CANTO XXXIII“The heathen, Lord! are come!” responsive thus,The trinal now, and now the virgin bandQuaternion, their sweet psalmody began,Weeping; and Beatrice listen’d, sadAnd sighing, to the song’, in such a mood,That Mary, as she stood beside the cross,Was scarce more chang’d. But when they gave her placeTo speak, then, risen upright on her feet,She, with a colour glowing bright as fire,Did answer: “Yet a little while, and yeShall see me not; and, my beloved sisters,Again a little while, and ye shall see me.”Before her then she marshall’d all the seven,And, beck’ning only motion’d me, the dame,And that remaining sage, to follow her.So on she pass’d; and had not set, I ween,Her tenth step to the ground, when with mine eyesHer eyes encounter’d; and, with visage mild,“So mend thy pace,” she cried, “that if my wordsAddress thee, thou mayst still be aptly plac’dTo hear them.” Soon as duly to her sideI now had hasten’d: “Brother!” she began,“Why mak’st thou no attempt at questioning,As thus we walk together?” Like to thoseWho, speaking with too reverent an aweBefore their betters, draw not forth the voiceAlive unto their lips, befell me shellThat I in sounds imperfect thus began:“Lady! what I have need of, that thou know’st,And what will suit my need.” She answering thus:“Of fearfulness and shame, I will, that thouHenceforth do rid thee: that thou speak no more,As one who dreams. Thus far be taught of me:The vessel, which thou saw’st the serpent break,Was and is not: let him, who hath the blame,Hope not to scare God’s vengeance with a sop.Without an heir for ever shall not beThat eagle, he, who left the chariot plum’d,Which monster made it first and next a prey.Plainly I view, and therefore speak, the starsE’en now approaching, whose conjunction, freeFrom all impediment and bar, brings onA season, in the which, one sent from God,(Five hundred, five, and ten, do mark him out)That foul one, and th’ accomplice of her guilt,The giant, both shall slay. And if perchanceMy saying, dark as Themis or as Sphinx,Fail to persuade thee, (since like them it foilsThe intellect with blindness) yet ere longEvents shall be the Naiads, that will solveThis knotty riddle, and no damage lightOn flock or field. Take heed; and as these wordsBy me are utter’d, teach them even soTo those who live that life, which is a raceTo death: and when thou writ’st them, keep in mindNot to conceal how thou hast seen the plant,That twice hath now been spoil’d. This whoso robs,This whoso plucks, with blasphemy of deedSins against God, who for his use aloneCreating hallow’d it. For taste of this,In pain and in desire, five thousand yearsAnd upward, the first soul did yearn for him,Who punish’d in himself the fatal gust.“Thy reason slumbers, if it deem this heightAnd summit thus inverted of the plant,Without due cause: and were not vainer thoughts,As Elsa’s numbing waters, to thy soul,And their fond pleasures had not dyed it darkAs Pyramus the mulberry, thou hadst seen,In such momentous circumstance alone,God’s equal justice morally impliedIn the forbidden tree. But since I mark theeIn understanding harden’d into stone,And, to that hardness, spotted too and stain’d,So that thine eye is dazzled at my word,I will, that, if not written, yet at leastPainted thou take it in thee, for the cause,That one brings home his staff inwreath’d with palm.I thus: “As wax by seal, that changeth notIts impress, now is stamp’d my brain by thee.But wherefore soars thy wish’d-for speech so highBeyond my sight, that loses it the more,The more it strains to reach it?”—“To the endThat thou mayst know,” she answer’d straight, “the school,That thou hast follow’d; and how far behind,When following my discourse, its learning halts:And mayst behold your art, from the divineAs distant, as the disagreement is’Twixt earth and heaven’s most high and rapturous orb.”“I not remember,” I replied, “that e’erI was estrang’d from thee, nor for such faultDoth conscience chide me.” Smiling she return’d:“If thou canst, not remember, call to mindHow lately thou hast drunk of Lethe’s wave;And, sure as smoke doth indicate a flame,In that forgetfulness itself concludeBlame from thy alienated will incurr’d.From henceforth verily my words shall beAs naked as will suit them to appearIn thy unpractis’d view.” More sparkling now,And with retarded course the sun possess’dThe circle of mid-day, that varies stillAs th’ aspect varies of each several clime,When, as one, sent in vaward of a troopFor escort, pauses, if perchance he spyVestige of somewhat strange and rare: so paus’dThe