CANTO XXXIII“O virgin mother, daughter of thy Son,Created beings all in lowlinessSurpassing, as in height, above them all,Term by th’ eternal counsel pre-ordain’d,Ennobler of thy nature, so advanc’dIn thee, that its great Maker did not scorn,Himself, in his own work enclos’d to dwell!For in thy womb rekindling shone the loveReveal’d, whose genial influence makes nowThis flower to germin in eternal peace!Here thou to us, of charity and love,Art, as the noon-day torch: and art, beneath,To mortal men, of hope a living spring.So mighty art thou, lady! and so great,That he who grace desireth, and comes notTo thee for aidance, fain would have desireFly without wings. Nor only him who asks,Thy bounty succours, but doth freely oftForerun the asking. Whatsoe’er may beOf excellence in creature, pity mild,Relenting mercy, large munificence,Are all combin’d in thee. Here kneeleth one,Who of all spirits hath review’d the state,From the world’s lowest gap unto this height.Suppliant to thee he kneels, imploring graceFor virtue, yet more high to lift his kenToward the bliss supreme. And I, who ne’erCoveted sight, more fondly, for myself,Than now for him, my prayers to thee prefer,(And pray they be not scant) that thou wouldst driveEach cloud of his mortality away;That on the sovran pleasure he may gaze.This also I entreat of thee, O queen!Who canst do what thou wilt! that in him thouWouldst after all he hath beheld, preserveAffection sound, and human passions quell.Lo! Where, with Beatrice, many a saintStretch their clasp’d hands, in furtherance of my suit!”The eyes, that heav’n with love and awe regards,Fix’d on the suitor, witness’d, how benignShe looks on pious pray’rs: then fasten’d theyOn th’ everlasting light, wherein no eyeOf creature, as may well be thought, so farCan travel inward. I, meanwhile, who drewNear to the limit, where all wishes end,The ardour of my wish (for so behooved),Ended within me. Beck’ning smil’d the sage,That I should look aloft: but, ere he bade,Already of myself aloft I look’d;For visual strength, refining more and more,Bare me into the ray authenticalOf sovran light. Thenceforward, what I saw,Was not for words to speak, nor memory’s selfTo stand against such outrage on her skill.As one, who from a dream awaken’d, straight,All he hath seen forgets; yet still retainsImpression of the feeling in his dream;E’en such am I: for all the vision dies,As ’t were, away; and yet the sense of sweet,That sprang from it, still trickles in my heart.Thus in the sun-thaw is the snow unseal’d;Thus in the winds on flitting leaves was lostThe Sybil’s sentence. O eternal beam!(Whose height what reach of mortal thought may soar?)Yield me again some little particleOf what thou then appearedst, give my tonguePower, but to leave one sparkle of thy glory,Unto the race to come, that shall not loseThy triumph wholly, if thou waken aughtOf memory in me, and endure to hearThe record sound in this unequal strain.Such keenness from the living ray I met,That, if mine eyes had turn’d away, methinks,I had been lost; but, so embolden’d, onI pass’d, as I remember, till my viewHover’d the brink of dread infinitude.O grace! unenvying of thy boon! that gav’stBoldness to fix so earnestly my kenOn th’ everlasting splendour, that I look’d,While sight was unconsum’d, and, in that depth,Saw in one volume clasp’d of love, whateverThe universe unfolds; all propertiesOf substance and of accident, beheld,Compounded, yet one individual lightThe whole. And of such bond methinks I sawThe universal form: for that wheneverI do but speak of it, my soul dilatesBeyond her proper self; and, till I speak,One moment seems a longer lethargy,Than five-and-twenty ages had appear’dTo that emprize, that first made Neptune wonderAt Argo’s shadow darkening on his flood.With fixed heed, suspense and motionless,Wond’ring I gaz’d; and admiration stillWas kindled, as I gaz’d. It may not be,That one, who looks upon that light, can turnTo other object, willingly, his view.For all the good, that will may covet, thereIs summ’d; and all, elsewhere defective found,Complete. My tongue shall utter now, no moreE’en what remembrance keeps, than could the babe’sThat yet is moisten’d at his mother’s breast.Not that the semblance of the living lightWas chang’d (that ever as at first remain’d)But that my vision quickening, in that soleAppearance, still new miracles descry’d,And toil’d me with the change. In that abyssOf radiance, clear and lofty, seem’d methought,Three orbs of triple hue clipt in one bound:And, from another, one reflected seem’d,As rainbow is from rainbow: and the thirdSeem’d fire, breath’d equally from both. Oh speechHow feeble and how faint art thou, to giveConception birth! Yet this to what I sawIs less than little. Oh eternal light!Sole in thyself that dwellst; and of thyselfSole understood, past, present, or to come!Thou smiledst; on that circling, which in theeSeem’d as reflected splendour, while I mus’d;For I therein, methought, in its own hueBeheld our image painted: steadfastlyI therefore por’d upon the view. As oneWho vers’d in geometric lore, would fainMeasure the circle; and, though pondering longAnd deeply, that beginning, which he needs,Finds not; e’en such was I, intent to scanThe novel wonder, and trace out the form,How to the circle fitted, and thereinHow plac’d: but the flight was not for my wing;Had not a flash darted athwart my mind,And in the spleen unfolded what it sought.Here vigour fail’d the tow’ring fantasy:But yet the will roll’d onward, like a wheelIn even motion, by the Love impell’d,That moves the sun in heav’n and all the stars.
