CANTO XVIICall to remembrance, reader, if thou e’erHast, on a mountain top, been ta’en by cloud,Through which thou saw’st no better, than the moleDoth through opacous membrane; then, whene’erThe wat’ry vapours dense began to meltInto thin air, how faintly the sun’s sphereSeem’d wading through them; so thy nimble thoughtMay image, how at first I re-beheldThe sun, that bedward now his couch o’erhung.Thus with my leader’s feet still equaling paceFrom forth that cloud I came, when now expir’dThe parting beams from off the nether shores.O quick and forgetive power! that sometimes dostSo rob us of ourselves, we take no markThough round about us thousand trumpets clang!What moves thee, if the senses stir not? LightKindled in heav’n, spontaneous, self-inform’d,Or likelier gliding down with swift illapseBy will divine. Portray’d before me cameThe traces of her dire impiety,Whose form was chang’d into the bird, that mostDelights itself in song: and here my mindWas inwardly so wrapt, it gave no placeTo aught that ask’d admittance from without.Next shower’d into my fantasy a shapeAs of one crucified, whose visage spakeFell rancour, malice deep, wherein he died;And round him Ahasuerus the great king,Esther his bride, and Mordecai the just,Blameless in word and deed. As of itselfThat unsubstantial coinage of the brainBurst, like a bubble, Which the water failsThat fed it; in my vision straight uproseA damsel weeping loud, and cried, “O queen!O mother! wherefore has intemperate ireDriv’n thee to loath thy being? Not to loseLavinia, desp’rate thou hast slain thyself.Now hast thou lost me. I am she, whose tearsMourn, ere I fall, a mother’s timeless end.”E’en as a sleep breaks off, if suddenlyNew radiance strike upon the closed lids,The broken slumber quivering ere it dies;Thus from before me sunk that imageryVanishing, soon as on my face there struckThe light, outshining far our earthly beam.As round I turn’d me to survey what placeI had arriv’d at, “Here ye mount,” exclaim’dA voice, that other purpose left me none,Save will so eager to behold who spake,I could not choose but gaze. As ’fore the sun,That weighs our vision down, and veils his formIn light transcendent, thus my virtue fail’dUnequal. “This is Spirit from above,Who marshals us our upward way, unsought;And in his own light shrouds him. As a manDoth for himself, so now is done for us.For whoso waits imploring, yet sees needOf his prompt aidance, sets himself prepar’dFor blunt denial, ere the suit be made.Refuse we not to lend a ready footAt such inviting: haste we to ascend,Before it darken: for we may not then,Till morn again return.” So spake my guide;And to one ladder both address’d our steps;And the first stair approaching, I perceiv’dNear me as ’twere the waving of a wing,That fann’d my face and whisper’d: “Blessed theyThe peacemakers: they know not evil wrath.”Now to such height above our heads were rais’dThe last beams, follow’d close by hooded night,That many a star on all sides through the gloomShone out. “Why partest from me, O my strength?”So with myself I commun’d; for I feltMy o’ertoil’d sinews slacken. We had reach’dThe summit, and were fix’d like to a barkArriv’d at land. And waiting a short space,If aught should meet mine ear in that new round,Then to my guide I turn’d, and said: “Lov’d sire!Declare what guilt is on this circle purg’d.If our feet rest, no need thy speech should pause.”He thus to me: “The love of good, whate’erWanted of just proportion, here fulfils.Here plies afresh the oar, that loiter’d ill.But that thou mayst yet clearlier understand,Give ear unto my words, and thou shalt cullSome fruit may please thee well, from this delay.“Creator, nor created being, ne’er,My son,” he thus began, “was without love,Or natural, or the free spirit’s growth.Thou hast not that to learn. The natural stillIs without error; but the other swerves,If on ill object bent, or through excessOf vigour, or defect. While e’er it seeksThe primal blessings, or with measure dueTh’ inferior, no delight, that flows from it,Partakes of ill. But let it warp to evil,Or with more ardour than behooves, or less.Pursue the good, the thing created thenWorks ’gainst its Maker. Hence thou must inferThat love is germin of each virtue in ye,And of each act no less, that merits pain.Now since it may not be, but love intendThe welfare mainly of the thing it loves,All from self-hatred are secure; and sinceNo being can be thought t’ exist apartAnd independent of the first, a barOf equal force restrains from hating that.