The Divine Comedy - Dante Alighieri (good e books to read txt) 📗

illapse By will divine. Portray’d before me came The traces of her dire impiety,

Whose form was chang’d into the bird, that most Delights itself in song: and here my mind Was inwardly so wrapt, it gave no place To aught that ask’d admittance from without.

Next shower’d into my fantasy a shape As of one crucified, whose visage spake Fell 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 itself That unsubstantial coinage of the brain Burst, like a bubble, Which the water fails That fed it; in my vision straight uprose A damsel weeping loud, and cried, “O queen!

O mother! wherefore has intemperate ire Driv’n thee to loath thy being? Not to lose Lavinia, desp’rate thou hast slain thyself.

Now hast thou lost me. I am she, whose tears Mourn, ere I fall, a mother’s timeless end.”

E’en as a sleep breaks off, if suddenly New radiance strike upon the closed lids, The broken slumber quivering ere it dies; Thus from before me sunk that imagery Vanishing, soon as on my face there struck The light, outshining far our earthly beam.

As round I turn’d me to survey what place I had arriv’d at, “Here ye mount,” exclaim’d A 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 form In light transcendent, thus my virtue fail’d Unequal. “This is Spirit from above, Who marshals us our upward way, unsought; And in his own light shrouds him;. As a man Doth for himself, so now is done for us.

For whoso waits imploring, yet sees need Of his prompt aidance, sets himself prepar’d For blunt denial, ere the suit be made.

Refuse we not to lend a ready foot At 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’d Near me as ‘twere the waving of a wing, That fann’d my face and whisper’d: “Blessed they The peacemakers: they know not evil wrath.”

Now to such height above our heads were rais’d The last beams, follow’d close by hooded night, That many a star on all sides through the gloom Shone out. “Why partest from me, O my strength?”

So with myself I commun’d; for I felt My o’ertoil’d sinews slacken. We had reach’d The summit, and were fix’d like to a bark Arriv’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’er Wanted 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 cull Some 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 still Is without error; but the other swerves, If on ill object bent, or through excess Of vigour, or defect. While e’er it seeks The primal blessings, or with measure due Th’ 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 then Works ‘gainst its Maker. Hence thou must infer That 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 intend The welfare mainly of the thing it loves, All from self-hatred are secure; and since No being can be thought t’ exist apart And independent of the first, a bar Of equal force restrains from hating that.

“Grant the distinction just; and it remains The’ 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 hence For his own greatness that another fall.

There is who so much fears the loss of power, Fame, favour, glory (should his fellow mount Above him), and so sickens at the thought, He loves their opposite: and there is he, Whom wrong or insult seems to gall and shame That he doth thirst for vengeance, and such needs Must doat on other’s evil. Here beneath This threefold love is mourn’d. Of th’ other sort Be now instructed, that which follows good But with disorder’d and irregular course.

“All indistinctly apprehend a bliss On which the soul may rest, the hearts of all Yearn after it, and to that wished bourn All therefore strive to tend. If ye behold Or seek it with a love remiss and lax, This cornice after just repenting lays Its penal torment on ye. Other good There is, where man finds not his happiness: It is not true fruition, not that blest Essence, 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 tripartite Expect not, fitter for thine own research.

 

CANTO XVIII

 

The teacher ended, and his high discourse Concluding, earnest in my looks inquir’d If I appear’d content; and I, whom still Unsated thirst to hear him urg’d, was mute, Mute outwardly, yet inwardly I said: “Perchance my too much questioning offends But he, true father, mark’d the secret wish By diffidence restrain’d, and speaking, gave Me boldness thus to speak: “Master, my Sight Gathers so lively virtue from thy beams, That all, thy words convey, distinct is seen.

Wherefore I pray thee, father, whom this heart Holds dearest! thou wouldst deign by proof t’ unfold That love, from which as from their source thou bring’st All good deeds and their opposite.” He then: “To what I now disclose be thy clear ken Directed, and thou plainly shalt behold How much those blind have err’d, who make themselves The guides of men. The soul, created apt To love, moves versatile which way soe’er Aught pleasing prompts her, soon as she is wak’d By pleasure into act. Of substance true Your apprehension forms its counterfeit, And in you the ideal shape presenting Attracts the soul’s regard. If she, thus drawn, incline toward it, love is that inclining, And a new nature knit by pleasure in ye.

Then as the fire points up, and mounting seeks His birthplace and his lasting seat, e’en thus Enters the captive soul into desire, Which is a spiritual motion, that ne’er rests Before enjoyment of the thing it loves.

