CANTO XXIThe natural thirst, ne’er quench’d but from the well,Whereof the woman of Samaria crav’d,Excited: haste along the cumber’d path,After my guide, impell’d; and pity mov’dMy bosom for the ’vengeful deed, though just.When lo! even as Luke relates, that ChristAppear’d unto the two upon their way,New-risen from his vaulted grave; to usA shade appear’d, and after us approach’d,Contemplating the crowd beneath its feet.We were not ware of it; so first it spake,Saying, “God give you peace, my brethren!” thenSudden we turn’d: and Virgil such salute,As fitted that kind greeting, gave, and cried:“Peace in the blessed council be thy lotAwarded by that righteous court, which meTo everlasting banishment exiles!”“How!” he exclaim’d, nor from his speed meanwhileDesisting, “If that ye be spirits, whom GodVouchsafes not room above, who up the heightHas been thus far your guide?” To whom the bard:“If thou observe the tokens, which this manTrac’d by the finger of the angel bears,’Tis plain that in the kingdom of the justHe needs must share. But sithence she, whose wheelSpins day and night, for him not yet had drawnThat yarn, which, on the fatal distaff pil’d,Clotho apportions to each wight that breathes,His soul, that sister is to mine and thine,Not of herself could mount, for not like oursHer ken: whence I, from forth the ample gulfOf hell was ta’en, to lead him, and will leadFar as my lore avails. But, if thou know,Instruct us for what cause, the mount erewhileThus shook and trembled: wherefore all at onceSeem’d shouting, even from his wave-wash’d foot.”That questioning so tallied with my wish,The thirst did feel abatement of its edgeE’en from expectance. He forthwith replied,“In its devotion nought irregularThis mount can witness, or by punctual ruleUnsanction’d; here from every change exempt.Other than that, which heaven in itselfDoth of itself receive, no influenceCan reach us. Tempest none, shower, hail or snow,Hoar frost or dewy moistness, higher fallsThan that brief scale of threefold steps: thick cloudsNor scudding rack are ever seen: swift glanceNe’er lightens, nor Thaumantian Iris gleams,That yonder often shift on each side heav’n.Vapour adust doth never mount aboveThe highest of the trinal stairs, whereonPeter’s vicegerent stands. Lower perchance,With various motion rock’d, trembles the soil:But here, through wind in earth’s deep hollow pent,I know not how, yet never trembled: thenTrembles, when any spirit feels itselfSo purified, that it may rise, or moveFor rising, and such loud acclaim ensues.Purification by the will aloneIs prov’d, that free to change societySeizes the soul rejoicing in her will.Desire of bliss is present from the first;But strong propension hinders, to that wishBy the just ordinance of heav’n oppos’d;Propension now as eager to fulfilTh’ allotted torment, as erewhile to sin.And I who in this punishment had lainFive hundred years and more, but now have feltFree wish for happier clime. Therefore thou felt’stThe mountain tremble, and the spirits devoutHeard’st, over all his limits, utter praiseTo that liege Lord, whom I entreat their joyTo hasten.” Thus he spake: and since the draughtIs grateful ever as the thirst is keen,No words may speak my fullness of content.“Now,” said the instructor sage, “I see the netThat takes ye here, and how the toils are loos’d,Why rocks the mountain and why ye rejoice.Vouchsafe, that from thy lips I next may learn,Who on the earth thou wast, and wherefore hereSo many an age wert prostrate.”—“In that time,When the good Titus, with Heav’n’s King to help,Aveng’d those piteous gashes, whence the bloodBy Judas sold did issue, with the nameMost lasting and most honour’d there was IAbundantly renown’d,” the shade reply’d,“Not yet with faith endued. So passing sweetMy vocal Spirit, from Tolosa, RomeTo herself drew me, where I meritedA myrtle garland to inwreathe my brow.Statius they name me still. Of Thebes I sang,And next of great Achilles: but i’ th’ wayFell with the second burthen. Of my flameThose sparkles were the seeds, which I deriv’dFrom the bright fountain of celestial fireThat feeds unnumber’d lamps, the song I meanWhich sounds Aeneas’ wand’rings: that the breastI hung at, that the nurse, from whom my veinsDrank inspiration: whose authorityWas ever sacred with me. To have liv’dCoeval with the Mantuan, I would bideThe revolution of another sunBeyond my stated years in banishment.”The Mantuan, when he heard him, turn’d to me,And holding silence: by his countenanceEnjoin’d me silence but the power which wills,Bears not supreme control: laughter and tearsFollow so closely on the passion prompts them,They wait not for the motions of the willIn natures most sincere. I did but smile,As one who winks; and thereupon the shadeBroke off, and peer’d into mine eyes, where bestOur looks interpret. “So to good eventMayst thou conduct such great emprize,” he cried,“Say, why across thy visage beam’d, but now,The lightning of a smile!” On either partNow am I straiten’d; one conjures me speak,Th’ other to silence binds me: whence a sighI utter, and the sigh is heard. “Speak on;”The teacher cried; “and do not fear to speak,But tell him what so earnestly he asks.”Whereon I thus: “Perchance, O ancient spirit!Thou marvel’st at my smiling. There is roomFor yet more wonder. He who guides my kenOn high, he is that Mantuan, led by whomThou didst presume of men and gods to sing.If other cause thou deem’dst for which I smil’d,Leave it as not the true one; and believeThose words, thou spak’st of him, indeed the cause.”Now down he bent t’ embrace my teacher’s feet;But he forbade him: “Brother! do it not:Thou art a shadow, and behold’st a shade.”He rising answer’d thus: “Now hast thou prov’dThe force and ardour of the love I bear thee,When I forget we are but things of air,And as a substance treat an empty shade.”