“Grant the distinction just; and it remainsThe’ evil must be another’s, which is lov’d.Three ways such love is gender’d in your clay.There is who hopes (his neighbour’s worth deprest,)Preeminence himself, and coverts henceFor his own greatness that another fall.There is who so much fears the loss of power,Fame, favour, glory (should his fellow mountAbove him), and so sickens at the thought,He loves their opposite: and there is he,Whom wrong or insult seems to gall and shameThat he doth thirst for vengeance, and such needsMust doat on other’s evil. Here beneathThis threefold love is mourn’d. Of th’ other sortBe now instructed, that which follows goodBut with disorder’d and irregular course.“All indistinctly apprehend a blissOn which the soul may rest, the hearts of allYearn after it, and to that wished bournAll therefore strive to tend. If ye beholdOr seek it with a love remiss and lax,This cornice after just repenting laysIts penal torment on ye. Other goodThere is, where man finds not his happiness:It is not true fruition, not that blestEssence, of every good the branch and root.The love too lavishly bestow’d on this,Along three circles over us, is mourn’d.Account of that division tripartiteExpect not, fitter for thine own research.”
CANTO XVIICall to remembrance, reader, if thou e’erHast, on a mountain top, been ta’en by cloud,Through which thou saw’st no better, than the moleDoth through opacous membrane; then, whene’erThe wat’ry vapours dense began to meltInto thin air, how faintly the sun’s sphereSeem’d wading through them; so thy nimble thoughtMay image, how at first I re-beheldThe sun, that bedward now his couch o’erhung.Thus with my leader’s feet still equaling paceFrom forth that cloud I came, when now expir’dThe parting beams from off the nether shores.O quick and forgetive power! that sometimes dostSo rob us of ourselves, we take no markThough round about us thousand trumpets clang!What moves thee, if the senses stir not? LightKindled in heav’n, spontaneous, self-inform’d,Or likelier gliding down with swift illapseBy will divine. Portray’d before me cameThe traces of her dire impiety,Whose form was chang’d into the bird, that mostDelights itself in song: and here my mindWas inwardly so wrapt, it gave no placeTo aught that ask’d admittance from without.Next shower’d into my fantasy a shapeAs of one crucified, whose visage spakeFell rancour, malice deep, wherein he died;And round him Ahasuerus the great king,Esther his bride, and Mordecai the just,Blameless in word and deed. As of itselfThat unsubstantial coinage of the brainBurst, like a bubble, Which the water failsThat fed it; in my vision straight uproseA damsel weeping loud, and cried, “O queen!O mother! wherefore has intemperate ireDriv’n thee to loath thy being? Not to loseLavinia, desp’rate thou hast slain thyself.Now hast thou lost me. I am she, whose tearsMourn, ere I fall, a mother’s timeless end.”E’en as a sleep breaks off, if suddenlyNew radiance strike upon the closed lids,The broken slumber quivering ere it dies;Thus from before me sunk that imageryVanishing, soon as on my face there struckThe light, outshining far our earthly beam.As round I turn’d me to survey what placeI had arriv’d at, “Here ye mount,” exclaim’dA voice, that other purpose left me none,Save will so eager to behold who spake,I could not choose but gaze. As ’fore the sun,That weighs our vision down, and veils his formIn light transcendent, thus my virtue fail’dUnequal. “This is Spirit from above,Who marshals us our upward way, unsought;And in his own light shrouds him. As a manDoth for himself, so now is done for us.For whoso waits imploring, yet sees needOf his prompt aidance, sets himself prepar’dFor blunt denial, ere the suit be made.Refuse we not to lend a ready footAt such inviting: haste we to ascend,Before it darken: for we may not then,Till morn again return.” So spake my guide;And to one ladder both address’d our steps;And the first stair approaching, I perceiv’dNear me as ’twere the waving of a wing,That fann’d my face and whisper’d: “Blessed theyThe peacemakers: they know not evil wrath.”Now to such height above