CANTO XIIWith equal pace as oxen in the yoke,I with that laden spirit journey’d onLong as the mild instructor suffer’d me;But when he bade me quit him, and proceed(For “here,” said he, “behooves with sail and oarsEach man, as best he may, push on his bark”),Upright, as one dispos’d for speed, I rais’dMy body, still in thought submissive bow’d.I now my leader’s track not loth pursued;And each had shown how light we far’d alongWhen thus he warn’d me: “Bend thine eyesight down:For thou to ease the way shall find it goodTo ruminate the bed beneath thy feet.”As in memorial of the buried, drawnUpon earth-level tombs, the sculptur’d formOf what was once, appears (at sight whereofTears often stream forth by remembrance wak’d,Whose sacred stings the piteous only feel),So saw I there, but with more curious skillOf portraiture o’erwrought, whate’er of spaceFrom forth the mountain stretches. On one partHim I beheld, above all creatures erstCreated noblest, light’ning fall from heaven:On th’ other side with bolt celestial pierc’dBriareus: cumb’ring earth he lay through dintOf mortal ice-stroke. The Thymbraean godWith Mars, I saw, and Pallas, round their sire,Arm’d still, and gazing on the giant’s limbsStrewn o’er th’ ethereal field. Nimrod I saw:At foot of the stupendous work he stood,As if bewilder’d, looking on the crowdLeagued in his proud attempt on Sennaar’s plain.O Niobe! in what a trance of woeThee I beheld, upon that highway drawn,Sev’n sons on either side thee slain! O Saul!How ghastly didst thou look! on thine own swordExpiring in Gilboa, from that hourNe’er visited with rain from heav’n or dew!O fond Arachne! thee I also sawHalf spider now in anguish crawling upTh’ unfinish’d web thou weaved’st to thy bane!O Rehoboam! here thy shape doth seemLouring no more defiance! but fear-smoteWith none to chase him in his chariot whirl’d.Was shown beside upon the solid floorHow dear Alcmaeon forc’d his mother rateThat ornament in evil hour receiv’d:How in the temple on Sennacherib fellHis sons, and how a corpse they left him there.Was shown the scath and cruel mangling madeBy Tomyris on Cyrus, when she cried:“Blood thou didst thirst for, take thy fill of blood!”Was shown how routed in the battle fledTh’ Assyrians, Holofernes slain, and e’enThe relics of the carnage. Troy I mark’dIn ashes and in caverns. Oh! how fall’n,How abject, Ilion, was thy semblance there!What master of the pencil or the styleHad trac’d the shades and lines, that might have madeThe subtlest workman wonder? Dead the dead,The living seem’d alive; with clearer viewHis eye beheld not who beheld the truth,Than mine what I did tread on, while I wentLow bending. Now swell out; and with stiff necksPass on, ye sons of Eve! veil not your looks,Lest they descry the evil of your path!I noted not (so busied was my thought)How much we now had circled of the mount,And of his course yet more the sun had spent,When he, who with still wakeful caution went,Admonish’d: “Raise thou up thy head: for knowTime is not now for slow suspense. BeholdThat way an angel hasting towards us! LoWhere duly the sixth handmaid doth returnFrom service on the day. Wear thou in lookAnd gesture seemly grace of reverent awe,That gladly he may forward us aloft.Consider that this day ne’er dawns again.”Time’s loss he had so often warn’d me ’gainst,I could not miss the scope at which he aim’d.The goodly shape approach’d us, snowy whiteIn vesture, and with visage casting streamsOf tremulous lustre like the matin star.His arms he open’d, then his wings; and spake:“Onward: the steps, behold! are near; and nowTh’ ascent is without difficulty gain’d.”A scanty few are they, who when they hearSuch tidings, hasten. O ye race of menThough born to soar, why suffer ye a windSo slight to baffle ye? He led us onWhere the rock parted; here against my frontDid beat his wings, then promis’d I should fareIn safety on my way. As to ascendThat steep, upon whose brow the chapel stands(O’er Rubaconte, looking lordly downOn the well-guided city,) up the rightTh’ impetuous rise is broken by the stepsCarv’d in that old and simple age, when stillThe registry and label rested safe;Thus is th’ acclivity reliev’d, which herePrecipitous from the other circuit falls:But on each hand the tall cliff presses close.As ent’ring there we turn’d, voices, in strainIneffable, sang: “Blessed are the poorIn spirit.” Ah how far unlike to theseThe straits of hell; here songs to usher us,There shrieks of woe! We climb the holy stairs:And lighter to myself by far I seem’dThan on the plain before, whence thus I spake:“Say, master, of what heavy thing have IBeen lighten’d, that scarce aught the sense of toilAffects me journeying?” He in few replied:“When sin’s broad characters, that yet remainUpon thy temples, though well nigh effac’d,Shall be, as one is, all clean razed out,Then shall thy feet by heartiness of willBe so o’ercome, they not alone shall feelNo sense of labour, but delight much moreShall wait them urg’d along their upward way.”Then like to one, upon whose head is plac’dSomewhat he deems not of but from the becksOf others as they pass him by; his handLends therefore help to’ assure him, searches, finds,And well performs such office as the eyeWants power to execute: so stretching forthThe fingers of my right hand, did I findSix only of the letters, which his swordWho bare the keys had trac’d upon my brow.The leader, as he mark’d mine action, smil’d.
