The Divine Comedy by Dante: The Vision Of Purgatory: Canto XXX

Soon as the polar light, which never knows     Setting nor rising, nor the shadowy veil     Of other cloud than sin, fair ornament     Of the first heav'n, to duty each one there     Safely convoying, as that lower doth     The steersman to his port, stood firmly fix'd;     Forthwith the saintly tribe, who in the van     Between the Gryphon and its radiance came,     Did turn them to the car, as to their rest:     And one, as if commission'd from above,     In holy chant thrice shorted forth aloud:     "Come, spouse, from Libanus!" and all the rest     Took up the song--At the last audit so     The blest shall rise, from forth his cavern each     Uplifting lightly his new-vested flesh,     As, on the sacred litter, at the voice     Authoritative of that elder, sprang     A hundred ministers and messengers     Of life eternal. "Blessed thou! who com'st!"     And, "O," they cried, "from full hands scatter ye     Unwith'ring lilies;" and, so saying, cast     Flowers over head and round them on all sides.     I have beheld, ere now, at break of day,     The eastern clime all roseate, and the sky     Oppos'd, one deep and beautiful serene,     And the sun's face so shaded, and with mists     Attemper'd at lids rising, that the eye     Long while endur'd the sight: thus in a cloud     Of flowers, that from those hands angelic rose,     And down, within and outside of the car,     Fell showering, in white veil with olive wreath'd,     A virgin in my view appear'd, beneath     Green mantle, rob'd in hue of living flame:     And o'er my Spirit, that in former days     Within her presence had abode so long,     No shudd'ring terror crept. Mine eyes no more     Had knowledge of her; yet there mov'd from her     A hidden virtue, at whose touch awak'd,     The power of ancient love was strong within me.     No sooner on my vision streaming, smote     The heav'nly influence, which years past, and e'en     In childhood, thrill'd me, than towards Virgil I     Turn'd me to leftward, panting, like a babe,     That flees for refuge to his mother's breast,     If aught have terrified or work'd him woe:     And would have cried: "There is no dram of blood,     That doth not quiver in me. The old flame     Throws out clear tokens of reviving fire:"     But Virgil had bereav'd us of himself,     Virgil, my best-lov'd father; Virgil, he     To whom I gave me up for safety: nor,     All, our prime mother lost, avail'd to save     My undew'd cheeks from blur of soiling tears.     "Dante, weep not, that Virgil leaves thee: nay,     Weep thou not yet: behooves thee feel the edge     Of other sword, and thou shalt weep for that."     As to the prow or stern, some admiral     Paces the deck, inspiriting his crew,     When 'mid the sail-yards all hands ply aloof;     Thus on the left side of the car I saw,     (Turning me at the sound of mine own name,     Which here I am compell'd to register)     The virgin station'd, who before appeared     Veil'd in that festive shower angelical.     Towards me, across the stream, she bent her eyes;     Though from her brow the veil descending, bound     With foliage of Minerva, suffer'd not     That I beheld her clearly; then with act     Full royal, still insulting o'er her thrall,     Added, as one, who speaking keepeth back     The bitterest saying, to conclude the speech:     "Observe me well. I am, in sooth, I am     Beatrice. What! and hast thou deign'd at last     Approach the mountainnewest not, O man!     Thy happiness is whole?" Down fell mine eyes     On the clear fount, but there, myself espying,     Recoil'd, and sought the greensward: such a weight     Of shame was on my forehead. With a mien     Of that stern majesty, which doth surround     mother's presence to her awe-struck child,     She look'd; a flavour of such bitterness     Was mingled in her pity. There her words     Brake off, and suddenly the angels sang:     "In thee, O gracious Lord, my hope hath been:"     But went no farther than, "Thou Lord, hast set     My feet in ample room." As snow, that lies     Amidst the living rafters on the back     Of Italy congeal'd when drifted high     And closely pil'd by rough Sclavonian blasts,     Breathe but the land whereon no shadow falls,     And straightway melting it distils away,     Like a fire-wasted taper: thus was I,     Without a sigh or tear, or ever these     Did sing, that with the chiming of heav'n's sphere,     Still in their warbling chime: but when the strain     Of dulcet symphony, express'd for me     Their soft compassion, more than could the words     "Virgin, why so consum'st him?" then the ice,     Congeal'd about my bosom, turn'd itself     To spirit and water, and with anguish forth     Gush'd through the lips and eyelids from the heart.     Upon the chariot's right edge still she stood,     Immovable, and thus address'd her words     To those bright semblances with pity touch'd:     "Ye in th' eternal day your vigils keep,     So that nor night nor slumber, with close stealth,     Conveys from you a single step in all     The goings on of life: thence with more heed     I shape mine answer, for his ear intended,     Who there stands weeping, that the sorrow now     May equal the transgression. Not alone     Through operation of the mighty orbs,     That mark each seed to some predestin'd aim,     As with aspect or fortunate or ill     The constellations meet, but through benign     Largess of heav'nly graces, which rain down     From such a height, as mocks our vision, this man     Was in the freshness of his being, such,     So gifted virtually, that in him     All better habits wond'rously had thriv'd.     The more of kindly strength is in the soil,     So much doth evil seed and lack of culture     Mar it the more, and make it run to wildness.     These looks sometime upheld him; for I show'd     My youthful eyes, and led him by their light     In upright walking. Soon as I had reach'd     The threshold of my second age, and chang'd     My mortal for immortal, then he left me,     And gave himself to others. When from flesh     To spirit I had risen, and increase     Of beauty and of virtue circled me,     I was less dear to him, and valued less.     His steps were turn'd into deceitful ways,     Following false images of good, that make     No promise perfect. Nor avail'd me aught     To sue for inspirations, with the which,     I, both in dreams of night, and otherwise,     Did call him back; of them so little reck'd him,     Such depth he fell, that all device was short     Of his preserving, save that he should view     The children of perdition. To this end     I visited the purlieus of the dead:     And one, who hath conducted him thus high,     Receiv'd my supplications urg'd with weeping.     It were a breaking of God's high decree,     If Lethe should be past, and such food tasted     Without the cost of some repentant tear."