Classic Poem

When in the fulness of our heart's content,
Or 'mid the suffering of some sharpest pain,
The spirit wholly is thereon intent,
Then can it to no other thought attain;
And this disproves the error which believes
Soul above soul our nature doth contain.
Thus when the mind some outward thing receives,
Which holds it fixëdly by sight or sound,
The flight of time no longer it perceives;
Because one faculty within is found
That listens, and the rest all dormant lie,
For they are free, the other as if bound:
And of this true experience had I
A proof, when listening to the speaker there.
The sun had risen full fifty grades on high,
Nor of its onward course was I aware,
Till, with one voice, to us those spirits said:
“Behold! the place for which ye seek is here.”
More wide the opening that is often made
Among the vines, and closed with thorny bent,
By labouring peasant when the grape grows red,
Than was the entrance to the steep ascent,
Which now my guide and I essay'd alone,
Because another way those pilgrims went.
The foot of man to Noli may go down,
And climb St. Leo and Bismantua's height;
But, sooth to say, here must I needs have flown,
Borne on the pinions swift and strong for flight,
Of ardent longing, as I strove to keep
Still close to him who gave me hope and light.
Between the broken rocks we climb'd the steep;
The stony ramparts press'd on either side,
And I was fain on hands and knees to creep.
When to the upper edge we came, and spied
The open plain, I said: “Now whither lies
Our way, my Master?” and he thus replied:
“Come onward where the mountain doth arise
Before us; follow in my footstep's place,
Till there appear to us some escort wise.”
Too distant for the human eye to trace
Was that far summit; and the coast went down
More steep than line unto the central space
From half the quadrant. Weary did I moan:
“O gentle father, turn thee and behold;
If thou dost stay not, I am left alone.”
“My son,” he said, “to reach this spot be bold;”
And pointed upward to a ledge that round
The mountain did its summit all enfold.
So strong the impulse in his words I found,
That prone on earth I struggled, till at last
My feet were stay'd upon the rocky bound.
And on the ridge we sat us down to rest,
Turn'd to the east, the point from which we came;
For pleasant is the view of dangers past.
First to the island shore I look'd; from thence,
Up to the sun I gazed, and saw that earth
From the left side was stricken by its flame.
The Poet well perceived that I look'd forth,
Amazed to see the chariot of the light,
There where it stood between us and the north.
Wherefore he said: “If the Twin Brethren, hight
Castor and Pollux, near yon mirror lay,
Which sheds on every side its radiance bright,
Thou then shouldst see the zodiac's golden ray
Yet nearer to the north its circles throw,
If still it mov'd within its ancient way.
How this may be, if thou art fain to know,
Within thy thought imagine Zion's hill,
To stand, respective of this mountain, so
That both should have one sole horizon, still
With diverse hemispheres; and thus the road,
Where Phaëton his chariot drove so ill,
Is seen toward the north of this abode,
Toward the south of Palestine; and how
This may be so to thee is clearly show'd.”
I said: “My Master, never, until now,
Saw I so clearly as I here discern,
Even where my mind appear'd to fall too low,
That the mid circle of the zone supern,
By skill'd in starry lore equator hight,
Which ever stands 'twixt sun and wintry bourne,
Even for the cause thou sayest, in our sight
Lies to the north; while yet the Jews behold
Southwards the radiance of the heavenly light.
But, if it please thee, I would fain be told
How long our journey; for the hill so much
Ascendeth, that the eye may not be bold
To reach the summit.” “Know, this mount is such,”
He then replied, “that still the toil doth seem
More easy, as a higher point we touch:
And when the pathway thou at length shalt deem
So pleasant, that thy course shall be as light
As sailing in a bark adown the stream,
Thou then shalt have attain'd the furthest height;
There may thy weary limbs repose at last:
I say no more; but this I know aright.”
He ceased; we heard a voice that us addrest,
And said: “Before the steep ascent, perchance,
It well may be thou shalt have need of rest.”
And at that voice's sound we turn'd our glance;
A mass of rock we saw at the left hand,
Unnoticed when at first we did advance.
Thither we went; and there, as they who stand
In idle mood, I saw, beneath the shade,
Some who appear'd, in sooth, a listless band.
And one who seem'd with weariness down-weigh'd,
Sat, and his arms upon his knees did lean,
And, bending low, his face between them laid.
“Good Master, look,” I said, “for he, I ween,
Weareth an aspect yet more negligent
Than if dull idlesse were his next of kin.”
Then he toward us look'd with eye intent,
Turning his face upon his knees, and said:
“Thou who art able, try the steep ascent.”
And then I knew him; nor my steps were stay'd
By the quick anguish of my breathing, weak
With that sharp toil. Scarcely he raised his head,
As we approach'd, but on this wise he spake:
“Hast thou remark'd the sun, whose car of light
From the left shoulder doth its pathway take?”
The lazy gesture of this idle wight,
And curtness of his speech moved me to smile;
Then I began: “Belacqua, for thy plight
I grieve no more; but tell me, why beguile
Vainly the time? An escort dost thou wait?
Or lingerest as thou were wont erewhile?”
And he: “My brother, wherefore should my feet
Essay the height with such an eager haste?
God's angel ever sitteth at the gate,
And will not let me enter, till is past
As long a time as I have spent on earth,
(For I delay'd repentance to the last,)
If prayers which from a holy heart have birth,
Come not unto mine aid: for know that none,
Save from a pardon'd soul, have any worth.”
And then the Poet rose, and pointed on
And said: “Arise, and let us go; for o'er
Our heads is shining now the noonday sun;
And dusky Twilight stealeth tow'rd Morocco's shore.”