Classic Poem

" Father, who hast thy dwelling-place on high,
Not circumscribed, but that thou lovest more
Thy first-created of the empyreal sky,
To hymn thy wondrous name let praises soar
From every creature; as 'tis meet and right
To render thanks unto thy glorious power.
Send unto us thy heavenly kingdom bright;
For of ourselves we have no strength to gain
Its peace, although we strive with all our might.
Even as thy holy angels aye are fain
To do thy will, while they Hosanna sing,
The selfsame sacrifice be done by men.
And unto us our daily manna bring;
Without it, as we pass this desert drear,
Backward we go, in all our journeying.
As we the ill that we have suffer'd here
Forgive, do thou forgive us; from the cry
Of our demerits turn away thine ear.
Our feeble strength do not so sorely try
With our dread ancient Enemy; but free
Our souls from him who fain would make us die.
Not for ourselves this prayer, O Lord; for we
Of aid against temptation have no need:
For those who yet are living let it be. "
Thus, begging for themselves and us good speed,
They toil'd beneath their burden; even as they
Who from an evil dream would fain be freed.
'Neath the unequal load that on them lay,
Up the first cornice wearily they went,
Purging the darkness of the world away.
If to our help their prayers are heavenward bent,
For them what should we do, in whom doth lie
The root from whence a chasten'd will is sent.
We ought to aid them, sooth, to purify
Their souls from earth; that, gladsome and secure,
They may ascend unto the starry sky.
" As from the heavy load which ye endure,
Ye would be early freed, and on the wings
Of swift desire attain joy's fountain pure,
I pray you, show to us the way that brings
Most quickly to the staircase which we seek,
And where the path least steep and dangerous springs.
For he who with me climbs this mountain-peak,
Because he breathes the breath of Adam's race,
Against his will his mortal flesh is weak. "
Thus he who led me by those arduous ways.
They answer'd; and I noted not aright
By whom the words were said, or from what place;
But one thus spake: " Now turn ye to the right,
And journey by our side, unto the pass
Of possible ascent for living wight.
Were I not hinder'd by the heavy mass
That downward ever weighs my haughty head,
And nails my eyes to earth, with sad harass,
This living one, whose name thou hast not said,
I'd look upon, to know him, and inspire
His pity for the grief upon me laid.
I was of Latium; and my Tuscan sire
Guglielmo Aldobrandeschi: his high praise
Perchance ye have not heard? The deeds of fire,
And ancient blood of my ancestral race,
Within me did such thoughts of pride impel
(Forgetful of the common stock and place
From which we spring) that my proud glances fell
On all men with contempt; and thence I died,
And Campagnatico doth know it well.
Humbert my name: and not alone did pride
Do ill to me, but unto all I led,
Who 'gainst Sienna were with me allied.
And thus this burden on my weary head
I must endure, till God shall grant me grace:
What was undone when living, 'mong the dead
I must fulfil. " Listening, I bent my face;
And one (not he who spoke) then turn'd him round,
Beneath the heavy load that sorely weighs;
And fix'd his eyes intently, till he found
Remembrance wake again: then call'd to me
Who journey'd with them, bending to the ground.
I said: " Can thou then Oderisi be,
The honour of Agubbio, and that Art
In Paris call'd illumining? " Then he:
" Nay, Francis of Bologna did impart
More beauty to his pencillings, I ween:
To him be all the glory; mine, in part.
While yet on earth, in truth I had not been
So courteous in my speech; for the great love
Of praise, on which my heart too much did lean.
Here of such pride the punishment I prove;
And here I had not been; but in the hour
Of life, I turn'd me unto God above.
Oh! the vainglory of all human power!
How short a time its blossom doth endure,
If afterward the darkness do not lower!
For Cimabue deem'd himself secure,
Within the field of painting; Giotto now
Hath caused the former fame to be obscure.
Thus from one Guido doth the glory go
Unto another, of the gift of song;
And he, perchance, is born who will bring low
The pride of both. The splendours that belong
Unto the fame of earth are but a wind,
That in the same direction lasts not long.
What more thy praises, if thou be consign'd
Unto the grave in fullness of thy days,
Than if thou left'st but childhood's hours behind,
Ere pass a thousand years? A shorter space,
To the long ages of Eternity,
Than an eye's flash, unto the orbit's maze
That slowest moves along the starry sky.
All Tuscany resounded with the fame
Of him who doth so slow the pathway try:
Now in Sienna scarce ye hear his name,
Even where he was the Master, in the hour
That the proud mob of Florence put to shame.
All your renown is like the summer flower,
That blooms and dies; because the sunny glow,
Which brings it forth, soon slays with parching power. "
And I to him: " The truth thy speech doth show,
Within my heart reproves the swelling pride;
But who is he of whom thou spak'st but now? "
" Provenzan de' Salvani, " he replied;
" And he is here for his presumptuous heart,
Because to sway Sienna erst he tried.
Since he did from his mortal life depart,
Thus he has gone, unresting; such the debt
They pay who act on earth too bold a part. "
And I: " If it be true, that they who wait
Until the close of life ere they repent,
Must stay beneath, and here ascend not yet,
(If to their aid no holy prayers be sent)
As long a time as was their earthly life,
Why for his sake did justice now relent? "
" When his career with glory was most rife, "
He answer'd, " freely in Sienna's street,
Although he felt in every vein the strife,
Begging for alms he humbly did entreat
For him, his friend, who in the dungeon-cell
Of Charles was held in durance. Now 'tis meet
I say no more: the thing which thus I tell
Perchance is dark; but little time shall speed,
Before thy neighbours make thee know it well:
For him, free entrance here was won by that good deed.