Enough to show thee, how the truth from those Is hidden, who aver all love a thing Praise-worthy in itself: although perhaps Its substance seem still good. Yet if the wax Be good, it follows not th’ impression must.”

“What love is,” I return’d, “thy words, O guide!

And my own docile mind, reveal. Yet thence New doubts have sprung. For from without if love Be offer’d to us, and the spirit knows No other footing, tend she right or wrong, Is no desert of hers.” He answering thus: “What reason here discovers I have power To show thee: that which lies beyond, expect From Beatrice, faith not reason’s task.

Spirit, substantial form, with matter join’d Not in confusion mix’d, hath in itself Specific virtue of that union born, Which is not felt except it work, nor prov’d But through effect, as vegetable life By the green leaf. From whence his intellect Deduced its primal notices of things, Man therefore knows not, or his appetites Their first affections; such in you, as zeal In bees to gather honey; at the first, Volition, meriting nor blame nor praise.

But o’er each lower faculty supreme, That as she list are summon’d to her bar, Ye have that virtue in you, whose just voice Uttereth counsel, and whose word should keep The threshold of assent. Here is the source, Whence cause of merit in you is deriv’d, E’en as the affections good or ill she takes, Or severs, winnow’d as the chaff. Those men Who reas’ning went to depth profoundest, mark’d That innate freedom, and were thence induc’d To leave their moral teaching to the world.

Grant then, that from necessity arise All love that glows within you; to dismiss Or harbour it, the pow’r is in yourselves.

Remember, Beatrice, in her style,

Denominates free choice by eminence The noble virtue, if in talk with thee She touch upon that theme.” The moon, well nigh To midnight hour belated, made the stars Appear to wink and fade; and her broad disk Seem’d like a crag on fire, as up the vault That course she journey’d, which the sun then warms, When they of Rome behold him at his set.

Betwixt Sardinia and the Corsic isle.

And now the weight, that hung upon my thought, Was lighten’d by the aid of that clear spirit, Who raiseth Andes above Mantua’s name.

I therefore, when my questions had obtain’d Solution plain and ample, stood as one Musing in dreary slumber; but not long Slumber’d; for suddenly a multitude, The steep already turning, from behind, Rush’d on. With fury and like random rout, As echoing on their shores at midnight heard Ismenus and Asopus, for his Thebes If Bacchus’ help were needed; so came these Tumultuous, curving each his rapid step, By eagerness impell’d of holy love.

Soon they o’ertook us; with such swiftness mov’d The mighty crowd. Two spirits at their head Cried weeping; “Blessed Mary sought with haste The hilly region. Caesar to subdue Ilerda, darted in Marseilles his sting, And flew to Spain.”—“Oh tarry not: away;”

The others shouted; “let not time be lost Through slackness of affection. Hearty zeal To serve reanimates celestial grace.”

“O ye, in whom intenser fervency Haply supplies, where lukewarm erst ye fail’d, Slow or neglectful, to absolve your part Of good and virtuous, this man, who yet lives, (Credit my tale, though strange) desires t’ ascend, So morning rise to light us. Therefore say Which hand leads nearest to the rifted rock?”

So spake my guide, to whom a shade return’d: “Come after us, and thou shalt find the cleft.

We may not linger: such resistless will Speeds our unwearied course. Vouchsafe us then Thy pardon, if our duty seem to thee Discourteous rudeness. In Verona I Was abbot of San Zeno, when the hand Of Barbarossa grasp’d Imperial sway, That name, ne’er utter’d without tears in Milan.

And there is he, hath one foot in his grave, Who for that monastery ere long shall weep, Ruing his power misus’d: for that his son, Of body ill compact, and worse in mind, And born in evil, he hath set in place Of its true pastor.” Whether more he spake, Or here was mute, I know not: he had sped E’en now so far beyond us. Yet thus much I heard, and in rememb’rance treasur’d it.

He then, who never fail’d me at my need, Cried, “Hither turn. Lo! two with sharp remorse Chiding their sin!” In rear of all the troop These shouted: “First they died, to whom the sea Open’d, or ever Jordan saw his heirs: And they, who with Aeneas to the end Endur’d not suffering, for their portion chose Life without glory.” Soon as they had fled Past reach of sight, new thought within me rose By others follow’d fast, and each unlike Its fellow: till led on from thought to thought, And pleasur’d with the fleeting train, mine