The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri (essential books to read TXT) 📕

The strains came o’er mine ear, e’en as the sound Of choral voices, that in solemn chant With organ mingle, and, now high and clear, Come swelling, now float indistinct away.

CANTO X

When we had passed the threshold of the gate (Which the soul’s ill affection doth disuse, Making the crooked seem the straighter path), I heard its closing sound. Had mine eyes turn’d, For that offence what plea might have avail’d?

We mounted up the riven rock, that wound On either side alternate, as the wave Flies and advances. “Here some little art Behooves us,” said my leader, “that our steps Observe the varying flexure of the path.”

Thus we so slowly sped, that with cleft orb The moon once more o’erhangs her wat’ry couch, Ere we that strait have threaded. But when free We came and open, where the mount above One solid mass retires, I spent, with toil, And both, uncertain of the way, we stood, Upon a plain more lonesome, than the roads That traverse desert wilds. From whence the brink Borders upon vacuity, to foot

Of the steep bank, that rises still, the space Had measur’d thrice the stature of a man: And, distant as mine eye could wing its flight, To leftward now and now to right dispatch’d, That cornice equal in extent appear’d.

Not yet our feet had on that summit mov’d, When I discover’d that the bank around, Whose proud uprising all ascent denied, Was marble white, and so exactly wrought With quaintest sculpture, that not there alone Had Polycletus, but e’en nature’s self Been sham’d. The angel who came down to earth With tidings of the peace so many years Wept for in vain, that op’d the heavenly gates From their long interdict) before us seem’d, In a sweet act, so sculptur’d to the life, He look’d no silent image. One had sworn He had said, “Hail!” for she was imag’d there, By whom the key did open to God’s love, And in her act as sensibly impress That word, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord,”

As figure seal’d on wax. “Fix not thy mind On one place only,” said the guide belov’d, Who had me near him on that part where lies The heart of man. My sight forthwith I turn’d And mark’d, behind the virgin mother’s form, Upon that side, where he, that mov’d me, stood, Another story graven on the rock.

I passed athwart the bard, and drew me near, That it might stand more aptly for my view.

There in the self-same marble were engrav’d The cart and kine, drawing the sacred ark, That from unbidden office awes mankind.

Before it came much people; and the whole Parted in seven quires. One sense cried, “Nay,”

Another, “Yes, they sing.” Like doubt arose Betwixt the eye and smell, from the curl’d fume Of incense breathing up the well-wrought toil.

Preceding the blest vessel, onward came With light dance leaping, girt in humble guise, Sweet Israel’s harper: in that hap he seem’d Less and yet more than kingly. Opposite, At a great palace, from the lattice forth Look’d Michol, like a lady full of scorn And sorrow. To behold the tablet next, Which at the hack of Michol whitely shone, I mov’d me. There was storied on the rock The’ exalted glory of the Roman prince, Whose mighty worth mov’d Gregory to earn His mighty conquest, Trajan th’ Emperor.

A widow at his bridle stood, attir’d In tears and mourning. Round about them troop’d Full throng of knights, and overhead in gold The eagles floated, struggling with the wind.

The wretch appear’d amid all these to say: “Grant vengeance, sire! for, woe beshrew this heart My son is murder’d.” He replying seem’d; “Wait now till I return.” And she, as one Made hasty by her grief; “O sire, if thou Dost not return?”—“Where I am, who then is, May right thee.”—” What to thee is other’s good, If thou neglect thy own?”—“Now comfort thee,”

At length he answers. “It beseemeth well My duty be perform’d, ere I move hence: So justice wills; and pity bids me stay.”

He, whose ken nothing new surveys, produc’d That visible speaking, new to us and strange The like not found on earth. Fondly I gaz’d Upon those patterns of meek humbleness, Shapes yet more precious for their artist’s sake, When “Lo,” the poet whisper’d, “where this way (But slack their pace), a multitude advance.

These to the lofty steps shall guide us on.”

Mine eyes, though bent on view of novel sights Their lov’d allurement, were not slow to turn.

Reader! I would not that amaz’d thou miss Of thy good purpose, hearing how just God Decrees our debts be cancel’d. Ponder not The form of suff’ring. Think on what succeeds, Think that at worst beyond the mighty doom It cannot pass. “Instructor,” I began, “What I see hither tending, bears no trace Of human semblance, nor of aught beside That my foil’d sight can guess.” He answering thus: “So courb’d to earth, beneath their heavy teems Of torment stoop they, that mine eye at first Struggled as thine. But look intently thither, An disentangle with thy lab’ring view, What underneath those stones approacheth: now, E’en now, mayst thou discern the pangs of each.”

Christians and proud! O poor and wretched ones!

That feeble in the mind’s eye, lean your trust Upon unstaid perverseness! Know ye not That we are worms, yet made at last to form The winged insect, imp’d with angel plumes That to heaven’s justice unobstructed soars?

Why buoy ye up aloft your unfleg’d souls?

Abortive then and shapeless ye remain, Like the untimely embryon of a worm!

