CANTO XXIll strives the will, ’gainst will more wise that strivesHis pleasure therefore to mine own preferr’d,I drew the sponge yet thirsty from the wave.Onward I mov’d: he also onward mov’d,Who led me, coasting still, wherever placeAlong the rock was vacant, as a manWalks near the battlements on narrow wall.For those on th’ other part, who drop by dropWring out their all-infecting malady,Too closely press the verge. Accurst be thou!Inveterate wolf! whose gorge ingluts more prey,Than every beast beside, yet is not fill’d!So bottomless thy maw!—Ye spheres of heaven!To whom there are, as seems, who attributeAll change in mortal state, when is the dayOf his appearing, for whom fate reservesTo chase her hence? —With wary steps and slowWe pass’d; and I attentive to the shades,Whom piteously I heard lament and wail;And, ’midst the wailing, one before us heardCry out “O blessed Virgin!” as a dameIn the sharp pangs of childbed; and “How poorThou wast,” it added, “witness that low roofWhere thou didst lay thy sacred burden down.O good Fabricius! thou didst virtue chooseWith poverty, before great wealth with vice.”The words so pleas’d me, that desire to knowThe spirit, from whose lip they seem’d to come,Did draw me onward. Yet it spake the giftOf Nicholas, which on the maidens heBounteous bestow’d, to save their youthful primeUnblemish’d. “Spirit! who dost speak of deedsSo worthy, tell me who thou was,” I said,“And why thou dost with single voice renewMemorial of such praise. That boon vouchsaf’dHaply shall meet reward; if I returnTo finish the Short pilgrimage of life,Still speeding to its close on restless wing.”“I,” answer’d he, “will tell thee, not for hell,Which thence I look for; but that in thyselfGrace so exceeding shines, before thy timeOf mortal dissolution. I was rootOf that ill plant, whose shade such poison shedsO’er all the Christian land, that seldom thenceGood fruit is gather’d. Vengeance soon should come,Had Ghent and Douay, Lille and Bruges power;And vengeance I of heav’n’s great Judge implore.Hugh Capet was I high: from me descendThe Philips and the Louis, of whom FranceNewly is govern’d; born of one, who ply’dThe slaughterer’s trade at Paris. When the raceOf ancient kings had vanish’d (all save oneWrapt up in sable weeds) within my gripeI found the reins of empire, and such powersOf new acquirement, with full store of friends,That soon the widow’d circlet of the crownWas girt upon the temples of my son,He, from whose bones th’ anointed race begins.Till the great dower of Provence had remov’dThe stains, that yet obscur’d our lowly blood,Its sway indeed was narrow, but howe’erIt wrought no evil: there, with force and lies,Began its rapine; after, for amends,Poitou it seiz’d, Navarre and Gascony.To Italy came Charles, and for amendsYoung Conradine an innocent victim slew,And sent th’ angelic teacher back to heav’n,Still for amends. I see the time at hand,That forth from France invites another CharlesTo make himself and kindred better known.Unarm’d he issues, saving with that lance,Which the arch-traitor tilted with; and thatHe carries with so home a thrust, as rivesThe bowels of poor Florence. No increaseOf territory hence, but sin and shameShall be his guerdon, and so much the moreAs he more lightly deems of such foul wrong.I see the other, who a prisoner lateHad steps on shore, exposing to the martHis daughter, whom he bargains for, as doThe Corsairs for their slaves. O avarice!What canst thou more, who hast subdued our bloodSo wholly to thyself, they feel no careOf their own flesh? To hide with direr guiltPast ill and future, lo! the flower-de-luceEnters Alagna! in his Vicar ChristHimself a captive, and his mockeryActed again! Lo! lo his holy lipThe vinegar and gall once more applied!And he ’twixt living robbers doom’d to bleed!Lo! the new Pilate, of whose crueltySuch violence cannot fill the measure up,With no degree to sanction, pushes onInto the temple his yet eager sails!“O sovran Master! when shall I rejoiceTo see the vengeance, which thy wrath well-pleas’dIn secret silence broods?