CANTO XXVIIIThrough that celestial forest, whose thick shadeWith lively greenness the new-springing dayAttemper’d, eager now to roam, and searchIts limits round, forthwith I left the bank,Along the champain leisurely my wayPursuing, o’er the ground, that on all sidesDelicious odour breath’d. A pleasant air,That intermitted never, never veer’d,Smote on my temples, gently, as a windOf softest influence: at which the sprays,Obedient all, lean’d trembling to that partWhere first the holy mountain casts his shade,Yet were not so disorder’d, but that stillUpon their top the feather’d quiristersApplied their wonted art, and with full joyWelcom’d those hours of prime, and warbled shrillAmid the leaves, that to their jocund laysinept tenor; even as from branch to branch,Along the piney forests on the shoreOf Chiassi, rolls the gath’ring melody,When Eolus hath from his cavern loos’dThe dripping south. Already had my steps,Though slow, so far into that ancient woodTransported me, I could not ken the placeWhere I had enter’d, when behold! my pathWas bounded by a rill, which to the leftWith little rippling waters bent the grass,That issued from its brink. On earth no waveHow clean soe’er, that would not seem to haveSome mixture in itself, compar’d with this,Transpicuous, clear; yet darkly on it roll’d,Darkly beneath perpetual gloom, which ne’erAdmits or sun or moon light there to shine.My feet advanc’d not; but my wond’ring eyesPass’d onward, o’er the streamlet, to surveyThe tender May-bloom, flush’d through many a hue,In prodigal variety: and there,As object, rising suddenly to view,That from our bosom every thought besideWith the rare marvel chases, I beheldA lady all alone, who, singing, went,And culling flower from flower, wherewith her wayWas all o’er painted. “Lady beautiful!Thou, who (if looks, that use to speak the heart,Are worthy of our trust), with love’s own beamDost warm thee,” thus to her my speech I fram’d:“Ah! please thee hither towards the streamlet bendThy steps so near, that I may list thy song.Beholding thee and this fair place, methinks,I call to mind where wander’d and how look’dProserpine, in that season, when her childThe mother lost, and she the bloomy spring.”As when a lady, turning in the dance,Doth foot it featly, and advances scarceOne step before the other to the ground;Over the yellow and vermilion flowersThus turn’d she at my suit, most maiden-like,Valing her sober eyes, and came so near,That I distinctly caught the dulcet sound.Arriving where the limped waters nowLav’d the green sward, her eyes she deign’d to raise,That shot such splendour on me, as I weenNe’er glanced from Cytherea’s, when her sonHad sped his keenest weapon to her heart.Upon the opposite bank she stood and smil’dthrough her graceful fingers shifted stillThe intermingling dyes, which without seedThat lofty land unbosoms. By the streamThree paces only were we sunder’d: yetThe Hellespont, where Xerxes pass’d it o’er,(A curb for ever to the pride of man)Was by Leander not more hateful heldFor floating, with inhospitable wave’Twixt Sestus and Abydos, than by meThat flood, because it gave no passage thence.“Strangers ye come, and haply in this place,That cradled human nature in its birth,Wond’ring, ye not without suspicion viewMy smiles: but that sweet strain of psalmody,‘Thou, Lord! hast made me glad,’ will give ye light,Which may uncloud your minds. And thou, who stand’stThe foremost, and didst make thy suit to me,Say if aught else thou wish to hear: for ICame prompt to answer every doubt of thine.”She spake; and I replied: “I know not howTo reconcile this wave and rustling soundOf forest leaves, with what I late have heardOf opposite report.” She answering thus:“I will unfold the cause, whence that proceeds,Which makes thee wonder; and so purge the cloudThat hath enwraps thee. The First Good, whose joyIs only in himself, created manFor happiness, and gave this goodly place,His pledge and earnest of eternal peace.Favour’d thus highly, through his own defectHe fell, and here made short sojourn; he fell,And, for the bitterness of sorrow, chang’dLaughter unblam’d and ever-new delight.That vapours none, exhal’d from earth beneath,Or from the waters (which, wherever heatAttracts them, follow), might ascend thus farTo vex man’s peaceful state, this mountain roseSo high toward the heav’n, nor fears the rageOf elements contending, from that partExempted, where the gate his limit bars.Because the circumambient air throughoutWith its first impulse circles still, unlessAught interpose to cheek or thwart its course;Upon the summit, which on every sideTo visitation of th’ impassive airIs open, doth that motion strike, and makesBeneath its sway th’ umbrageous wood