sev’nfold band, arriving at the vergeOf a dun umbrage hoar, such as is seen,Beneath green leaves and gloomy branches, oftTo overbrow a bleak and alpine cliff.And, where they stood, before them, as it seem’d,Tigris and Euphrates both beheld,Forth from one fountain issue; and, like friends,Linger at parting. “O enlight’ning beam!O glory of our kind! beseech thee sayWhat water this, which from one source deriv’dItself removes to distance from itself?”To such entreaty answer thus was made:“Entreat Matilda, that she teach thee this.”And here, as one, who clears himself of blameImputed, the fair dame return’d: “Of meHe this and more hath learnt; and I am safeThat Lethe’s water hath not hid it from him.”And Beatrice: “Some more pressing careThat oft the memory ’reeves, perchance hath madeHis mind’s eye dark. But lo! where Eunoe cows!Lead thither; and, as thou art wont, reviveHis fainting virtue.” As a courteous spirit,That proffers no excuses, but as soonAs he hath token of another’s will,Makes it his own; when she had ta’en me, thusThe lovely maiden mov’d her on, and call’dTo Statius with an air most lady-like:“Come thou with him.” Were further space allow’d,Then, Reader, might I sing, though but in part,That beverage, with whose sweetness I had ne’erBeen sated. But, since all the leaves are full,Appointed for this second strain, mine artWith warning bridle checks me. I return’dFrom the most holy wave, regenerate,If ’en as new plants renew’d with foliage new,Pure and made apt for mounting to the stars.
CANTO XXXIII“The heathen, Lord! are come!” responsive thus,The trinal now, and now the virgin bandQuaternion, their sweet psalmody began,Weeping; and Beatrice listen’d, sadAnd sighing, to the song’, in such a mood,That Mary, as she stood beside the cross,Was scarce more chang’d. But when they gave her placeTo speak, then, risen upright on her feet,She, with a colour glowing bright as fire,Did answer: “Yet a little while, and yeShall see me not; and, my beloved sisters,Again a little while, and ye shall see me.”Before her then she marshall’d all the seven,And, beck’ning only motion’d me, the dame,And that remaining sage, to follow her.So on she pass’d; and had not set, I ween,Her tenth step to the ground, when with mine eyesHer eyes encounter’d; and, with visage mild,“So mend thy pace,” she cried, “that if my wordsAddress thee, thou mayst still be aptly plac’dTo hear them.” Soon as duly to her sideI now had hasten’d: “Brother!” she began,“Why mak’st thou no attempt at questioning,As thus we walk together?” Like to thoseWho, speaking with too reverent an aweBefore their betters, draw not forth the voiceAlive unto their lips, befell me shellThat I in sounds imperfect thus began:“Lady! what I have need of, that thou know’st,And what will suit my need.” She answering thus:“Of fearfulness and shame, I will, that thouHenceforth do rid thee: that thou speak no more,As one who dreams. Thus far be taught of me:The vessel, which thou saw’st the serpent break,Was and is not: let him, who hath the blame,Hope not to scare God’s vengeance with a sop.Without an heir for ever shall not beThat eagle, he, who left the chariot plum’d,Which monster made it first and next a prey.Plainly I view, and therefore speak, the starsE’en now approaching, whose conjunction, freeFrom all impediment and bar, brings onA season, in the which, one sent from God,(Five hundred, five, and ten, do mark him out)That foul one, and th’ accomplice of her guilt,The giant, both shall slay. And if perchanceMy saying, dark as Themis or as Sphinx,Fail to persuade thee, (since like them it foilsThe intellect with blindness) yet ere longEvents shall be the Naiads, that will solveThis knotty riddle, and no damage lightOn flock or field. Take heed; and as these wordsBy me are utter’d, teach them even soTo those who live that life, which is a raceTo death: and when thou writ’st them, keep in mindNot to conceal how thou hast seen the plant,That twice hath now been spoil’d. This whoso robs,This whoso plucks, with blasphemy of deedSins against God, who for his use aloneCreating hallow’d it. For taste of this,In pain and in desire, five thousand yearsAnd upward, the first soul did yearn for him,Who punish’d in himself the fatal gust.“Thy reason slumbers, if it deem this heightAnd summit thus inverted of the plant,Without due cause: and were not vainer thoughts,As Elsa’s numbing waters, to thy soul,And their fond pleasures had not dyed it darkAs Pyramus the mulberry, thou hadst seen,In such momentous circumstance alone,God’s equal justice morally impliedIn the forbidden tree. But since I mark theeIn understanding harden’d into stone,And, to that hardness, spotted too and stain’d,So that thine eye is dazzled at my word,I will, that, if not written, yet at leastPainted thou take it in thee, for the cause,That one brings home his staff inwreath’d with palm.I thus: “As wax by seal, that changeth notIts impress, now is stamp’d my brain by thee.But wherefore soars thy wish’d-for speech so highBeyond my sight, that loses it the more,The more it strains to reach it?”—“To the endThat thou mayst know,” she answer’d straight, “the school,That thou hast follow’d; and how far behind,When following my discourse, its learning halts:And mayst behold your art, from the divineAs distant, as the disagreement is’Twixt earth and heaven’s most high and rapturous orb.”“I not remember,” I replied, “that e’erI was estrang’d from thee, nor for such faultDoth conscience chide me.” Smiling she return’d:“If thou canst, not remember, call to mindHow lately thou hast drunk of Lethe’s wave;And, sure as smoke doth indicate a flame,In that forgetfulness itself concludeBlame from thy alienated will incurr’d.From henceforth verily my words shall beAs naked as will suit them to appearIn thy unpractis’d view.” More sparkling now,And with retarded course the sun possess’dThe circle of mid-day, that varies stillAs th’ aspect varies of each several clime,When, as one, sent in vaward of a troopFor escort, pauses, if perchance he spyVestige of somewhat strange and rare: so paus’dThe sev’nfold band, arriving at the vergeOf a dun umbrage hoar, such as is seen,Beneath green leaves and gloomy branches, oftTo overbrow a bleak and alpine cliff.And, where they stood, before them, as it seem’d,Tigris and Euphrates both beheld,Forth from one fountain issue; and, like friends,Linger at parting. “O enlight’ning beam!O glory of our kind! beseech thee sayWhat water this, which from one source deriv’dItself removes to distance from itself?”To such entreaty answer thus was made:“Entreat Matilda, that she teach thee this.”And here, as one, who clears himself of blameImputed, the fair dame return’d: “Of meHe this and more hath learnt; and I am safeThat Lethe’s water hath not hid it from him.”And Beatrice: “Some more pressing careThat oft the memory ’reeves, perchance hath madeHis mind’s eye dark. But lo! where Eunoe cows!Lead thither; and, as thou art wont, reviveHis fainting virtue.” As a courteous spirit,That proffers no excuses, but as soonAs he hath token of another’s will,Makes it his own; when she had ta’en me, thusThe lovely maiden mov’d her on, and call’dTo Statius with an air most lady-like:“Come thou with him.” Were further space allow’d,Then, Reader, might I sing, though but in part,That beverage, with whose sweetness I had ne’erBeen sated. But, since all the leaves are full,Appointed for this second strain, mine artWith warning bridle checks me. I return’dFrom the most holy wave, regenerate,If ’en as new plants renew’d with foliage new,Pure and made apt for mounting to the stars.
“The heathen, Lord! are come!” responsive thus,The trinal now, and now the virgin bandQuaternion, their sweet psalmody began,Weeping; and Beatrice listen’d, sadAnd sighing, to the song’, in such a mood,That Mary, as she stood beside the cross,Was scarce more chang’d. But when they gave her placeTo speak, then, risen upright on her feet,She, with a colour glowing bright as fire,Did answer: “Yet a little while, and yeShall see me not; and, my beloved sisters,Again a little while, and ye shall see me.”Before her then she marshall’d all the seven,And, beck’ning only motion’d me, the dame,And that remaining sage, to follow her.So on she pass’d; and had not set, I ween,Her tenth step to the ground, when with mine eyesHer eyes encounter’d; and, with visage mild,“So mend thy pace,” she cried, “that if my wordsAddress thee, thou mayst still be aptly plac’dTo hear them.” Soon as duly to her sideI now had hasten’d: “Brother!” she began,“Why mak’st thou no attempt at questioning,As thus we walk together?” Like to thoseWho, speaking with too reverent an aweBefore their betters, draw not forth the voiceAlive unto their lips, befell me shellThat I in sounds imperfect thus began:“Lady! what I have need of, that thou know’st,And what will suit my need.” She answering thus:“Of fearfulness and shame, I will, that thouHenceforth do rid thee: that thou speak no more,As one who dreams. Thus far be taught of me:The vessel, which thou saw’st the serpent break,Was and is not: let him, who hath the blame,Hope not