With equal pace as oxen in the yoke,I with that laden spirit journey’d onLong as the mild instructor suffer’d me;But when he bade me quit him, and proceed(For “here,” said he, “behooves with sail and oarsEach man, as best he may, push on his bark”),Upright, as one dispos’d for speed, I rais’dMy body, still in thought submissive bow’d.I now my leader’s track not loth pursued;And each had shown how light we far’d alongWhen thus he warn’d me: “Bend thine eyesight down:For thou to ease the way shall find it goodTo ruminate the bed beneath thy feet.”As in memorial of the buried, drawnUpon earth-level tombs, the sculptur’d formOf what was once, appears (at sight whereofTears often stream forth by remembrance wak’d,Whose sacred stings the piteous only feel),So saw I there, but with more curious skillOf portraiture o’erwrought, whate’er of spaceFrom forth the mountain stretches. On one partHim I beheld, above all creatures erstCreated noblest, light’ning fall from heaven:On th’ other side with bolt celestial pierc’dBriareus: cumb’ring earth he lay through dintOf mortal ice-stroke. The Thymbraean godWith Mars, I saw, and Pallas, round their sire,Arm’d still, and gazing on the giant’s limbsStrewn o’er th’ ethereal field. Nimrod I saw:At foot of the stupendous work he stood,As if bewilder’d, looking on the crowdLeagued in his proud attempt on Sennaar’s plain.O Niobe! in what a trance of woeThee I beheld, upon that highway drawn,Sev’n sons on either side thee slain! O Saul!How ghastly didst thou look! on thine own swordExpiring in Gilboa, from that hourNe’er visited with rain from heav’n or dew!
O fond Arachne! thee I also sawHalf spider now in anguish crawling upTh’ unfinish’d web thou weaved’st to thy bane!O Rehoboam! here thy shape doth seemLouring no more defiance! but fear-smoteWith none to chase him in his chariot whirl’d.Was shown beside upon the solid floorHow dear Alcmaeon forc’d his mother rateThat ornament in evil hour receiv’d:How in the temple on Sennacherib fellHis sons, and how a corpse they left him there.Was shown the scath and cruel mangling madeBy Tomyris on Cyrus, when she cried:“Blood thou didst thirst for, take thy fill of blood!”Was shown how routed in the battle fledTh’ Assyrians, Holofernes slain, and e’enThe relics of the carnage. Troy I mark’dIn ashes and in caverns. Oh! how fall’n,How abject, Ilion, was thy semblance there!What master of the pencil or the styleHad trac’d the shades and lines, that might have madeThe subtlest workman wonder? Dead the dead,The living seem’d alive; with clearer viewHis eye beheld not who beheld the truth,Than mine what I did tread on, while I wentLow bending. Now swell out; and with stiff necksPass on, ye sons of Eve! veil not your looks,Lest they descry the evil of your path!I noted not (so busied was my thought)How much we now had circled of the mount,And of his course yet more the sun had spent,When he, who with still wakeful caution went,Admonish’d: “Raise thou up thy head: for knowTime is not now for slow suspense. BeholdThat way an angel hasting towards us! LoWhere duly the sixth handmaid doth returnFrom service on the day. Wear thou in lookAnd gesture seemly grace of reverent awe,That gladly he may forward us aloft.Consider that this day ne’er dawns again.”Time’s loss he had so often warn’d me ’gainst,I could not miss the scope at which he aim’d.The goodly shape approach’d us, snowy whiteIn vesture, and with visage casting streamsOf tremulous lustre like the matin star.His arms he open’d, then his wings; and spake:“Onward: the steps, behold! are near; and nowTh’ ascent is without difficulty gain’d.”A scanty few are they, who when they hearSuch tidings, hasten. O ye race of menThough born to soar, why suffer ye a windSo slight to baffle ye? He led us onWhere the rock parted; here against my frontDid beat his wings, then promis’d I should fareIn safety on my way. As to ascendThat steep, upon whose brow the chapel stands(O’er Rubaconte, looking lordly downOn the well-guided city,) up the rightTh’ impetuous rise is broken by the stepsCarv’d in that old and simple age, when stillThe registry and label rested safe;Thus is th’ acclivity reliev’d, which herePrecipitous from the other circuit falls:But on each hand the tall cliff presses close.As ent’ring there we turn’d, voices, in strainIneffable, sang: “Blessed are the poorIn spirit.” Ah how far unlike to theseThe straits of hell; here songs to usher us,There shrieks of woe! We climb the holy stairs:And lighter to myself by far I seem’dThan on the plain before, whence thus I spake:“Say, master, of what heavy thing have IBeen lighten’d, that scarce aught the sense of toilAffects me journeying?” He in few replied:“When sin’s broad characters, that yet remainUpon thy temples, though well nigh effac’d,Shall be, as one is, all clean razed out,Then shall thy feet by heartiness of willBe so o’ercome, they not alone shall feelNo sense of labour, but delight much moreShall wait them urg’d along their upward way.”Then like to one, upon whose head is plac’dSomewhat he deems not of but from the becksOf others as they pass him by; his handLends therefore help to’ assure him, searches, finds,And well performs such office as the eyeWants power to execute: so stretching forthThe fingers of my right hand, did I findSix only of the letters, which his swordWho bare the keys had trac’d upon my brow.The leader, as he mark’d mine action, smil’d.