While, one by one, we pass'd along this bourne,
Full oft to me my gentle guide did say:
“Beware; for it is well I thee should warn.”
On my right shoulder now the sunbeams lay,
And shed their splendour over all the west,
Changing the azure to a golden ray.
And, for the darkness by my form imprest
Upon the path, still brighter was the gleam;
Thus many look'd toward me, as they pass'd.
This was the cause for which, I surely deem,
They now began to speak of me, and said:
“In sooth, no form aërial doth he seem.”
And then as near me, in their course, they sped,
As well might be while heedful still to go
Where the red flames their burning ardour shed.
“O thou, who go'st with footsteps not more slow,
But rev'rently still following thy guide,
Reply to me, here parching in fierce glow.
Nor I alone thine answer do abide:
All these have greater thirst for thy reply
Than hath the Indian for the cooling tide.
Then tell us why on thee the sunbeams lie,
Nor do they pass beyond thy form; as though
Thou wert of those whose lot is still to die.”
Thus one among them spake to me; and now
Would I have answer'd him, but swiftly came
Before me somewhat new and strange: for lo!
Even in the middle of the path of flame,
A band who, coming tow'rd us, onward press'd:
That sight my silent thought did wholly claim.
And as the spirits drew ancar, with haste
Each folded each within a brief embrace;
And then pass'd on, content with scanty feast:
Even so the ants' small, dusky insect race
A moment meet in their industrious art,
Perchance their fortune and their ways to trace.
When from the friendly greeting they depart,
Ere yet one step had each from each pass'd by,
Some, with loud, emulous voices, from the heart
Bewail, and “Sodom and Gomorrah!” cry;
And, “Bear ye still in mind the sins which are
Told in Pasiphae's tale,” the rest reply.
Even as the cranes, that tow'rd the Northern Star
In part do fly, part to the desert-sand;
And these from frost, and those from sun are far:
So do they come and go, on either hand,
And, weeping, turn again to their first song,
And to the cry most suited to their band.
Then, they who first address'd me in the throng
Again toward me turn'd, with eager mien,
As they to list to my discourse did long.
And I, who, twice, their strong desire had seen,
My speech began: “Ye souls, who are secure,
One day, to dwell 'mid heavenly pastures green,
Know, that my limbs, nor youthful nor mature,
In earth not yet are buried, but I still
With living flesh and blood my toil endure.
To cure my blinded eyes I climb this hill:
There is a lady in the realms above;
And I, a mortal, by her aid fulfil
My quest in this your world. As ye would prove
The gladness soon of the empyrial heaven,
Whose ample spaces are all fill'd with love,
Say, (for perchance to me it shall be given
To tell the tale,) who ye may be, and those
Who speed, and to another goal are driven?”
Not more amaze the mountain-peasant shows,
In silent wonder, all uncouth and rude,
When first he to the polish'd city goes,
Than did these Shades who now, astonish'd, stood;
But quickly did that stupor pass away,
Which lasts not long in hearts of lofty mood.
Then he who first address'd me 'gan to say:
“Blessëd be thou, who journeyest to win
Experience which on earth may guide thy way.
Know, that the sin of these the same hath been
As Cæsar's, whence in his triumphal hour
The soldiers, in contempt, proclaim'd him Queen.
Therefore they name the city which, of yore,
Was with this crime defiled; and with their shame
They lend the scorching furnace fiercer power.
Our sin was of another stamp and name:
But, since the laws of reason we pass'd by,
And even degraded as brute beasts became,
Thus, in our own reproof, we loudly cry;
And tell of her who, in the Cretan clime,
Was erst most beastly in vile luxury.
Our actions now thou knowest, and our crime:
If of our earthly names thou wouldst enquire,
To tell of all thou seest, there lacketh time.
Yet, of myself I answer thy desire:
I Guido Guinicelli was; ere death,
Repentance caused me heavenward to aspire.”
As, 'mid the fury of Lycurgus' wrath,
The sons toward their mournful mother sprang,
Even so did I, soon as I heard the breath,
Revealing him whose voice melodious rang
So sweet, that I and wiser poets learn'd
Of him the lovely strain which erst he sang.
And, lost in silent thought, full oft I turn'd,
Looking on him, whom yet I might not reach,
For the fierce flame which from the rampart burn'd.
Then fill'd with gazing, did I him beseech
That he his heart's desire to me would tell,
And with a sacred promise seal'd my speech.
And he to me: “Such memories aye shall dwell
Within me of thy words, that Lethë's stream
Their clearness may not darken or dispel.
But, if thou speak'st as truly as I deem,
Now tell me wherefore, in discourse and gaze,
So loving unto me thou still dost seem?”
And I to him: “Because of thy sweet lays,
Which long as modern use its power doth hold,
Shall win from men the meed of lofty praise.”
He said: “My brother, he whom ye behold”
(And tow'rds another then he turn'd his glance)
“More nobly did his native language mould;
For, in love-poesy and prose-romance,
He bore the palm; despite the fools who say
The Limousin before him did advance.
By fame, much more than fact, do men alway
Guide their belief; and thus decide, before
Or reason or experience lead the way.
Thus they exalted, in the days of yore,
Only Guittonë, with applauding cry,
Till truth, with their false praise, they downward bore.
Now, if such grace is given, that thou mayst try
The journey to the heavenly cloister, where
Christ rules the brotherhood who dwell on high,
I beg, that thou for me wouldst say the prayer
He taught, as far as we have need who dwell
Where we can sin no more.” He said; and there
Gave place to him of whom he erst did tell,
And disappear'd amid the burning flame,
As doth a fish within its watery cell.
To him whom he had shown me, then I came
A little nearer; and I begg'd that he
Unto my longing would make known his name.
He thus began, with gracious mien and free:
“So sweet to me thy courteous questioning,
Nor can nor will I hide thy wish from thee.
I am Arnautz, who mourn the while I sing:
Sadly I look upon my folly past,
And joyful, on the bliss that Heaven shall bring.
I pray thee, by the virtue which at last
Shall guide thee where there is nor heat nor cold,
There on my pain a thought of pity cast.”
He ceased; and once again the fire did him enfold: