Ill fights the will when one more strong hath will'd;
Against my pleasure, for my guide's content,
I drew the pitcher from the stream unfill'd.
Along the rock I with my leader went,
There where the pathway for our steps was clear,
As one who clings unto a battlement;
For those who from their eyes in many a tear
Shed forth the sin throughout the world dispers'd,
Toward the precipice were placed too near.
O ancient wolf, be thou for aye accurs'd,
Who more than any other seek'st thy prey,
Because of thy dark greed and ravening thirst!
Ye skies, within whose sphere, as some do say,
There dwells a power o'er all things here below,
When cometh he who shall this creature slay?
Onward we went, with paces soft and slow,
And still my mind was fix'd upon each Shade
Who wept around me with the voice of woe.
And now by chance I heard, " Sweet Mary, " said,
Before us, with complainings sad and wild,
As one who in her sorrow travailid;
And then: " Thou wert a maiden poor and mild,
As by the lowly birthplace we may know,
Where meekly thou didst lay thy holy child. "
And afterwards I heard: " Fabricius, thou
Didst rather poverty with virtue seek,
Than riches whereunto foul crime did grow. "
In these his words I did such pleasure take,
That I with eager footsteps quickly sped
To look on him who in such accents spake.
Now he recounted the great largess shed
By Nicholas upon the maidens three,
That their young life in honour might be led.
" O thou whose words so fair and righteous be, "
Thus I began, " say who thou wert, and why
Those worthy praises still are sung by thee.
Not without thanks shall be thy speech, if I
Return to fill the measure upon earth
Of the short life that to its goal doth fly. "
And he: " It shall be told; yet not for worth
Which thence I look for: but because in thee,
While yet in life, such heavenly grace shines forth.
I was the root of the most evil tree,
Whose deathly shade all Christendom doth fill,
So that from thence no wholesome fruit may be.
If there were power in Douay, Bruges, Lille,
Or Ghent, full soon revenge ye should behold;
Which to the Heavenly Judge I pray for still.
When erst on earth, Hugh Capet was I call'd;
From me each Philip and each Louis won
The right that o'er the realm of France they hold.
I of a Paris butcher was the son;
For when the ancient kings had pass'd away,
Save one in dusky raiment all alone,
Firmly within my hands the bridle lay,
Which govern'd the whole kingdom; and such power
For what I then acquired, and full array
Of friends, that I uplifted in that hour
My son to wear the widow'd diadem:
Thence sprang the royal line. But till the dower
Of fair Provence destroy'd all modest shame,
Remaining still mid my fierce lawless band,
Its worth was small, yet thence small evil came.
Now it began with lies and with high hand
Its rapine; then it seized, to make amends,
Ponthieu and Gascony and Normanland.
And next, in Italy, to make amends,
Charles slew Conradin; to heavenly life,
St. Thomas then he sent, to make amends.
Not long had pass'd ere, in a time of strife,
I saw another Charles come forth from France,
To show the craft with which his race is rife.
He came unarm'd, and only with the lance
Of Judas; but so sharp the point it bore,
Unto the heart of Florence did it glance.
From thence, not land but sin and hatred sore
He shall obtain; and that so much more grave,
As it to him a lighter aspect wore.
The other newly captured on the wave
I now behold; he doth his daughter sell,
Even as a Corsair bargains for a slave.
O Avarice, thou canst not be more fell,
Since thou unto thyself my race canst turn
And thence all care of their own flesh expel!
That past and future ill we less may scorn,
Within Alagna comes the fleur-de-lis,
And in his vicar Christ is captive borne.
And Him derided once again I see;
Again renew'd the vinegar and gall,
And 'twixt new thieves He hangeth on the tree.
Another Pilate in the judgment-hall
I see; so cruel, that unsated still
His lawless hands upon the temple fall.
O God! when comes the morning that shall fill
My heart with gladness, and the vengeance rouse
That sweetens wrath within thy secret will?
Know, what I spake of her, the Blessid Spouse
Of the most Holy Spirit, and which led
Thee tow'rds me, longing that I should disclose
Still more, continually by us is said,
While yet the daylight with us doth abide;
At dusk, we tell a sadder tale instead.
We sing the story of Pygmalion's pride,
Who work'd his lawless will from love of gold;
A thief, a traitor, and a parricide.
The wretchedness of Midas we unfold,
That erst fulfill'd his avaricious prayer;
Even now ye laugh, whene'er the tale is told.
And we remember Achan's folly here,
Who stole the spoils; he in our speech renews
The pain which Joshua's anger made him bear.
Sapphira with her husband we accuse;
We praise the scourge which Heliodorus chased;
And round the mount in infamy diffuse
His name who Polydorus slew. And last
We all cry out: " O Crassus, tell us now
(For well thou knowest it) how gold doth taste."
And sometimes speak we loud and sometimes low;
Even as the grief which on our souls doth weigh
More swift or slower from our lips may flow.
In the good words which we discourse by day,
I was not all alone; but where thou wert
None other raised his voice. " Upon our way,
Already from those Shades we did depart,
Still striving to o'ercome the arduous path,
With the great eagerness that fill'd my heart.
Now, as if shaken by the stormwind's breath,
The mountain trembled; and I shudder'd, even
As one who is led forth unto his death.
Less wildly, sure, of old was Delos driven,
Before Latona there a refuge made,
To bring forth the twin starry eyes of heaven.
Then such a cry arose, that he who led
My steps came near, and said: " Be of good cheer;
I ever guide thee: be not thou afraid. "
And " Gloria in excelsis " did I hear;
All voices join'd the strain, with ready will,
Far as the music came unto mine ear.
Silent we stood, as once on Bethlehem's hill
The shepherds who first heard that angel-song,
Until the trembling ceased and they were still.
And now we pass'd our holy path along,
Gazing the while upon the Shades who wept
Lowly on earth; in sooth, a mournful throng.
No ignorance in me hath ever kept
Such longing thirst for knowledge, as, I ween,
(If my remembrance have not err'd or slept,)
Within my anxious mind I suffer'd then;
But, in our haste, I might no answer seek,
Nor yet anear me might there aught be seen:
Thus went I on my way, in pensive thought and meek.