Classic Poem

Although the suddenness with which we fled
Had scatter'd all the wanderers, who now
Turn'd to the mount again where reason led,
Still to my faithful guide I clung, for how,
Without his aid, could I have held my course?
Who would have dragg'd me up the mountain's brow?
He seem'd in his own thoughts to feel remorse:
O conscience quick and pure, that even the least,
The slightest fault dost bitterly rehearse!
Now when his steps had ceasëd from the haste,
Befitting ill the form of Majesty,
My mind, that all within itself was placed,
Again look'd forth, as eager to espy
The road by which we took our rugged way,
From out the waves ascending to the sky.
The sun, whose crimson flame behind us lay,
No light before me on the path had thrown;
Because upon my form it found a stay:
I turn'd in dread to find myself alone;
For I perceived no shadow by my side,
And deem'd, perchance, my comforter was gone.
But he, all turn'd towards me, thus replied:
“Why are thy thoughts within thee thus at war?
Believ'st me not still with thee as thy guide?
In Naples now beneath the vesper star,
My body lies, that threw on earth a shade;
Erst was it brought from Brindisi afar.
If here no shadow by my form is made,
Thou shouldst not marvel more than at the skies,
Because on them the sunbeams are not stay'd.
To bodies of like nature, the Allwise
Hath given to suffer torments, heat and cold:
How this may be is hidden from our eyes.
Your mortal intellect is all too bold,
And finite would the Infinite discern,
That in Three Persons doth one substance hold.
But ye the cause from the effect must learn;
If to the whole your human glance might soar,
It needed not that Mary's Son be born.
Nor had ye seen, on the eternal shore,
Some, whose vain longing for the good they seek
Is given to them as grief for evermore.
Of Aristotle and Plato do I speak,
And many others.” Then his head he bent,
In sorrow; nor again did silence break.
Meanwhile unto the mountain-foot we went;
And there so steep the precipice around,
In vain to climb it would our strength be spent.
Between Turbìa and Lerici's bound,
Each rocky path, most difficult and high,
Compared with this, a gentle slope were found.
“Now who can tell us where the way may lie,”
My Master said, as he his footsteps stay'd,
“That he may climb who hath no wings to fly?”
And downward, as in thought, he bent his head,
Deep musing on the dangers of the place;
While to the rocky height my glances stray'd.
At the left hand I saw appear a race
Of spirits, who towards us did advance;
But seemëd not to move, so slow their pace.
I to my Master said: “Uplift thy glance;
Lo! they who will give counsel now appear,
If thine own thoughts have need of aid perchance.”
Then he look'd up, and with an aspect clear,
Replied: “Come tow'rds them, for they linger long;
And thou, my gentle son, be of good cheer.”
And still so distant from us was their throng,
After a thousand paces we had trod,
As might a stone be cast by marksman strong,
When to the rocky wall that edged the road
They all drew near; and motionless remain'd,
As one who doubts what some new thing may bode.
“O spirits who this blessëd isle have gain'd,”
Virgil began, “I pray you, by that peace
I well believe ye all shall have attain'd
At last, now tell us where these ramparts cease,
So that we may ascend the rugged steep;
For loss of time the wise doth most displease.”
As from the pen come forth the timid sheep,
Some two or three; the rest, with aspect shy,
Bent to the earth their eyes and noses keep;
All that the foremost does, the others try,
And when he stops, still close behind they stand,
Simple and quiet, nor know the reason why:
Thus did I see the leader of that band
Approach to meet us on our onward way,
With modest air. And as on my right hand,
Even to the rock the dusky shadow lay,
As though my form had quench'd the solar flame,
Amazed at that strange sight their steps they stay.
Those who were nearest us, no farther came;
And all the rest who in their footsteps went,
Although they knew not wherefore, did the same.
“He upon whom ye now are so intent
Is in the body death shall yet receive;
Therefore the sunny light on earth is spent.
Be not so struck with wonder; but believe,
Not without strength that cometh from on high
This rampart's outer circle would he cleave:”
The Master spake. And thus was the reply:
“Return with us again, by the same part
Ye come from:” and they sign'd with hand and eye.
Then one of them began: “Whoe'er thou art,
Still ever journeying onward, turn thee now;
Hast thou not seen me when on earth thou wert?”
I turn'd and look'd on him with stedfast brow;
Fair was his aspect and of gentle mien;
But on his forehead was a deadly blow.
I humbly answer'd, never had I seen
His form till now; and then he show'd the trace
Where on his breast a mortal wound had been.
“Know, I am Manfred, of imperial race,”
He smiling said; “and when thou dost resume
Thine earthly life within its wonted place,
Unto my daughter go, to her of whom
Are sprung the kings of Sicily and Spain:
Tell her the truth of me and of my doom.
After my lifeblood had gush'd forth like rain,
From two deep wounds, my soul I weeping gave
To him who gladly cleanseth every stain.
In life my sins did God's great judgments brave;
But yet his arms of tender love embrace
All who return to him before the grave.
And if Cozenza's pastor, sent in chase
Of me by Clement, had but rightly known
How of the mind of God to read this face,
My body still were where it first was thrown,
Above the bridge anear to Benevent,
Well guarded by the heavy pile of stone.
Now it is beaten by the rain, and rent
By storm, afar where Verdë's wave is seen,
Where from the realm 'twas borne with torches spent.
For curse of theirs one is not lost, I ween,
They cannot turn away the love of God,
While hope still bears its blossoms, fresh and green.
Who dies in the contempt that he hath show'd
For Holy Church, though he repent at last,
'Tis true he may not enter this abode,
For thirty times as long as he hath pass'd
In harden'd sin; if the probation be
Not shorten'd by the prayers from earth addrest.
Behold what gladness thou canst give to me!
Therefore, I pray thee, to my Constance tell
How thou hast seen me, and of this decree:
For here, by prayers of those on earth we profit well.”