resound:And in the shaken plant such power resides,That it impregnates with its efficacyThe voyaging breeze, upon whose subtle plumeThat wafted flies abroad; and th’ other landReceiving (as ’t is worthy in itself,Or in the clime, that warms it), doth conceive,And from its womb produces many a treeOf various virtue. This when thou hast heard,The marvel ceases, if in yonder earthSome plant without apparent seed be foundTo fix its fibrous stem. And further learn,That with prolific foison of all seeds,This holy plain is fill’d, and in itselfBears fruit that ne’er was pluck’d on other soil.The water, thou behold’st, springs not from vein,As stream, that intermittently repairsAnd spends his pulse of life, but issues forthFrom fountain, solid, undecaying, sure;And by the will omnific, full supplyFeeds whatsoe’er On either side it pours;On this devolv’d with power to take awayRemembrance of offence, on that to bringRemembrance back of every good deed done.From whence its name of Lethe on this part;On th’ other Eunoe: both of which must firstBe tasted ere it work; the last exceedingAll flavours else. Albeit thy thirst may nowBe well contented, if I here break off,No more revealing: yet a corollaryI freely give beside: nor deem my wordsLess grateful to thee, if they somewhat passThe stretch of promise. They, whose verse of yoreThe golden age recorded and its bliss,On the Parnassian mountain, of this placePerhaps had dream’d. Here was man guiltless, herePerpetual spring and every fruit, and thisThe far-fam’d nectar.” Turning to the bards,When she had ceas’d, I noted in their looksA smile at her conclusion; then my faceAgain directed to the lovely dame.
CANTO XXVIIIThrough that celestial forest, whose thick shadeWith lively greenness the new-springing dayAttemper’d, eager now to roam, and searchIts limits round, forthwith I left the bank,Along the champain leisurely my wayPursuing, o’er the ground, that on all sidesDelicious odour breath’d. A pleasant air,That intermitted never, never veer’d,Smote on my temples, gently, as a windOf softest influence: at which the sprays,Obedient all, lean’d trembling to that partWhere first the holy mountain casts his shade,Yet were not so disorder’d, but that stillUpon their top the feather’d quiristersApplied their wonted art, and with full joyWelcom’d those hours of prime, and warbled shrillAmid the leaves, that to their jocund laysinept tenor; even as from branch to branch,Along the piney forests on the shoreOf Chiassi, rolls the gath’ring melody,When Eolus hath from his cavern loos’dThe dripping south. Already had my steps,Though slow, so far into that ancient woodTransported me, I could not ken the placeWhere I had enter’d, when behold! my pathWas bounded by a rill, which to the leftWith little rippling waters bent the grass,That issued from its brink. On earth no waveHow clean soe’er, that would not seem to haveSome mixture in itself, compar’d with this,Transpicuous, clear; yet darkly on it roll’d,Darkly beneath perpetual gloom, which ne’erAdmits or sun or moon light there to shine.My feet advanc’d not; but my wond’ring eyesPass’d onward, o’er the streamlet, to surveyThe tender May-bloom, flush’d through many a hue,In prodigal variety: and there,As object, rising suddenly to view,That from our bosom every thought besideWith the rare marvel chases, I beheldA lady all alone, who, singing, went,And culling flower from flower, wherewith her wayWas all o’er painted. “Lady beautiful!Thou, who (if looks, that use to speak the heart,Are worthy of our trust), with love’s own beamDost warm thee,” thus to her my speech I fram’d:“Ah! please thee hither towards the streamlet bendThy steps so near, that I may list thy song.Beholding thee and this fair place, methinks,I call to mind where wander’d and how look’dProserpine, in that season, when her childThe mother lost, and she the bloomy spring.”As when a lady, turning in the dance,Doth foot it featly, and advances scarceOne step before the other to the ground;Over the yellow and vermilion flowersThus turn’d she at my suit, most maiden-like,Valing her sober eyes, and came so near,That I distinctly caught the dulcet sound.Arriving where the limped waters nowLav’d the green sward, her eyes she deign’d to raise,That shot such splendour on me, as I weenNe’er glanced from Cytherea’s, when her sonHad sped his keenest weapon to her heart.Upon the opposite bank she stood and smil’dthrough her graceful fingers shifted stillThe intermingling dyes, which without seedThat lofty land unbosoms. By the streamThree paces only were we sunder’d: yetThe Hellespont, where Xerxes pass’d it o’er,(A curb for ever to the pride of man)Was by Leander not more hateful heldFor floating, with inhospitable wave’Twixt Sestus and Abydos, than by meThat flood, because it gave no passage thence.