And far as eye of mine could wing its flight,
Now on the left, and on the right flank now,
The same this cornice did appear to me.
Thereon our feet had not been moved as yet,

When I perceived the embankment round about,
Which all right of ascent had interdicted,
To be of marble white, and so adorned

With sculptures, that not only Polycletus,
But Nature's self, had there been put to shame.
The Angel, who came down to earth with tidings

Of peace, that had been wept for many a year,
And opened Heaven from its long interdict,
In front of us appeared so truthfully

"Ave";

There sculptured in a gracious attitude,
He did not seem an image that is silent.
One would have sworn that he was saying,
For she was there in effigy portrayed
Who turned the key to ope the exalted love,
And in her mien this language had impressed,
"Ecce ancilla Dei," as distinctly

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As any figure stamps itself in wax.

Keep not thy mind upon one place alone,"

The gentle Master said, who had me standing
Upon that side where people have their hearts;
Whereat I moved mine eyes, and I beheld

In rear of Mary, and upon that side
Where he was standing who conducted me,
Another story on the rock imposed;

Wherefore I passed Virgilius and drew near,
So that before mine eyes it might be set.
There sculptured in the self-same marble were

The cart and oxen, drawing the holy ark,
Wherefore one dreads an office not appointed.

People appeared in front, and all of them

In seven choirs divided, of two senses

Made one say "No," the other, "Yes, they sing." Likewise unto the smoke of the frankincense,

Which there was imaged forth, the eyes and nose Were in the yes and no discordant made. Preceded there the vessel benedight,

Dancing with girded loins, the humble Psalmist,
And more and less than King was he in this.
Opposite, represented at the window

Of a great palace, Michal looked upon him,
Even as a woman scornful and afflicted.

I moved my feet from where I had been standing,
To examine near at hand another story,
Which after Michal glimmered white upon me,
There the high glory of the Roman Prince

Was chronicled, whose great beneficence
Moved Gregory to his great victory;
'Tis of the Emperor Trajan I am speaking;
And a poor widow at his bridle stood,
In attitude of weeping and of grief.
Around about him seemed it thronged and full
Of cavaliers, and the eagles in the gold
Above them visibly in the wind were moving.
The wretched woman in the midst of these

Seemed to be saying: "Give me vengeance, Lord,
For my dead son, for whom my heart is breaking."
And he to answer her: "Now wait until

I shall return." And she: "My Lord," like one In whom grief is impatient, "shouldst thou not Return?" And he: "Who shall be where I am

Will give it thee." And she: "Good deed of others
What boots it thee, if thou neglect thine own?"
Whence he: "Now comfort thee, for it behoves me

That I discharge my duty ere I move;
Justice so wills, and pity doth retain me."

He who on no new thing has ever looked
Was the creator of this visible language,
Novel to us, for here it is not found.

While I delighted me in contemplating
The images of such humility,

And dear to look on for their Maker's sake, "Behold, upon this side, but rare they make

Their steps," the Poet murmured, "many people;
These will direct us to the lofty stairs."

Mine eyes, that in beholding were intent

To see new things, of which they curious are, In turning round towards him were not slow. But still I wish not, Reader, thou shouldst swerve From thy good purposes, because thou hearest How God ordaineth that the debt be paid; Attend not to the fashion of the torment,

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Think of what follows; think that at the worst
It cannot reach beyond the mighty sentence.
Master," began I, "that which I behold

Moving towards us seems to me not persons,
And what I know not, so in sight I waver."

And he to me: "The grievous quality

Of this their torment bows them so to earth,
That my own eyes at first contended with it;
But look there fixedly, and disentangle

By sight what cometh underneath those stones;
Already canst thou see how each is stricken."
O ye proud Christians! wretched, weary ones!
Who, in the vision of the mind infirm,
Confidence have in your backsliding steps,
Do ye not comprehend that we are worms,

Born to bring forth the angelic butterfly
That flieth unto judgment without screen?
Why floats aloft your spirit high in air?

Like are ye unto insects undeveloped,
Even as the worm in whom formation fails!