our heads were rais’dThe last beams, follow’d close by hooded night,That many a star on all sides through the gloomShone out. “Why partest from me, O my strength?”So with myself I commun’d; for I feltMy o’ertoil’d sinews slacken. We had reach’dThe summit, and were fix’d like to a barkArriv’d at land. And waiting a short space,If aught should meet mine ear in that new round,Then to my guide I turn’d, and said: “Lov’d sire!Declare what guilt is on this circle purg’d.If our feet rest, no need thy speech should pause.”He thus to me: “The love of good, whate’erWanted of just proportion, here fulfils.Here plies afresh the oar, that loiter’d ill.But that thou mayst yet clearlier understand,Give ear unto my words, and thou shalt cullSome fruit may please thee well, from this delay.“Creator, nor created being, ne’er,My son,” he thus began, “was without love,Or natural, or the free spirit’s growth.Thou hast not that to learn. The natural stillIs without error; but the other swerves,If on ill object bent, or through excessOf vigour, or defect. While e’er it seeksThe primal blessings, or with measure dueTh’ inferior, no delight, that flows from it,Partakes of ill. But let it warp to evil,Or with more ardour than behooves, or less.Pursue the good, the thing created thenWorks ’gainst its Maker. Hence thou must inferThat love is germin of each virtue in ye,And of each act no less, that merits pain.Now since it may not be, but love intendThe welfare mainly of the thing it loves,All from self-hatred are secure; and sinceNo being can be thought t’ exist apartAnd independent of the first, a barOf equal force restrains from hating that.“Grant the distinction just; and it remainsThe’ evil must be another’s, which is lov’d.Three ways such love is gender’d in your clay.There is who hopes (his neighbour’s worth deprest,)Preeminence himself, and coverts henceFor his own greatness that another fall.There is who so much fears the loss of power,Fame, favour, glory (should his fellow mountAbove him), and so sickens at the thought,He loves their opposite: and there is he,Whom wrong or insult seems to gall and shameThat he doth thirst for vengeance, and such needsMust doat on other’s evil. Here beneathThis threefold love is mourn’d. Of th’ other sortBe now instructed, that which follows goodBut with disorder’d and irregular course.“All indistinctly apprehend a blissOn which the soul may rest, the hearts of allYearn after it, and to that wished bournAll therefore strive to tend. If ye beholdOr seek it with a love remiss and lax,This cornice after just repenting laysIts penal torment on ye. Other goodThere is, where man finds not his happiness:It is not true fruition, not that blestEssence, of every good the branch and root.The love too lavishly bestow’d on this,Along three circles over us, is mourn’d.Account of that division tripartiteExpect not, fitter for thine own research.”
Call to remembrance, reader, if thou e’erHast, on a mountain top, been ta’en by cloud,Through which thou saw’st no better, than the moleDoth through opacous membrane; then, whene’erThe wat’ry vapours dense began to meltInto thin air, how faintly the sun’s sphereSeem’d wading through them; so thy nimble thoughtMay image, how at first I re-beheldThe sun, that bedward now his couch o’erhung.Thus with my leader’s feet still equaling paceFrom forth that cloud I came, when now expir’dThe parting beams from off the nether shores.O quick and forgetive power! that sometimes dostSo rob us of ourselves, we take no markThough round about us thousand trumpets clang!What moves thee, if the senses stir not? LightKindled in heav’n, spontaneous, self-inform’d,Or likelier gliding down with swift illapseBy will divine. Portray’d before me cameThe traces of her dire impiety,Whose form was chang’d into the bird, that mostDelights itself in song: and here my mindWas inwardly so wrapt, it gave no placeTo aught that ask’d admittance from without.Next shower’d into my fantasy a shapeAs of one crucified, whose visage spakeFell rancour, malice deep, wherein he died;And round him Ahasuerus the great king,Esther his bride, and Mordecai the just,Blameless in word and deed. As of itselfThat unsubstantial coinage of the brainBurst, like a bubble, Which the water failsThat fed it; in my vision straight uproseA damsel weeping loud, and cried, “O