of the path.”Thus we so slowly sped, that with cleft orbThe moon once more o’erhangs her wat’ry couch,Ere we that strait have threaded. But when freeWe came and open, where the mount aboveOne solid mass retires, I spent, with toil,And both, uncertain of the way, we stood,Upon a plain more lonesome, than the roadsThat traverse desert wilds. From whence the brinkBorders upon vacuity, to footOf the steep bank, that rises still, the spaceHad measur’d thrice the stature of a man:And, distant as mine eye could wing its flight,To leftward now and now to right dispatch’d,That cornice equal in extent appear’d.Not yet our feet had on that summit mov’d,When I discover’d that the bank around,Whose proud uprising all ascent denied,Was marble white, and so exactly wroughtWith quaintest sculpture, that not there aloneHad Polycletus, but e’en nature’s selfBeen sham’d. The angel who came down to earthWith tidings of the peace so many yearsWept for in vain, that op’d the heavenly gatesFrom their long interdict before us seem’d,In a sweet act, so sculptur’d to the life,He look’d no silent image. One had swornHe had said, “Hail!” for she was imag’d there,By whom the key did open to God’s love,And in her act as sensibly impressThat word, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord,”As figure seal’d on wax. “Fix not thy mindOn one place only,” said the guide belov’d,Who had me near him on that part where liesThe heart of man. My sight forthwith I turn’dAnd mark’d, behind the virgin mother’s form,Upon that side, where he, that mov’d me, stood,Another story graven on the rock.I passed athwart the bard, and drew me near,That it might stand more aptly for my view.There in the self-same marble were engrav’dThe cart and kine, drawing the sacred ark,That from unbidden office awes mankind.Before it came much people; and the wholeParted in seven quires. One sense cried, “Nay,”Another, “Yes, they sing.” Like doubt aroseBetwixt the eye and smell, from the curl’d fumeOf incense breathing up the well-wrought toil.Preceding the blest vessel, onward cameWith light dance leaping, girt in humble guise,Sweet Israel’s harper: in that hap he seem’dLess and yet more than kingly. Opposite,At a great palace, from the lattice forthLook’d Michol, like a lady full of scornAnd sorrow. To behold the tablet next,Which at the hack of Michol whitely shone,I mov’d me. There was storied on the rockThe’ exalted glory of the Roman prince,Whose mighty worth mov’d Gregory to earnHis mighty conquest, Trajan th’ Emperor.A widow at his bridle stood, attir’dIn tears and mourning. Round about them troop’dFull throng of knights, and overhead in goldThe eagles floated, struggling with the wind.The wretch appear’d amid all these to say:“Grant vengeance, sire! for, woe beshrew this heartMy son is murder’d.” He replying seem’d;“Wait now till I return.” And she, as oneMade hasty by her grief; “O sire, if thouDost not return?”—“Where I am, who then is,May right thee.”—“What to thee is other’s good,If thou neglect thy own?”—“Now comfort thee,”At length he answers. “It beseemeth wellMy duty be perform’d, ere I move hence:So justice wills; and pity bids me stay.”He, whose ken nothing new surveys, produc’dThat visible speaking, new to us and strangeThe like not found on earth. Fondly I gaz’dUpon those patterns of meek humbleness,Shapes yet more precious for their artist’s sake,When “Lo,” the poet whisper’d, “where this way(But slack their pace), a multitude advance.These to the lofty steps shall guide us on.”Mine eyes, though bent on view of novel sightsTheir lov’d allurement, were not slow to turn.Reader! I would not that amaz’d thou missOf thy good purpose, hearing how just GodDecrees our debts be cancel’d. Ponder notThe form of suff’ring. Think on what succeeds,Think that at worst beyond the mighty doomIt cannot pass. “Instructor,” I began,“What I see hither tending, bears no traceOf human semblance, nor of aught besideThat my foil’d sight can guess.” He answering thus:“So courb’d to earth, beneath their heavy teemsOf torment stoop they, that mine eye at firstStruggled as thine. But look intently thither,An disentangle with thy lab’ring view,What underneath those stones approacheth: now,E’en now, mayst thou discern the pangs of each.”Christians and proud! O poor and wretched ones!That feeble in the mind’s eye, lean your trustUpon unstaid perverseness! Know ye notThat we are worms, yet made at last to formThe winged insect, imp’d with angel plumesThat to heaven’s justice unobstructed soars?Why buoy ye up aloft your unfleg’d souls?Abortive then and shapeless ye remain,Like the untimely embryon of a worm!As, to support incumbent floor or roof,For corbel is a figure sometimes seen,That crumples up its knees unto its breast,With the feign’d posture stirring ruth unfeign’dIn the beholder’s fancy; so I sawThese fashion’d, when I noted well their guise.Each, as his back was laden, came indeedOr more or less contract; but it appear’dAs he, who show’d most patience in his look,Wailing exclaim’d: “I can endure no more.”