As to sustain a ceiling or a roof,

In place of corbel, oftentimes a figure Is seen to join its knees unto its breast, Which makes of the unreal real anguish

Arise in him who sees it; fashioned thus Beheld I those, when I had ta'en good heed. True is it, they were more or less bent down,

According as they more or less were laden; And he who had most patience in his looks Weeping did seem to say, "I can no more!"

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CANTO XI.

"OUR Father, thou who dwellest in the heavens,
Not circumscribed, but from the greater love
Thou bearest to the first effects on high,
Praised be thy name and thine omnipotence
By every creature, as befitting is

To render thanks to thy sweet effluence.
Come unto us the peace of thy dominion,
For unto it we cannot of ourselves,
If it come not, with all our intellect.
Even as thine own Angels of their will
Make sacrifice to thee, Hosanna singing,
all men make sacrifice of theirs.
Give unto us this day our daily manna,

So may

Withouten which in this rough wilderness
Backward goes he who toils most to advance.

5

ΤΟ

15

And even as we the trespass we have suffered
Pardon in one another, pardon thou
Benignly, and regard not our desert.
Our virtue, which is easily o'ercome,

Put not to proof with the old Adversary,
But thou from him who spurs it so, deliver.

This last petition verily, dear Lord,

Not for ourselves is made, who need it not,
But for their sake who have remained behind us."
Thus for themselves and us good furtherance

Those shades imploring, went beneath a weight
Like unto that of which we sometimes dream,
Unequally in anguish round and round

And weary all, upon that foremost cornice, Purging away the smoke-stains of the world. If there good words are always said for us,

What may not here be said and done for them, By those who have a good root to their will? Well may we help them wash away the marks

That hence they carried, so that clean and light
They may ascend unto the starry wheels!
"Ah! so may pity and justice you disburden

Soon, that ye may have power to move the wing,
That shall uplift you after your desire,
Show us on which hand tow'rd the stairs the way
Is shortest, and if more than one the passes,
Point us out that which least abruptly falls;
For he who cometh with me, through the burden
Of Adam's flesh wherewith he is invested,
Against his will is chary of his climbing."
The words of theirs which they returned to those
That he whom I was following had spoken,
It was not manifest from whom they came,
But it was said: "To the right hand come with us
Along the bank, and ye shall find a pass
Possible for living person to ascend.

And were I not impeded by the stone,

Which this proud neck of mine doth subjugate,
Whence I am forced to hold my visage down,
Him, who still lives and does not name himself,
Would I regard, to see if I may know him
And make him piteous unto this burden.
A Latian was I, and born of a great Tuscan ;
Guglielmo Aldobrandeschi was my father;
I know not if his name were ever with you.

The ancient blood and deeds of gallantry

Of my progenitors so arrogant made me
That, thinking not upon the common mother,

All men I held in scorn to such extent
I died therefor, as know the Sienese,
And every child in Campagnatico.
I am Omberto; and not to me alone

Has pride done harm, but all my kith and kin
Has with it dragged into adversity.

And here must I this burden bear for it

Till God be satisfied, since I did not Among the living, here among the dead.” Listening I downward bent my countenance;

And one of them, not this one who was speaking, Twisted himself beneath the weight that cramps him, And looked at me, and knew me, and called out,

Keeping his eyes laboriously fixed

On me, who all bowed down was going with them.

"O," asked I him, "art thou not Oderisi,

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Agobbio's honour, and honour of that art
Which is in Paris called illuminating?"
Brother," said he, "more laughing are the leaves
Touched by the brush of Franco Bolognese;
All his the honour now, and mine in part,
In sooth I had not been so courteous

While I was living, for the great desire
Of excellence, on which my heart was bent.
Here of such pride is paid the forfeiture ;

And yet I should not be here, were it not
That, having power to sin, I turned to God.
O thou vain glory of the human powers,

How little green upon thy summit lingers,
If't be not followed by an age of grossness!

In painting Cimabue thought that he

Should hold the field, now Giotto has the cry,
So that the other's fame is growing dim.

So has one Guido from the other taken

The glory of our tongue, and he perchance

Is born, who from the nest shall chase them both. Naught is this mundane rumour but a breath

Of wind, that comes now this way and now that,
And changes name, because it changes side.
What fame shalt thou have more, if old peel off

From thee thy flesh, than if thou hadst been dead
Before thou left the pappo and the dindi,