The natural thirst, ne’er quench’d but from the well,Whereof the woman of Samaria crav’d,Excited: haste along the cumber’d path,After my guide, impell’d; and pity mov’dMy bosom for the ’vengeful deed, though just.When lo! even as Luke relates, that ChristAppear’d unto the two upon their way,New-risen from his vaulted grave; to usA shade appear’d, and after us approach’d,Contemplating the crowd beneath its feet.We were not ware of it; so first it spake,Saying, “God give you peace, my brethren!” thenSudden we turn’d: and Virgil such salute,As fitted that kind greeting, gave, and cried:“Peace in the blessed council be thy lotAwarded by that righteous court, which meTo everlasting banishment exiles!”“How!” he exclaim’d, nor from his speed meanwhileDesisting, “If that ye be spirits, whom GodVouchsafes not room above, who up the heightHas been thus far your guide?” To whom the bard:“If thou observe the tokens, which this manTrac’d by the finger of the angel bears,’Tis plain that in the kingdom of the justHe needs must share. But sithence she, whose wheelSpins day and night, for him not yet had drawnThat yarn, which, on the fatal distaff pil’d,Clotho apportions to each wight that breathes,His soul, that sister is to mine and thine,Not of herself could mount, for not like oursHer ken: whence I, from forth the ample gulfOf hell was ta’en, to lead him, and will leadFar as my lore avails. But, if thou know,Instruct us for what cause, the mount erewhileThus shook and trembled: wherefore all at onceSeem’d shouting, even from his wave-wash’d foot.”That questioning so tallied with my wish,The thirst did feel abatement of its edgeE’en from expectance. He forthwith replied,“In its devotion nought irregularThis mount can witness, or by punctual ruleUnsanction’d; here from every change exempt.Other than that, which heaven in itselfDoth of itself receive, no influenceCan reach us. Tempest none, shower, hail or snow,Hoar frost or dewy moistness, higher fallsThan that brief scale of threefold steps: thick cloudsNor scudding rack are ever seen: swift glanceNe’er lightens, nor Thaumantian Iris gleams,That yonder often shift on each side heav’n.Vapour adust doth never mount aboveThe highest of the trinal stairs, whereonPeter’s vicegerent stands. Lower perchance,With various motion rock’d, trembles the soil:But here, through wind in earth’s deep hollow pent,I know not how, yet never trembled: thenTrembles, when any spirit feels itselfSo purified, that it may rise, or moveFor rising, and such loud acclaim ensues.Purification by the will aloneIs prov’d, that free to change societySeizes the soul rejoicing in her will.Desire of bliss is present from the first;But strong propension hinders, to that wishBy the just ordinance of heav’n oppos’d;Propension now as eager to fulfilTh’ allotted torment, as erewhile to sin.And I who in this punishment had lainFive hundred years and more, but now have feltFree wish for happier clime. Therefore thou felt’stThe mountain tremble, and the spirits devoutHeard’st, over all his limits, utter praiseTo that liege Lord, whom I entreat their joyTo hasten.” Thus he spake: and since the draughtIs grateful ever as the thirst is keen,No words may speak my fullness of content.“Now,” said the instructor sage, “I see the netThat takes ye here, and how the toils are loos’d,Why rocks the mountain and why ye rejoice.Vouchsafe, that from thy lips I next may learn,Who on the earth thou wast, and wherefore hereSo many an age wert prostrate.”—“In that time,When the good Titus, with Heav’n’s King to help,Aveng’d those piteous gashes, whence the bloodBy Judas sold did issue, with the nameMost lasting and most honour’d there was IAbundantly renown’d,” the shade reply’d,“Not yet with faith endued. So passing sweetMy vocal Spirit, from Tolosa, RomeTo herself drew me, where I meritedA myrtle garland to inwreathe my brow.Statius they name me still. Of Thebes I sang,And next of great Achilles: but i’ th’ wayFell with the second burthen. Of my flameThose sparkles were the seeds, which I deriv’dFrom the bright fountain of celestial fireThat feeds unnumber’d lamps, the song I meanWhich sounds Aeneas’ wand’rings: that the breastI hung at, that the nurse, from whom my veinsDrank inspiration: whose authorityWas ever sacred with me. To have liv’dCoeval with the Mantuan, I would bideThe revolution of another sunBeyond my stated years in banishment.”The Mantuan, when he heard him, turn’d to me,And holding silence: by his countenanceEnjoin’d me silence but the power which wills,Bears not supreme control: laughter and tearsFollow so closely on the passion prompts them,They wait not for the motions of the willIn natures most sincere. I did but smile,As one who winks; and thereupon the shadeBroke off, and peer’d into mine eyes, where bestOur looks interpret. “So to good eventMayst thou conduct such great emprize,” he cried,“Say, why across thy visage beam’d, but now,The lightning of a smile!” On either partNow am I straiten’d; one conjures me speak,Th’ other to silence binds me: whence a sighI utter, and the sigh is heard. “Speak on;”The teacher cried; “and do not fear to speak,But tell him what so earnestly he asks.”Whereon I thus: “Perchance, O ancient spirit!Thou marvel’st at my smiling. There is roomFor yet more wonder. He who guides my kenOn high, he is that Mantuan, led by whomThou didst presume of men and gods to sing.If other cause thou deem’dst for which I smil’d,Leave it as not the true one; and believeThose words, thou spak’st of him, indeed the cause.”Now down he bent t’ embrace my teacher’s feet;But he forbade him: “Brother! do it not:Thou art a shadow, and behold’st a shade.”He rising answer’d thus: “Now hast thou prov’dThe force and ardour of the love I bear thee,When I forget we are but things of air,And as a substance treat an empty shade.”