“Strangers ye come, and haply in this place,That cradled human nature in its birth,Wond’ring, ye not without suspicion viewMy smiles: but that sweet strain of psalmody,‘Thou, Lord! hast made me glad,’ will give ye light,Which may uncloud your minds. And thou, who stand’stThe foremost, and didst make thy suit to me,Say if aught else thou wish to hear: for ICame prompt to answer every doubt of thine.”She spake; and I replied: “I know not howTo reconcile this wave and rustling soundOf forest leaves, with what I late have heardOf opposite report.” She answering thus:“I will unfold the cause, whence that proceeds,Which makes thee wonder; and so purge the cloudThat hath enwraps thee. The First Good, whose joyIs only in himself, created manFor happiness, and gave this goodly place,His pledge and earnest of eternal peace.Favour’d thus highly, through his own defectHe fell, and here made short sojourn; he fell,And, for the bitterness of sorrow, chang’dLaughter unblam’d and ever-new delight.That vapours none, exhal’d from earth beneath,Or from the waters (which, wherever heatAttracts them, follow), might ascend thus farTo vex man’s peaceful state, this mountain roseSo high toward the heav’n, nor fears the rageOf elements contending, from that partExempted, where the gate his limit bars.Because the circumambient air throughoutWith its first impulse circles still, unlessAught interpose to cheek or thwart its course;Upon the summit, which on every sideTo visitation of th’ impassive airIs open, doth that motion strike, and makesBeneath its sway th’ umbrageous wood resound:And in the shaken plant such power resides,That it impregnates with its efficacyThe voyaging breeze, upon whose subtle plumeThat wafted flies abroad; and th’ other landReceiving (as ’t is worthy in itself,Or in the clime, that warms it), doth conceive,And from its womb produces many a treeOf various virtue. This when thou hast heard,The marvel ceases, if in yonder earthSome plant without apparent seed be foundTo fix its fibrous stem. And further learn,That with prolific foison of all seeds,This holy plain is fill’d, and in itselfBears fruit that ne’er was pluck’d on other soil.The water, thou behold’st, springs not from vein,As stream, that intermittently repairsAnd spends his pulse of life, but issues forthFrom fountain, solid, undecaying, sure;And by the will omnific, full supplyFeeds whatsoe’er On either side it pours;On this devolv’d with power to take awayRemembrance of offence, on that to bringRemembrance back of every good deed done.From whence its name of Lethe on this part;On th’ other Eunoe: both of which must firstBe tasted ere it work; the last exceedingAll flavours else. Albeit thy thirst may nowBe well contented, if I here break off,No more revealing: yet a corollaryI freely give beside: nor deem my wordsLess grateful to thee, if they somewhat passThe stretch of promise. They, whose verse of yoreThe golden age recorded and its bliss,On the Parnassian mountain, of this placePerhaps had dream’d. Here was man guiltless, herePerpetual spring and every fruit, and thisThe far-fam’d nectar.” Turning to the bards,When she had ceas’d, I noted in their looksA smile at her conclusion; then my faceAgain directed to the lovely dame.
Through that celestial forest, whose thick shadeWith lively greenness the new-springing dayAttemper’d, eager now to roam, and searchIts limits round, forthwith I left the bank,Along the champain leisurely my wayPursuing, o’er the ground, that on all sidesDelicious odour breath’d. A pleasant air,That intermitted never, never veer’d,Smote on my temples, gently, as a windOf softest influence: at which the sprays,Obedient all, lean’d trembling to that partWhere first the holy mountain casts his shade,Yet were not so disorder’d, but that stillUpon their top the feather’d quiristersApplied their wonted art, and with full joyWelcom’d those hours of prime, and warbled shrillAmid the leaves, that to their jocund laysinept tenor; even as from branch to branch,Along the piney forests on the shoreOf Chiassi, rolls the gath’ring melody,When Eolus hath from his cavern loos’dThe dripping south. Already had my steps,Though slow, so far into that ancient woodTransported me, I could not ken the placeWhere I had enter’d, when behold! my pathWas bounded by a rill, which to the leftWith little rippling waters bent the grass,That issued from its brink. On earth no waveHow clean soe’er, that would not seem to haveSome mixture in itself, compar’d with this,Transpicuous, clear; yet darkly on it roll’d,Darkly beneath perpetual gloom, which ne’erAdmits or sun or moon light there to shine.
