There the high glory of the Roman Prince
Was chronicled, whose great beneficenceMoved Gregory to his great victory;
’Tis of the Emperor Trajan I am speaking;And a poor widow at his bridle stood,In attitude of weeping and of grief.
Around about him seemed it thronged and fullOf cavaliers, and the eagles in the goldAbove them visibly in the wind were moving.
The wretched woman in the midst of theseSeemed to be saying: “Give me vengeance, Lord,For my dead son, for whom my heart is breaking.”
And he to answer her: “Now wait untilI shall return.” And she: “My Lord,” like oneIn whom grief is impatient, “shouldst thou not
Return?” And he: “Who shall be where I amWill give it thee.” And she: “Good deed of othersWhat boots it thee, if thou neglect thine own?”
Whence he: “Now comfort thee, for it behoves meThat I discharge my duty ere I move;Justice so wills, and pity doth retain me.”
He who on no new thing has ever lookedWas the creator of this visible language,Novel to us, for here it is not found.
While I delighted me in contemplatingThe images of such humility,And dear to look on for their Maker’s sake,
“Behold, upon this side, but rare they makeTheir steps,” the Poet murmured, “many people;These will direct us to the lofty stairs.”
Mine eyes, that in beholding were intentTo see new things, of which they curious are,In turning round towards him were not slow.
But still I wish not, Reader, thou shouldst swerveFrom thy good purposes, because thou hearestHow God ordaineth that the debt be paid;
Attend not to the fashion of the torment,Think of what follows; think that at the worstIt cannot reach beyond the mighty sentence.
“Master,” began I, “that which I beholdMoving towards us seems to me not persons,And what I know not, so in sight I waver.”
And he to me: “The grievous qualityOf this their torment bows them so to earth,That my own eyes at first contended with it;
But look there fixedly, and disentangleBy sight what cometh underneath those stones;Already canst thou see how each is stricken.”
O ye proud Christians! wretched, weary ones!Who, in the vision of the mind infirmConfidence have in your backsliding steps,
Do ye not comprehend that we are worms,Born to bring forth the angelic butterflyThat flieth unto judgment without screen?
Why floats aloft your spirit high in air?Like are ye unto insects undeveloped,Even as the worm in whom formation fails!
As to sustain a ceiling or a roof,In place of corbel, oftentimes a figureIs seen to join its knees unto its breast,
Which makes of the unreal real anguishArise in him who sees it, fashioned thusBeheld I those, when I had ta’en good heed.
True is it, they were more or less bent down,According as they more or less were laden;And he who had most patience in his looks
Weeping did seem to say, “I can no more!”
Purgatorio: Canto XI
“Our Father, thou who dwellest in the heavens,Not circumscribed, but from the greater loveThou bearest to the first effects on high,
Praised be thy name and thine omnipotenceBy every creature, as befitting isTo render thanks to thy sweet effluence.
Come unto us the peace of thy dominion,For unto it we cannot of ourselves,If it come not, with all our intellect.
Even as thine own Angels of their willMake sacrifice to thee, Hosanna singing,So may all men make sacrifice of theirs.
Give unto us this day our daily manna,Withouten which in this rough wildernessBackward goes he who toils most to advance.
And even as we the trespass we have sufferedPardon in one another, pardon thouBenignly, and regard not our desert.
Our virtue, which is easily o’ercome,Put not to proof with the old Adversary,But thou from him who spurs it so, deliver.
This last petition verily, dear Lord,Not for ourselves is made, who need it not,But for their sake who have remained behind us.”
Thus for themselves and us good furtheranceThose shades imploring, went beneath a weightLike unto that of which we sometimes dream,
Unequally in anguish round and roundAnd weary all, upon that foremost cornice,Purging away the smoke-stains of the world.
If there good words are always said for us,What may not here be said and done for them,By those who have a good root to their will?
Well may we help them wash away the marksThat hence they carried, so that clean and lightThey may ascend unto the starry wheels!
“Ah! so may pity and justice you disburdenSoon, that ye may have power to move the wing,That shall uplift you after your desire,
Show us on which hand tow’rd the stairs the wayIs shortest, and if more than one the passes,Point us out that which least abruptly falls;
For he who cometh with me, through the burdenOf Adam’s flesh wherewith he is invested,Against his will is chary of his climbing.”
The words of theirs which they returned to thoseThat he whom I was following had spoken,It was not manifest from whom they came,
But it was said: “To the right hand come with usAlong the bank, and ye shall find a passPossible for living person to ascend.
And were I not impeded by the stone,Which this proud neck of mine doth subjugate,Whence I am forced to hold my visage down,
Him, who still lives and does not name himself,Would I regard, to see if I may know himAnd make him piteous unto this burden.
A Latian was I, and born of a great Tuscan;Guglielmo Aldobrandeschi was my father;I know not if his name were ever with you.