queen!O mother! wherefore has intemperate ireDriv’n thee to loath thy being? Not to loseLavinia, desp’rate thou hast slain thyself.Now hast thou lost me. I am she, whose tearsMourn, ere I fall, a mother’s timeless end.”E’en as a sleep breaks off, if suddenlyNew radiance strike upon the closed lids,The broken slumber quivering ere it dies;Thus from before me sunk that imageryVanishing, soon as on my face there struckThe light, outshining far our earthly beam.As round I turn’d me to survey what placeI had arriv’d at, “Here ye mount,” exclaim’dA voice, that other purpose left me none,Save will so eager to behold who spake,I could not choose but gaze. As ’fore the sun,That weighs our vision down, and veils his formIn light transcendent, thus my virtue fail’dUnequal. “This is Spirit from above,Who marshals us our upward way, unsought;And in his own light shrouds him. As a manDoth for himself, so now is done for us.For whoso waits imploring, yet sees needOf his prompt aidance, sets himself prepar’dFor blunt denial, ere the suit be made.Refuse we not to lend a ready footAt such inviting: haste we to ascend,Before it darken: for we may not then,Till morn again return.” So spake my guide;And to one ladder both address’d our steps;And the first stair approaching, I perceiv’dNear me as ’twere the waving of a wing,That fann’d my face and whisper’d: “Blessed theyThe peacemakers: they know not evil wrath.”Now to such height above our heads were rais’dThe last beams, follow’d close by hooded night,That many a star on all sides through the gloomShone out. “Why partest from me, O my strength?”So with myself I commun’d; for I feltMy o’ertoil’d sinews slacken. We had reach’dThe summit, and were fix’d like to a barkArriv’d at land. And waiting a short space,If aught should meet mine ear in that new round,Then to my guide I turn’d, and said: “Lov’d sire!Declare what guilt is on this circle purg’d.If our feet rest, no need thy speech should pause.”He thus to me: “The love of good, whate’erWanted of just proportion, here fulfils.Here plies afresh the oar, that loiter’d ill.But that thou mayst yet clearlier understand,Give ear unto my words, and thou shalt cullSome fruit may please thee well, from this delay.“Creator, nor created being, ne’er,My son,” he thus began, “was without love,Or natural, or the free spirit’s growth.Thou hast not that to learn. The natural stillIs without error; but the other swerves,If on ill object bent, or through excessOf vigour, or defect. While e’er it seeksThe primal blessings, or with measure dueTh’ inferior, no delight, that flows from it,Partakes of ill. But let it warp to evil,Or with more ardour than behooves, or less.Pursue the good, the thing created thenWorks ’gainst its Maker. Hence thou must inferThat love is germin of each virtue in ye,And of each act no less, that merits pain.Now since it may not be, but love intendThe welfare mainly of the thing it loves,All from self-hatred are secure; and sinceNo being can be thought t’ exist apartAnd independent of the first, a barOf equal force restrains from hating that.“Grant the distinction just; and it remainsThe’ evil must be another’s, which is lov’d.Three ways such love is gender’d in your clay.There is who hopes (his neighbour’s worth deprest,)Preeminence himself, and coverts henceFor his own greatness that another fall.There is who so much fears the loss of power,Fame, favour, glory (should his fellow mountAbove him), and so sickens at the thought,He loves their opposite: and there is he,Whom wrong or insult seems to gall and shameThat he doth thirst for vengeance, and such needsMust doat on other’s evil. Here beneathThis threefold love is mourn’d. Of th’ other sortBe now instructed, that which follows goodBut with disorder’d and irregular course.“All indistinctly apprehend a blissOn which the soul may rest, the hearts of allYearn after it, and to that wished bournAll therefore strive to tend. If ye beholdOr seek it with a love remiss and lax,This cornice after just repenting laysIts penal torment on ye. Other goodThere is, where man finds not his happiness:It is not true fruition, not that blestEssence, of every good the branch and root.The love too lavishly bestow’d on this,Along three circles over us, is mourn’d.Account of that division tripartiteExpect not, fitter for thine own research.”