My feet advanc’d not; but my wond’ring eyesPass’d onward, o’er the streamlet, to surveyThe tender May-bloom, flush’d through many a hue,In prodigal variety: and there,As object, rising suddenly to view,That from our bosom every thought besideWith the rare marvel chases, I beheldA lady all alone, who, singing, went,And culling flower from flower, wherewith her wayWas all o’er painted. “Lady beautiful!Thou, who (if looks, that use to speak the heart,Are worthy of our trust), with love’s own beamDost warm thee,” thus to her my speech I fram’d:“Ah! please thee hither towards the streamlet bendThy steps so near, that I may list thy song.Beholding thee and this fair place, methinks,I call to mind where wander’d and how look’dProserpine, in that season, when her childThe mother lost, and she the bloomy spring.”As when a lady, turning in the dance,Doth foot it featly, and advances scarceOne step before the other to the ground;Over the yellow and vermilion flowersThus turn’d she at my suit, most maiden-like,Valing her sober eyes, and came so near,That I distinctly caught the dulcet sound.Arriving where the limped waters nowLav’d the green sward, her eyes she deign’d to raise,That shot such splendour on me, as I weenNe’er glanced from Cytherea’s, when her sonHad sped his keenest weapon to her heart.Upon the opposite bank she stood and smil’dthrough her graceful fingers shifted stillThe intermingling dyes, which without seedThat lofty land unbosoms. By the streamThree paces only were we sunder’d: yetThe Hellespont, where Xerxes pass’d it o’er,(A curb for ever to the pride of man)Was by Leander not more hateful heldFor floating, with inhospitable wave’Twixt Sestus and Abydos, than by meThat flood, because it gave no passage thence.“Strangers ye come, and haply in this place,That cradled human nature in its birth,Wond’ring, ye not without suspicion viewMy smiles: but that sweet strain of psalmody,‘Thou, Lord! hast made me glad,’ will give ye light,Which may uncloud your minds. And thou, who stand’stThe foremost, and didst make thy suit to me,Say if aught else thou wish to hear: for ICame prompt to answer every doubt of thine.”She spake; and I replied: “I know not howTo reconcile this wave and rustling soundOf forest leaves, with what I late have heardOf opposite report.” She answering thus:“I will unfold the cause, whence that proceeds,Which makes thee wonder; and so purge the cloudThat hath enwraps thee. The First Good, whose joyIs only in himself, created manFor happiness, and gave this goodly place,His pledge and earnest of eternal peace.Favour’d thus highly, through his own defectHe fell, and here made short sojourn; he fell,And, for the bitterness of sorrow, chang’dLaughter unblam’d and ever-new delight.That vapours none, exhal’d from earth beneath,Or from the waters (which, wherever heatAttracts them, follow), might ascend thus farTo vex man’s peaceful state, this mountain roseSo high toward the heav’n, nor fears the rageOf elements contending, from that partExempted, where the gate his limit bars.Because the circumambient air throughoutWith its first impulse circles still, unlessAught interpose to cheek or thwart its course;Upon the summit, which on every sideTo visitation of th’ impassive airIs open, doth that motion strike, and makesBeneath its sway th’ umbrageous wood resound:And in the shaken plant such power resides,That it impregnates with its efficacyThe voyaging breeze, upon whose subtle plumeThat wafted flies abroad; and th’ other landReceiving (as ’t is worthy in itself,Or in the clime, that warms it), doth conceive,And from its womb produces many a treeOf various virtue. This when thou hast heard,The marvel ceases, if in yonder earthSome plant without apparent seed be foundTo fix its fibrous stem. And further learn,That with prolific foison of all seeds,This holy plain is fill’d, and in itselfBears fruit that ne’er was pluck’d on other soil.The water, thou behold’st, springs not from vein,As stream, that intermittently repairsAnd spends his pulse of life, but issues forthFrom fountain, solid, undecaying, sure;And by the will omnific, full supplyFeeds whatsoe’er On either side it pours;On this devolv’d with power to take awayRemembrance of offence, on that to bringRemembrance back of every good deed done.From whence its name of Lethe on this part;On th’ other Eunoe: both of which must firstBe tasted ere it work; the last exceedingAll flavours else. Albeit thy thirst may nowBe well contented, if I here break off,No more revealing: yet a corollaryI freely give beside: nor deem my wordsLess grateful to thee, if they somewhat passThe stretch of promise. They, whose verse of yoreThe golden age recorded and its bliss,On the Parnassian mountain, of this placePerhaps had dream’d. Here was man guiltless, herePerpetual spring and every fruit, and thisThe far-fam’d nectar.” Turning to the bards,When she had ceas’d, I noted in their looksA smile at her conclusion; then my faceAgain directed to the lovely dame.