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

"O Thou!" her words she thus without delay     Resuming, turn'd their point on me, to whom     They but with lateral edge seem'd harsh before,     "Say thou, who stand'st beyond the holy stream,     If this be true. A charge so grievous needs     Thine own avowal." On my faculty     Such strange amazement hung, the voice expir'd     Imperfect, ere its organs gave it birth.     A little space refraining, then she spake:     "What dost thou muse on? Answer me. The wave     On thy remembrances of evil yet     Hath done no injury." A mingled sense     Of fear and of confusion, from my lips     Did such a "Yea" produce, as needed help     Of vision to interpret. As when breaks     In act to be discharg'd, a cross-bow bent     Beyond its pitch, both nerve and bow o'erstretch'd,     The flagging weapon feebly hits the mark;     Thus, tears and sighs forth gushing, did I burst     Beneath the heavy load, and thus my voice     Was slacken'd on its way. She straight began:     "When my desire invited thee to love     The good, which sets a bound to our aspirings,     What bar of thwarting foss or linked chain     Did meet thee, that thou so should'st quit the hope     Of further progress, or what bait of ease     Or promise of allurement led thee on     Elsewhere, that thou elsewhere should'st rather wait?"     A bitter sigh I drew, then scarce found voice     To answer, hardly to these sounds my lips     Gave utterance, wailing: "Thy fair looks withdrawn,     Things present, with deceitful pleasures, turn'd     My steps aside." She answering spake: "Hadst thou     Been silent, or denied what thou avow'st,     Thou hadst not hid thy sin the more: such eye     Observes it. But whene'er the sinner's cheek     Breaks forth into the precious-streaming tears     Of self-accusing, in our court the wheel     Of justice doth run counter to the edge.     Howe'er that thou may'st profit by thy shame     For errors past, and that henceforth more strength     May arm thee, when thou hear'st the Siren-voice,     Lay thou aside the motive to this grief,     And lend attentive ear, while I unfold     How opposite a way my buried flesh     Should have impell'd thee. Never didst thou spy     In art or nature aught so passing sweet,     As were the limbs, that in their beauteous frame     Enclos'd me, and are scatter'd now in dust.     If sweetest thing thus fail'd thee with my death,     What, afterward, of mortal should thy wish     Have tempted? When thou first hadst felt the dart     Of perishable things, in my departing     For better realms, thy wing thou should'st have prun'd     To follow me, and never stoop'd again     To 'bide a second blow for a slight girl,     Or other gaud as transient and as vain.     The new and inexperienc'd bird awaits,     Twice it may be, or thrice, the fowler's aim;     But in the sight of one, whose plumes are full,     In vain the net is spread, the arrow wing'd."     I stood, as children silent and asham'd     Stand, list'ning, with their eyes upon the earth,     Acknowledging their fault and self-condemn'd.     And she resum'd: "If, but to hear thus pains thee,     Raise thou thy beard, and lo! what sight shall do!"     With less reluctance yields a sturdy holm,     Rent from its fibers by a blast, that blows     From off the pole, or from Iarbas' land,     Than I at her behest my visage rais'd:     And thus the face denoting by the beard,     I mark'd the secret sting her words convey'd.     No sooner lifted I mine aspect up,     Than downward sunk that vision I beheld     Of goodly creatures vanish; and mine eyes     Yet unassur'd and wavering, bent their light     On Beatrice. Towards the animal,     Who joins two natures in one form, she turn'd,     And, even under shadow of her veil,     And parted by the verdant rill, that flow'd     Between, in loveliness appear'd as much     Her former self surpassing, as on earth     All others she surpass'd. Remorseful goads     Shot sudden through me. Each thing else, the more     Its love had late beguil'd me, now the more     I Was loathsome. On my heart so keenly smote     The bitter consciousness, that on the ground     O'erpower'd I fell: and what my state was then,     She knows who was the cause. When now my strength     Flow'd back, returning outward from the heart,     The lady, whom alone I first had seen,     I found above me. "Loose me not," she cried:     "Loose not thy hold;" and lo! had dragg'd me high     As to my neck into the stream, while she,     Still as she drew me after, swept along,     Swift as a shuttle, bounding o'er the wave.     The blessed shore approaching then was heard     So sweetly, "Tu asperges me," that I     May not remember, much less tell the sound.     The beauteous dame, her arms expanding, clasp'd     My temples, and immerg'd me, where 't was fit     The wave should drench me: and thence raising up,     Within the fourfold dance of lovely nymphs     Presented me so lav'd, and with their arm     They each did cover me. "Here are we nymphs,     And in the heav'n are stars. Or ever earth     Was visited of Beatrice, we     Appointed for her handmaids, tended on her.     We to her eyes will lead thee; but the light     Of gladness that is in them, well to scan,     Those yonder three, of deeper ken than ours,     Thy sight shall quicken." Thus began their song;     And then they led me to the Gryphon's breast,     While, turn'd toward us, Beatrice stood.     "Spare not thy vision. We have stationed thee     Before the emeralds, whence love erewhile     Hath drawn his weapons on thee." As they spake,     A thousand fervent wishes riveted     Mine eyes upon her beaming eyes, that stood     Still fix'd toward the Gryphon motionless.     As the sun strikes a mirror, even thus     Within those orbs the twofold being, shone,     For ever varying, in one figure now     Reflected, now in other. Reader! muse     How wond'rous in my sight it seem'd to mark     A thing, albeit steadfast in itself,     Yet in its imag'd semblance mutable.     Full of amaze, and joyous, while my soul     Fed on the viand, whereof still desire     Grows with satiety, the other three     With gesture, that declar'd a loftier line,     Advanc'd: to their own carol on they came     Dancing in festive ring angelical.     "Turn, Beatrice!" was their song: "O turn     Thy saintly sight on this thy faithful one,     Who to behold thee many a wearisome pace     Hath measur'd. Gracious at our pray'r vouchsafe     Unveil to him thy cheeks: that he may mark     Thy second beauty, now conceal'd." O splendour!     O sacred light eternal! who is he     So pale with musing in Pierian shades,     Or with that fount so lavishly imbued,     Whose spirit should not fail him in th' essay     To represent thee such as thou didst seem,     When under cope of the still-chiming heaven     Thou gav'st to open air thy charms reveal'd.