When we had passed the threshold of the gate(Which the soul’s ill affection doth disuse,Making the crooked seem the straighter path),I heard its closing sound. Had mine eyes turn’d,For that offence what plea might have avail’d?We mounted up the riven rock, that woundOn either side alternate, as the waveFlies and advances. “Here some little artBehooves us,” said my leader, “that our stepsObserve the varying flexure of the path.”Thus we so slowly sped, that with cleft orbThe moon once more o’erhangs her wat’ry couch,Ere we that strait have threaded. But when freeWe came and open, where the mount aboveOne solid mass retires, I spent, with toil,And both, uncertain of the way, we stood,Upon a plain more lonesome, than the roadsThat traverse desert wilds. From whence the brinkBorders upon vacuity, to footOf the steep bank, that rises still, the spaceHad measur’d thrice the stature of a man:And, distant as mine eye could wing its flight,To leftward now and now to right dispatch’d,That cornice equal in extent appear’d.Not yet our feet had on that summit mov’d,When I discover’d that the bank around,Whose proud uprising all ascent denied,Was marble white, and so exactly wroughtWith quaintest sculpture, that not there aloneHad Polycletus, but e’en nature’s selfBeen sham’d. The angel who came down to earthWith tidings of the peace so many yearsWept for in vain, that op’d the heavenly gatesFrom their long interdict before us seem’d,In a sweet act, so sculptur’d to the life,He look’d no silent image. One had swornHe had said, “Hail!” for she was imag’d there,By whom the key did open to God’s love,And in her act as sensibly impressThat word, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord,”As figure seal’d on wax. “Fix not thy mindOn one place only,” said the guide belov’d,Who had me near him on that part where liesThe heart of man. My sight forthwith I turn’dAnd mark’d, behind the virgin mother’s form,Upon that side, where he, that mov’d me, stood,Another story graven on the rock.I passed athwart the bard, and drew me near,That it might stand more aptly for my view.There in the self-same marble were engrav’dThe cart and kine, drawing the sacred ark,That from unbidden office awes mankind.Before it came much people; and the wholeParted in seven quires. One sense cried, “Nay,”Another, “Yes, they sing.” Like doubt aroseBetwixt the eye and smell, from the curl’d fumeOf incense breathing up the well-wrought toil.Preceding the blest vessel, onward cameWith light dance leaping, girt in humble guise,Sweet Israel’s harper: in that hap he seem’dLess and yet more than kingly. Opposite,At a great palace, from the lattice forthLook’d Michol, like a lady full of scornAnd sorrow. To behold the tablet next,Which at the hack of Michol whitely shone,I mov’d me. There was storied on the rockThe’ exalted glory of the Roman prince,Whose mighty worth mov’d Gregory to earnHis mighty conquest, Trajan th’ Emperor.A widow at his bridle stood, attir’dIn tears and mourning. Round about them troop’dFull throng of knights, and overhead in goldThe eagles floated, struggling with the wind.
The wretch appear’d amid all these to say:“Grant vengeance, sire! for, woe beshrew this heartMy son is murder’d.” He replying seem’d;“Wait now till I return.” And she, as oneMade hasty by her grief; “O sire, if thouDost not return?”—“Where I am, who then is,May right thee.”—“What to thee is other’s good,If thou neglect thy own?”—“Now comfort thee,”At length he answers. “It beseemeth wellMy duty be perform’d, ere I move hence:So justice wills; and pity bids me stay.”He, whose ken nothing new surveys, produc’dThat visible speaking, new to us and strangeThe like not found on earth. Fondly I gaz’dUpon those patterns of meek humbleness,Shapes yet more precious for their artist’s sake,When “Lo,” the poet whisper’d, “where this way(But slack their pace), a multitude advance.These to the lofty steps shall guide us on.”Mine eyes, though bent on view of novel sightsTheir lov’d allurement, were not slow to turn.Reader! I would not that amaz’d thou missOf thy good purpose, hearing how just GodDecrees our debts be cancel’d. Ponder notThe form of suff’ring. Think on what succeeds,Think that at worst beyond the mighty doomIt cannot pass. “Instructor,” I began,“What I see hither tending, bears no traceOf human semblance, nor of aught besideThat my foil’d sight can guess.” He answering thus:“So courb’d to earth, beneath their heavy teemsOf torment stoop they, that mine eye at firstStruggled as thine. But look intently thither,An disentangle with thy lab’ring view,What underneath those stones approacheth: now,E’en now, mayst thou discern the pangs of each.”Christians and proud! O poor and wretched ones!That feeble in the mind’s eye, lean your trustUpon unstaid perverseness! Know ye notThat we are worms, yet made at last to formThe winged insect, imp’d with angel plumesThat to heaven’s justice unobstructed soars?Why buoy ye up aloft your unfleg’d souls?Abortive then and shapeless ye remain,Like the untimely embryon of a worm!As, to support incumbent floor or roof,For corbel is a figure sometimes seen,That crumples up its knees unto its breast,With the feign’d posture stirring ruth unfeign’dIn the beholder’s fancy; so I sawThese fashion’d, when I noted well their guise.Each, as his back was laden, came indeedOr more or less contract; but it appear’dAs he, who show’d most patience in his look,Wailing exclaim’d: “I can endure no more.”