to scare God’s vengeance with a sop.Without an heir for ever shall not beThat eagle, he, who left the chariot plum’d,Which monster made it first and next a prey.Plainly I view, and therefore speak, the starsE’en now approaching, whose conjunction, freeFrom all impediment and bar, brings onA season, in the which, one sent from God,(Five hundred, five, and ten, do mark him out)That foul one, and th’ accomplice of her guilt,The giant, both shall slay. And if perchanceMy saying, dark as Themis or as Sphinx,Fail to persuade thee, (since like them it foilsThe intellect with blindness) yet ere longEvents shall be the Naiads, that will solveThis knotty riddle, and no damage lightOn flock or field. Take heed; and as these wordsBy me are utter’d, teach them even soTo those who live that life, which is a raceTo death: and when thou writ’st them, keep in mindNot to conceal how thou hast seen the plant,That twice hath now been spoil’d. This whoso robs,This whoso plucks, with blasphemy of deedSins against God, who for his use aloneCreating hallow’d it. For taste of this,In pain and in desire, five thousand yearsAnd upward, the first soul did yearn for him,Who punish’d in himself the fatal gust.“Thy reason slumbers, if it deem this heightAnd summit thus inverted of the plant,Without due cause: and were not vainer thoughts,As Elsa’s numbing waters, to thy soul,And their fond pleasures had not dyed it darkAs Pyramus the mulberry, thou hadst seen,In such momentous circumstance alone,God’s equal justice morally impliedIn the forbidden tree. But since I mark theeIn understanding harden’d into stone,And, to that hardness, spotted too and stain’d,So that thine eye is dazzled at my word,I will, that, if not written, yet at leastPainted thou take it in thee, for the cause,That one brings home his staff inwreath’d with palm.I thus: “As wax by seal, that changeth notIts impress, now is stamp’d my brain by thee.But wherefore soars thy wish’d-for speech so highBeyond my sight, that loses it the more,The more it strains to reach it?”—“To the endThat thou mayst know,” she answer’d straight, “the school,That thou hast follow’d; and how far behind,When following my discourse, its learning halts:And mayst behold your art, from the divineAs distant, as the disagreement is’Twixt earth and heaven’s most high and rapturous orb.”“I not remember,” I replied, “that e’erI was estrang’d from thee, nor for such faultDoth conscience chide me.” Smiling she return’d:“If thou canst, not remember, call to mindHow lately thou hast drunk of Lethe’s wave;And, sure as smoke doth indicate a flame,In that forgetfulness itself concludeBlame from thy alienated will incurr’d.From henceforth verily my words shall beAs naked as will suit them to appearIn thy unpractis’d view.” More sparkling now,And with retarded course the sun possess’dThe circle of mid-day, that varies stillAs th’ aspect varies of each several clime,When, as one, sent in vaward of a troopFor escort, pauses, if perchance he spyVestige of somewhat strange and rare: so paus’dThe sev’nfold band, arriving at the vergeOf a dun umbrage hoar, such as is seen,Beneath green leaves and gloomy branches, oftTo overbrow a bleak and alpine cliff.And, where they stood, before them, as it seem’d,Tigris and Euphrates both beheld,Forth from one fountain issue; and, like friends,Linger at parting. “O enlight’ning beam!O glory of our kind! beseech thee sayWhat water this, which from one source deriv’dItself removes to distance from itself?”To such entreaty answer thus was made:“Entreat Matilda, that she teach thee this.”And here, as one, who clears himself of blameImputed, the fair dame return’d: “Of meHe this and more hath learnt; and I am safeThat Lethe’s water hath not hid it from him.”And Beatrice: “Some more pressing careThat oft the memory ’reeves, perchance hath madeHis mind’s eye dark. But lo! where Eunoe cows!Lead thither; and, as thou art wont, reviveHis fainting virtue.” As a courteous spirit,That proffers no excuses, but as soonAs he hath token of another’s will,Makes it his own; when she had ta’en me, thusThe lovely maiden mov’d her on, and call’dTo Statius with an air most lady-like:“Come thou with him.” Were further space allow’d,Then, Reader, might I sing, though but in part,That beverage, with whose sweetness I had ne’erBeen sated. But, since all the leaves are full,Appointed for this second strain, mine artWith warning bridle checks me. I return’dFrom the most holy wave, regenerate,If ’en as new plants renew’d with foliage new,Pure and made apt for mounting to the stars.