As, to support incumbent floor or roof, For corbel is a figure sometimes seen, That crumples up its knees unto its breast, With the feign’d posture stirring ruth unfeign’d In the beholder’s fancy; so I saw

These fashion’d, when I noted well their guise.

Each, as his back was laden, came indeed Or more or less contract; but it appear’d As he, who show’d most patience in his look, Wailing exclaim’d: “I can endure no more.”

CANTO XI

O thou Almighty Father, who dost make The heavens thy dwelling, not in bounds confin’d, But that with love intenser there thou view’st Thy primal effluence, hallow’d be thy name: Join each created being to extol

Thy might, for worthy humblest thanks and praise Is thy blest Spirit. May thy kingdom’s peace Come unto us; for we, unless it come, With all our striving thither tend in vain.

As of their will the angels unto thee Tender meet sacrifice, circling thy throne With loud hosannas, so of theirs be done By saintly men on earth. Grant us this day Our daily manna, without which he roams Through this rough desert retrograde, who most Toils to advance his steps. As we to each Pardon the evil done us, pardon thou Benign, and of our merit take no count.

‘Gainst the old adversary prove thou not Our virtue easily subdu’d; but free From his incitements and defeat his wiles.

This last petition, dearest Lord! is made Not for ourselves, since that were needless now, But for their sakes who after us remain.”

Thus for themselves and us good speed imploring, Those spirits went beneath a weight like that We sometimes feel in dreams, all, sore beset, But with unequal anguish, wearied all, Round the first circuit, purging as they go, The world’s gross darkness off: In our behalf If there vows still be offer’d, what can here For them be vow’d and done by such, whose wills Have root of goodness in them? Well beseems That we should help them wash away the stains They carried hence, that so made pure and light, They may spring upward to the starry spheres.

“Ah! so may mercy-temper’d justice rid Your burdens speedily, that ye have power To stretch your wing, which e’en to your desire Shall lift you, as ye show us on which hand Toward the ladder leads the shortest way.

And if there be more passages than one, Instruct us of that easiest to ascend; For this man who comes with me, and bears yet The charge of fleshly raiment Adam left him, Despite his better will but slowly mounts.”

From whom the answer came unto these words, Which my guide spake, appear’d not; but ‘twas said “Along the bank to rightward come with us, And ye shall find a pass that mocks not toil Of living man to climb: and were it not That I am hinder’d by the rock, wherewith This arrogant neck is tam’d, whence needs I stoop My visage to the ground, him, who yet lives, Whose name thou speak’st not him I fain would view.

To mark if e’er I knew him? and to crave His pity for the fardel that I bear.

I was of Latiun, of a Tuscan horn A mighty one: Aldobranlesco’s name My sire’s, I know not if ye e’er have heard.

My old blood and forefathers’ gallant deeds Made me so haughty, that I clean forgot The common mother, and to such excess, Wax’d in my scorn of all men, that I fell, Fell therefore; by what fate Sienna’s sons, Each child in Campagnatico, can tell.

I am Omberto; not me only pride

Hath injur’d, but my kindred all involv’d In mischief with her. Here my lot ordains Under this weight to groan, till I appease God’s angry justice, since I did it not Amongst the living, here amongst the dead.”

List’ning I bent my visage down: and one (Not he who spake) twisted beneath the weight That urg’d him, saw me, knew me straight, and call’d, Holding his eyes With difficulty fix’d Intent upon me, stooping as I went Companion of their way. “O!” I exclaim’d, “Art thou not Oderigi, art not thou Agobbio’s glory, glory of that art Which they of Paris call the limmer’s skill?”

“Brother!” said he, “with tints that gayer smile, Bolognian Franco’s pencil lines the leaves.

His all the honour now; mine borrow’d light.

In truth I had not been thus courteous to him, The whilst I liv’d, through eagerness of zeal For that pre-eminence my heart was bent on.

Here of such pride the forfeiture is paid.

Nor were I even here; if, able still To sin, I had not turn’d me unto God.

O powers of man! how vain your glory, nipp’d E’en in its height of verdure, if an age Less bright succeed not! Cimabue thought To lord it over painting’s field; and now The cry is Giotto’s, and his name eclips’d.

Thus hath one Guido from the other snatch’d The letter’d prize: and he perhaps is born, Who shall drive either from their nest. The noise Of worldly fame is but a blast of wind, That blows from divers points, and shifts its name Shifting the point it blows from. Shalt thou more Live in the mouths of mankind, if thy flesh Part shrivel’d from thee, than if thou hadst died, Before the coral and the pap were left, Or ere some thousand years have passed? and that Is, to eternity compar’d, a space, Briefer than is the twinkling of an eye To the heaven’s slowest orb. He there who treads So leisurely before me, far and wide Through Tuscany resounded once; and now Is in Sienna scarce with whispers nam’d: There was he sov’reign, when destruction caught The madd’ning rage of Florence, in that day Proud as she now is loathsome. Your renown Is as the herb, whose hue doth come and go, And his might withers it, by whom it sprang Crude from the lap of earth.” I thus to him: “True are thy sayings: to my heart they breathe The kindly spirit of meekness, and allay What tumours rankle there.