—While daylight lasts,So long what thou didst hear of her, sole spouseOf the Great Spirit, and on which thou turn’dstTo me for comment, is the general themeOf all our prayers: but when it darkens, thenA different strain we utter, then recordPygmalion, whom his gluttonous thirst of goldMade traitor, robber, parricide: the woesOf Midas, which his greedy wish ensued,Mark’d for derision to all future times:And the fond Achan, how he stole the prey,That yet he seems by Joshua’s ire pursued.Sapphira with her husband next, we blame;And praise the forefeet, that with furious rampSpurn’d Heliodorus. All the mountain roundRings with the infamy of Thracia’s king,Who slew his Phrygian charge: and last a shoutAscends: “Declare, O Crassus! for thou know’st,The flavour of thy gold.” The voice of eachNow high now low, as each his impulse prompts,Is led through many a pitch, acute or grave.Therefore, not singly, I erewhile rehears’dThat blessedness we tell of in the day:But near me none beside his accent rais’d.”From him we now had parted, and essay’dWith utmost efforts to surmount the way,When I did feel, as nodding to its fall,The mountain tremble; whence an icy chillSeiz’d on me, as on one to death convey’d.So shook not Delos, when Latona thereCouch’d to bring forth the twin-born eyes of heaven.Forthwith from every side a shout aroseSo vehement, that suddenly my guideDrew near, and cried: “Doubt not, while I conduct thee.”“Glory!” all shouted (such the sounds mine earGather’d from those, who near me swell’d the sounds)“Glory in the highest be to God.” We stoodImmovably suspended, like to those,The shepherds, who first heard in Bethlehem’s fieldThat song: till ceas’d the trembling, and the songWas ended: then our hallow’d path resum’d,Eying the prostrate shadows, who renew’dTheir custom’d mourning. Never in my breastDid ignorance so struggle with desireOf knowledge, if my memory do not err,As in that moment; nor through haste dar’d ITo question, nor myself could aught discern,So on I far’d in thoughtfulness and dread.
Ill strives the will, ’gainst will more wise that strivesHis pleasure therefore to mine own preferr’d,I drew the sponge yet thirsty from the wave.Onward I mov’d: he also onward mov’d,Who led me, coasting still, wherever placeAlong the rock was vacant, as a manWalks near the battlements on narrow wall.For those on th’ other part, who drop by dropWring out their all-infecting malady,Too closely press the verge. Accurst be thou!Inveterate wolf! whose gorge ingluts more prey,Than every beast beside, yet is not fill’d!So bottomless thy maw!—Ye spheres of heaven!To whom there are, as seems, who attributeAll change in mortal state, when is the dayOf his appearing, for whom fate reservesTo chase her hence? —With wary steps and slowWe pass’d; and I attentive to the shades,Whom piteously I heard lament and wail;
And, ’midst the wailing, one before us heardCry out “O blessed Virgin!” as a dameIn the sharp pangs of childbed; and “How poorThou wast,” it added, “witness that low roofWhere thou didst lay thy sacred burden down.O good Fabricius! thou didst virtue chooseWith poverty, before great wealth with vice.”The words so pleas’d me, that desire to knowThe spirit, from whose lip they seem’d to come,Did draw me onward. Yet it spake the giftOf Nicholas, which on the maidens heBounteous bestow’d, to save their youthful primeUnblemish’d. “Spirit! who dost speak of deedsSo worthy, tell me who thou was,” I said,“And why thou dost with single voice renewMemorial of such praise. That boon vouchsaf’dHaply shall meet reward; if I returnTo finish the Short pilgrimage of life,Still speeding to its close on restless wing.”