The ancient blood and deeds of gallantryOf my progenitors so arrogant made meThat, thinking not upon the common mother,
All men I held in scorn to such extentI died therefor, as know the Sienese,And every child in Campagnatico.
I am Omberto; and not to me aloneHas pride done harm, but all my kith and kinHas with it dragged into adversity.
And here must I this burden bear for itTill God be satisfied, since I did notAmong the living, here among the dead.”
Listening I downward bent my countenance;And one of them, not this one who was speaking,Twisted himself beneath the weight that cramps him,
And looked at me, and knew me, and called out,Keeping his eyes laboriously fixedOn me, who all bowed down was going with them.
“O,” asked I him, “art thou not Oderisi,Agobbio’s honour, and honour of that artWhich is in Paris called illuminating?”
“Brother,” said he, “more laughing are the leavesTouched by the brush of Franco Bolognese;All his the honour now, and mine in part.
In sooth I had not been so courteousWhile I was living, for the great desireOf excellence, on which my heart was bent.
Here of such pride is paid the forfeiture;And yet I should not be here, were it notThat, having power to sin, I turned to God.
O thou vain glory of the human powers,How little green upon thy summit lingers,If’t be not followed by an age of grossness!
In painting Cimabue thought that heShould hold the field, now Giotto has the cry,So that the other’s fame is growing dim.
So has one Guido from the other takenThe glory of our tongue, and he perchanceIs born, who from the nest shall chase them both.
Naught is this mundane rumour but a breathOf wind, that comes now this way and now that,And changes name, because it changes side.
What fame shalt thou have more, if old peel offFrom thee thy flesh, than if thou hadst been deadBefore thou left the ‘pappo’ and the ‘dindi,’
Ere pass a thousand years? which is a shorterSpace to the eterne, than twinkling of an eyeUnto the circle that in heaven wheels slowest.
With him, who takes so little of the roadIn front of me, all Tuscany resounded;And now he scarce is lisped of in Siena,
Where he was lord, what time was overthrownThe Florentine delirium, that superbWas at that day as now ’tis prostitute.
Your reputation is the colour of grassWhich comes and goes, and that discolours itBy which it issues green from out the earth.”
And I: “Thy true speech fills my heart with goodHumility, and great tumour thou assuagest;But who is he, of whom just now thou spakest?”
“That,” he replied, “is Provenzan Salvani,And he is here because he had presumedTo bring Siena all into his hands.
He has gone thus, and goeth without restE’er since he died; such money renders backIn payment he who is on earth too daring.”
And I: “If every spirit who awaitsThe verge of life before that he repent,Remains below there and ascends not hither,
(Unless good orison shall him bestead,)Until as much time as he lived be passed,How was the coming granted him in largess?”
“When he in greatest splendour lived,” said he,“Freely upon the Campo of Siena,All shame being laid aside, he placed himself;
And there to draw his friend from the duressWhich in the prison-house of Charles he suffered,He brought himself to tremble in each vein.
I say no more, and know that I speak darkly;Yet little time shall pass before thy neighboursWill so demean themselves that thou canst gloss it.
This action has released him from those confines.”
Purgatorio: Canto XII
Abreast, like oxen going in a yoke,I with that heavy-laden soul went on,As long as the sweet pedagogue permitted;
But when he said, “Leave him, and onward pass,For here ’tis good that with the sail and oars,As much as may be, each push on his barque;”
Upright, as walking wills it, I redressedMy person, notwithstanding that my thoughtsRemained within me downcast and abashed.
I had moved on, and followed willinglyThe footsteps of my Master, and we bothAlready showed how light of foot we were,
When unto me he said: “Cast down thine eyes;’Twere well for thee, to alleviate the way,To look upon the bed beneath thy feet.”
As, that some memory may exist of them,Above the buried dead their tombs in earthBear sculptured on them what they were before;
Whence often there we weep for them afresh,From pricking of remembrance, which aloneTo the compassionate doth set its spur;
So saw I there, but of a better semblanceIn point of artifice, with figures coveredWhate’er as pathway from the mount projects.
I saw that one who was created nobleMore than all other creatures, down from heavenFlaming with lightnings fall upon one side.
I saw Briareus smitten by the dartCelestial, lying on the other side,Heavy upon the earth by mortal frost.
I saw Thymbraeus, Pallas saw, and Mars,Still clad in armour round about their father,Gaze at the scattered members of the giants.
I saw, at foot of his great labour, Nimrod,As if bewildered, looking at the peopleWho had been proud with him in Sennaar.
O Niobe! with what afflicted eyesThee I beheld upon the pathway traced,Between thy seven and seven children slain!
O Saul! how fallen upon thy proper swordDidst thou appear there lifeless in Gilboa,That felt thereafter neither rain nor dew!
O mad Arachne! so I thee beheldE’en then half spider, sad upon the shredsOf fabric wrought in evil hour for thee!
O Rehoboam! no more seems to threatenThine image there; but full of consternationA chariot bears it off, when none pursues!