The angel-guide was left behind us now,
Who to the sixth abode our steps had led,
While he erased a letter from my brow,
And, “They whose hearts on righteousness are stay'd,”
He sang, “are crown'd with joy; and ever blest
Are those who thirst:” no more the words he said.
More lightly than at first I onward press'd;
For without labour I might there aspire,
And swift as airy spirits now I pass'd.
When Virgil thus began: “The love whose fire
Is lit by virtue, if its outward flame
Appear, responsive ardour doth inspire.
Therefore since Juvenal among us came
Unto the land of Hadës, and to me
Reveal'd the love thou hadst unto my name,
Such loving kindness bore I unto thee,
As never yet was felt for one unknown;
Thus, brief this steep ascent now seems to be.
But say, and pardon me if I have shown
Too daring freedon in the question bold,
And speak with me as with a friend alone,
How could thy breast so much of avarice hold,
Amid the studious lore thou didst approve,
And which to thee did highest truths unfold?”
My Master's words the spirit seem'd to move
Unto a shadowy smile; and then he said:
“Thy every speech to me is sign of love.
Full often does the truth appear, array'd
In such a wise that it may well deceive,
For the true reasons which therein are stay'd.
Thy question shows me that thou dost believe
The love of hoarding was my earthly vice,
Perchance from the abode which now we leave.
But know, that from my heart was avarice
Too far apart; thus have I felt the pain,
For many thousand moons, of that excess.
And had I not endeavour'd to attain
To virtue, when I heard thy voice, which call'd,
(Wrathful against our human nature's stain,)
‘Why dost not rule, accursëd love of gold,
The appetite of man for earthly things?’
In the sad tournament my fate were told.
Then I perceived that all too wide the wings
Of largesse might be spread; and thus my eyes
Shed tears for this and other sin it brings.
And many a soul at the last day shall rise
With close cut locks, because he hath not known
That man must aye repent him ere he dies.
The fault that from another sin hath gone
To the extreme of difference, here, I ween,
Join'd with its opposite must make its moan.
And therefore I among the band have been,
Who here bewail their avaricious ways,
Because the contrary in me was seen.”
“But when thou erst didst sing the rude affrays
Of them, Jocasta's double cause of woe,”
Thus spake the Singer of the pastoral lays,
“By that which Clio there with thee doth show,
It seems thou didst not yet possess aright
The faith without which heaven we may not know.
If it be thus, what sun or radiant light
Flooded the darkness, when thy sails behind
The Galilean Fisher took their flight?”
He answer'd him: “At first by thee inclined,
I drank the rills that from Parnassus flow;
Thereafter God illumined all my mind.
Thou didst as they who in the darkness go,
Holding a light which yet they cannot use;
But unto those behind, the way doth show,
There where thou saidst: ‘The world its growth renews;
Again its early spring-time it shall see,
And Heaven once more new progeny diffuse.’
By thee a poet; Christian, too, by thee
Was I: but that thou well mayst comprehend,
Portray'd in brighter hues my speech shall be.
Already, earth was fill'd on every hand
With the true faith, dispersed by those who brought
The joyful tidings of the eternal land;
And these thy words with the same tones were fraught
As the discourse of those new preachers bore;
Therefore unto their teaching oft I sought.
And then to me so holy seem'd their lore,
That, when Domitian chased them unto death,
For their sad sufferings I bewailëd sore.
Even while I lived the life of earthly breath,
The thought of their pure ways made me contemn
The rites and creed of every other faith.
And ere I led the Greeks unto the stream
Of Thebes in poesy, the holy rite
Baptismal did I seek; but yet did seem
Long time a heathen to all outward sight:
And for this sloth I dwelt in the fourth zone,
Four times a hundred years, in doleful plight.
Thou who hast raised the dusky curtain drawn
Before mine eyes, while yet I might ascend,
Ere time of penitence and prayer was gone,
Say, where is Terence now, our ancient friend?
Cæcilius, Plautus, Varro? On what shore
Have they their dwelling, in the mournful land?”
“Perseus and they, and I, and many more,”
My Leader thus replied, “now dwell with him,
The Greek the Muses loved in days of yore,
In the first circle of the prison dim;
And oft discourse we of the mount whence flow
The rills that nurture the poetic stream.
Euripides, Anacreon, with us go;
And Agatho, and many a Grecian wise,
Who round their foreheads twined the laurel bough.
There dwells Simonides, in mournful guise:
And those of whom thou erst didst sing are there;
Antigone, Ismene with sad eyes;
And there ye see Tiresias' daughter fair;
Deipile, Argia with us dwell,
And Thetis, with the sea-flowers in her hair;
And she who show'd where Langia's fountains well;
And mid her sisters, Deidamia.” Now,
Emerging from the pathway's rocky cell,
Silent the poet gazed around; for lo!
Four of the Maidens of the Day had fled,
And by his chariot wheel the fifth did go.
“Methinks it now were well,” my Leader said,
“Our right hand tow'rd the mountain's verge to turn,
Circling around the hill as erst we sped.”
Thus from accustom'd use we here did learn;
And with less doubtful mind we journey'd on,
For in that other Shade we might discern
Consent. Together did they pass; alone
I follow'd, listening to the words which there
They spake, from whom I poesy had known.
But soon was broken this discoursing fair;
For midway in the path a tree did grow,
Whose fruit shed forth an odour sweet and rare.
And as the fir-tree's still ascending bough
Grows less and less, so this as it descends:
I think, that none may to the summit go.
And from the rampart which our path defends,
There fell a stream of water cool and clear,
And with the foliage green its soft shower blends.
Now the two Poets to the tree drew near,
And then a voice among the leaves we heard,
Crying: “This fruit ye may not eat of here;”
Then said: “The impulse which in Mary stirr'd
Was for the honour of the nuptials, more
Than to refresh the lips whose gentle word
Doth plead for you. The Roman dames, of yore,
Drank only water: less did Daniel deem
Of food, than of acquiring heavenly lore.
The world's first ages shone with golden gleam,
When hunger made the acorn sweet and good;
And nectar flow'd, with thirst, in every stream.
Locusts and honey were the simple food
That fed the Baptist in the desert drear:
Thus is his name with glorious praise endued,
For evermore; as in the Gospel ye may hear.”