“I,” answer’d he, “will tell thee, not for hell,Which thence I look for; but that in thyselfGrace so exceeding shines, before thy timeOf mortal dissolution. I was rootOf that ill plant, whose shade such poison shedsO’er all the Christian land, that seldom thenceGood fruit is gather’d. Vengeance soon should come,Had Ghent and Douay, Lille and Bruges power;And vengeance I of heav’n’s great Judge implore.Hugh Capet was I high: from me descendThe Philips and the Louis, of whom FranceNewly is govern’d; born of one, who ply’dThe slaughterer’s trade at Paris. When the raceOf ancient kings had vanish’d (all save oneWrapt up in sable weeds) within my gripeI found the reins of empire, and such powersOf new acquirement, with full store of friends,That soon the widow’d circlet of the crownWas girt upon the temples of my son,He, from whose bones th’ anointed race begins.Till the great dower of Provence had remov’dThe stains, that yet obscur’d our lowly blood,Its sway indeed was narrow, but howe’erIt wrought no evil: there, with force and lies,Began its rapine; after, for amends,Poitou it seiz’d, Navarre and Gascony.To Italy came Charles, and for amendsYoung Conradine an innocent victim slew,And sent th’ angelic teacher back to heav’n,Still for amends. I see the time at hand,That forth from France invites another CharlesTo make himself and kindred better known.Unarm’d he issues, saving with that lance,Which the arch-traitor tilted with; and thatHe carries with so home a thrust, as rivesThe bowels of poor Florence. No increaseOf territory hence, but sin and shameShall be his guerdon, and so much the moreAs he more lightly deems of such foul wrong.I see the other, who a prisoner lateHad steps on shore, exposing to the martHis daughter, whom he bargains for, as doThe Corsairs for their slaves. O avarice!What canst thou more, who hast subdued our bloodSo wholly to thyself, they feel no careOf their own flesh? To hide with direr guiltPast ill and future, lo! the flower-de-luceEnters Alagna! in his Vicar ChristHimself a captive, and his mockeryActed again! Lo! lo his holy lipThe vinegar and gall once more applied!And he ’twixt living robbers doom’d to bleed!Lo! the new Pilate, of whose crueltySuch violence cannot fill the measure up,With no degree to sanction, pushes onInto the temple his yet eager sails!“O sovran Master! when shall I rejoiceTo see the vengeance, which thy wrath well-pleas’dIn secret silence broods?—While daylight lasts,So long what thou didst hear of her, sole spouseOf the Great Spirit, and on which thou turn’dstTo me for comment, is the general themeOf all our prayers: but when it darkens, thenA different strain we utter, then recordPygmalion, whom his gluttonous thirst of goldMade traitor, robber, parricide: the woesOf Midas, which his greedy wish ensued,Mark’d for derision to all future times:And the fond Achan, how he stole the prey,That yet he seems by Joshua’s ire pursued.Sapphira with her husband next, we blame;And praise the forefeet, that with furious rampSpurn’d Heliodorus. All the mountain roundRings with the infamy of Thracia’s king,Who slew his Phrygian charge: and last a shoutAscends: “Declare, O Crassus! for thou know’st,The flavour of thy gold.” The voice of eachNow high now low, as each his impulse prompts,Is led through many a pitch, acute or grave.Therefore, not singly, I erewhile rehears’dThat blessedness we tell of in the day:But near me none beside his accent rais’d.”From him we now had parted, and essay’dWith utmost efforts to surmount the way,When I did feel, as nodding to its fall,The mountain tremble; whence an icy chillSeiz’d on me, as on one to death convey’d.So shook not Delos, when Latona thereCouch’d to bring forth the twin-born eyes of heaven.Forthwith from every side a shout aroseSo vehement, that suddenly my guideDrew near, and cried: “Doubt not, while I conduct thee.”“Glory!” all shouted (such the sounds mine earGather’d from those, who near me swell’d the sounds)“Glory in the highest be to God.” We stoodImmovably suspended, like to those,The shepherds, who first heard in Bethlehem’s fieldThat song: till ceas’d the trembling, and the songWas ended: then our hallow’d path resum’d,Eying the prostrate shadows, who renew’dTheir custom’d mourning. Never in my breastDid ignorance so struggle with desireOf knowledge, if my memory do not err,As in that moment; nor through haste dar’d ITo question, nor myself could aught discern,So on I far’d in thoughtfulness and dread.