“O virgin mother, daughter of thy Son,Created beings all in lowlinessSurpassing, as in height, above them all,Term by th’ eternal counsel pre-ordain’d,Ennobler of thy nature, so advanc’dIn thee, that its great Maker did not scorn,Himself, in his own work enclos’d to dwell!For in thy womb rekindling shone the loveReveal’d, whose genial influence makes nowThis flower to germin in eternal peace!Here thou to us, of charity and love,Art, as the noon-day torch: and art, beneath,To mortal men, of hope a living spring.So mighty art thou, lady! and so great,That he who grace desireth, and comes notTo thee for aidance, fain would have desireFly without wings. Nor only him who asks,Thy bounty succours, but doth freely oftForerun the asking. Whatsoe’er may beOf excellence in creature, pity mild,Relenting mercy, large munificence,Are all combin’d in thee. Here kneeleth one,Who of all spirits hath review’d the state,From the world’s lowest gap unto this height.Suppliant to thee he kneels, imploring graceFor virtue, yet more high to lift his kenToward the bliss supreme. And I, who ne’erCoveted sight, more fondly, for myself,Than now for him, my prayers to thee prefer,(And pray they be not scant) that thou wouldst driveEach cloud of his mortality away;That on the sovran pleasure he may gaze.This also I entreat of thee, O queen!Who canst do what thou wilt! that in him thouWouldst after all he hath beheld, preserveAffection sound, and human passions quell.Lo! Where, with Beatrice, many a saintStretch their clasp’d hands, in furtherance of my suit!”The eyes, that heav’n with love and awe regards,Fix’d on the suitor, witness’d, how benignShe looks on pious pray’rs: then fasten’d theyOn th’ everlasting light, wherein no eyeOf creature, as may well be thought, so farCan travel inward. I, meanwhile, who drewNear to the limit, where all wishes end,The ardour of my wish (for so behooved),Ended within me. Beck’ning smil’d the sage,That I should look aloft: but, ere he bade,Already of myself aloft I look’d;For visual strength, refining more and more,Bare me into the ray authenticalOf sovran light. Thenceforward, what I saw,Was not for words to speak, nor memory’s selfTo stand against such outrage on her skill.As one, who from a dream awaken’d, straight,All he hath seen forgets; yet still retainsImpression of the feeling in his dream;E’en such am I: for all the vision dies,As ’t were, away; and yet the sense of sweet,That sprang from it, still trickles in my heart.Thus in the sun-thaw is the snow unseal’d;Thus in the winds on flitting leaves was lostThe Sybil’s sentence. O eternal beam!(Whose height what reach of mortal thought may soar?)Yield me again some little particleOf what thou then appearedst, give my tonguePower, but to leave one sparkle of thy glory,Unto the race to come, that shall not loseThy triumph wholly, if thou waken aughtOf memory in me, and endure to hearThe record sound in this unequal strain.Such keenness from the living ray I met,That, if mine eyes had turn’d away, methinks,I had been lost; but, so embolden’d, onI pass’d, as I remember, till my viewHover’d the brink of dread infinitude.O grace! unenvying of thy boon! that gav’stBoldness to fix so earnestly my kenOn th’ everlasting splendour, that I look’d,While sight was unconsum’d, and, in that depth,Saw in one volume clasp’d of love, whateverThe universe unfolds; all propertiesOf substance and of accident, beheld,Compounded, yet one individual lightThe whole. And of such bond methinks I sawThe universal form: for that wheneverI do but speak of it, my soul dilatesBeyond her proper self; and, till I speak,One moment seems a longer lethargy,Than five-and-twenty ages had appear’dTo that emprize, that first made Neptune wonderAt Argo’s shadow darkening on his flood.With fixed heed, suspense and motionless,Wond’ring I gaz’d; and admiration stillWas kindled, as I gaz’d. It may not be,That one, who looks upon that light, can turnTo other object, willingly, his view.For all the good, that will may covet, thereIs summ’d; and all, elsewhere defective found,Complete. My tongue shall utter now, no moreE’en what remembrance keeps, than could the babe’sThat yet is moisten’d at his mother’s breast.Not that the semblance of the living lightWas chang’d (that ever as at first remain’d)But that my vision quickening, in that soleAppearance, still new miracles descry’d,And toil’d me with the change. In that abyssOf radiance, clear and lofty, seem’d methought,Three orbs of triple hue clipt in one bound:And, from another, one reflected seem’d,As rainbow is from rainbow: and the thirdSeem’d fire, breath’d equally from both. Oh speechHow feeble and how faint art thou, to giveConception birth! Yet this to what I sawIs less than little. Oh eternal light!Sole in thyself that dwellst; and of thyselfSole understood, past, present, or to come!Thou smiledst; on that circling, which in theeSeem’d as reflected splendour, while I mus’d;For I therein, methought, in its own hueBeheld our image painted: steadfastlyI therefore por’d upon the view. As oneWho vers’d in geometric lore, would fainMeasure the circle; and, though pondering longAnd deeply, that beginning, which he needs,Finds not; e’en such was I, intent to scanThe novel wonder, and trace out the form,How to the circle fitted, and thereinHow plac’d: but the flight was not for my wing;Had not a flash darted athwart my mind,And in the spleen unfolded what it sought.Here vigour fail’d the tow’ring fantasy:But yet the will roll’d onward, like a wheelIn even motion, by the Love impell’d,That moves the sun in heav’n and all the stars.