January 27 The Harvard Classics, fifteen minutes a day
Dante and Beatrice in Paradise
Dante fell madly in love with Beatrice at first sight; but it is doubted if he ever spoke to her in this world. He tells of his happy meeting with Beatrice in Paradise.
- Dante victim of political persecution in Florence, Jan. 27, 1302.
From the 1930 Reading Guide
Divine Comedy
Dante Alighieri
CANTO XXX
ARGUMENT.—Beatrice descends from Heaven, and rebukes the Poet.
SOON as that polar light,1 fair ornamentOf the first Heaven, which hath never knownSetting nor rising, nor the shadowy veilOf other cloud than sin, to duty thereEach one convoying, as that lower dothThe steersman to his port, stood firmly fix’d;Forthwith the saintly tribe, who in the vanBetween 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 shouted forth aloud;“Come,2 spouse! from Libanus:” and all the restTook up the song.—At the last audit, soThe blest shall rise, from forth his cavern eachUplifting lightly his new-vested flesh;As, on the sacred litter, at the voiceAuthoritative of that elder, sprangA hundred ministers and messengersOf life eternal. “Blessed3 thou, who comest!”And, “Oh!” they cried, “from full hands scatter yeUnwithering lilies”: and, so saying, castFlowers overhead and round them on all sides.I have beheld, ere now, at break of day,The eastern clime all roseate; and the skyOpposed, one deep and beautiful serene;And the sun’s face so shaded, and with mistsAttemper’d, at his rising, that the eyeLong while endured the sight: thus, in a cloudOf flowers, that from those hands angelic rose,And down within and outside of the carFell showering, in white veil with olive wreathed,A virgin in my view appear’d, beneathGreen mantle, robed in hue of living flame:And o’er my spirit, that so long a timeHad from her presence felt no shuddering dread,Albeit mine eyes discern’d her not, there movedA hidden virtue from her, at whose touchThe power of ancient love was strong within me.No sooner on my vision streaming, smoteThe heavenly influence, which, years past, and e’enIn childhood, thrill’d me, than towards Virgil ITurn’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 flameThrows out clear tokens of reviving fire.”But Virgil had bereaved us of himself;Virgil, my best-loved father, Virgil, heTo whom I gave me up for safety: norAll, our prime mother lost, avail’d to saveMy undew’d cheeks from blur of soiling tears.“Dante! weep not that Virgil leaves thee; nay,Weep thou not yet: behoves thee feel the edgeOf other sword; and thou shalt weep for that.”As to the prow or stern, some admiralPaces 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 appear’dVeil’d in that festive shower angelical.Towards me, across the stream, she bent her eyes;Though from her brow the veil descending, boundWith foliage of Minerva, suffer’d notThat I beheld her clearly: then with actFull royal, still insulting o’er her thrall,Added, as one who, speaking, keepeth backThe bitterest saying, to conclude the speech:“Observe me well. I am, in sooth, I amBeatrice. What! and hast thou deign’d at lastApproach the mountain? Knewest not, O man!Thy happiness is here?” Down fell mine eyesOn the clear fount; but there, myself espying,Recoil’d, and sought the greensward; such a weightOf shame was on my forehead. With a mienOf that stern majesty, which doth surroundA mother’s presence to her awe-struck child,She look’d; a flavor of such bitternessWas mingled in her pity. There her wordsBrake off; and suddenly the angels sang,“In thee, O gracious Lord! my hope hath been”:But4 went no further than, “Thou, Lord! hast setMy feet in ample room.” As snow, that lies,Amidst the living rafters on the backOf Italy, congeal’d, when drifted highAnd closely piled 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 theseDid sing, that, with the chiming of Heaven’s sphere,Still in their warbling chime: but when the strainOf dulcet symphony express’d for meTheir soft compassion, more than could the words,“Virgin! why so consumest him?” then, the iceCongeal’d about my bosom, turn’d itselfTo spirit and water; and with anguish forthGush’d, through the lips and eyelids, from the heart.Upon the chariot’s same edge still she stood,Immovable; and thus address’d her wordsTo those bright semblances with pity touch’d:“Ye in the eternal day your vigils keep;So that nor night nor slumber, with close stealth,Conveys from you a single step, in allThe goings on of time: thence, with more heedI shape mine answer, for his ear intended,Who there stands weeping; that the sorrow nowMay equal the transgression. Not aloneThrough operation of the mighty orbs,That mark each seed to some predestined aim,As with aspect or fortunate or illThe constellations meet; but through benignLargess of heavenly graces, which rain downFrom such a height as mocks our vision, this manWas, in the freshness of his being, such,So gifted virtually, that in himAll better habits wondrously had thrivedThe more of kindly strength is in the soil,So much doth evil seed and lack of cultureMar it the more, and make it run to wildness.These looks sometime upheld him; for I show’dMy youthful eyes, and led him by their lightIn upright walking. Soon as I had reach’dThe threshold of my second age, and changedMy mortal for immortal; then he left me,And gave himself to others. When from fleshTo spirit I had risen, and increaseOf 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 makeNo promise perfect. Nor avail’d me aughtTo 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 shortOf his preserving, save that he should viewThe children of perdition. To this endI visited the purlieus of the dead:And one, who hath conducted him thus high,Received my supplications urged with weeping.It were a breaking of God’s high decree,If Lethe should be pass’d, and such food5 tasted,Without the cost of some repentant tear.”
CANTO XXXI
ARGUMENT.—Beatrice continues her reprehension of Dante, who confesses his error, and falls to the ground; coming to himself again, he is by Matilda drawn through the waters of Lethe, and presented first to the four virgins who figure the cardinal virtues; these in their turn lead him to the Gryphon, a symbol of our Saviour; and the three virgins, representing the evangelical virtues, intercede for him with Beatrice, that she would display to him her second beauty.
“O THOU!” her words she thus without delayResuming, turn’d their point on me, to whomThey, with but lateral edge,6 seem’d harsh before:“Say thou, who stand’st beyond the holy stream,If this be true. A charge, so grievous, needsThine own avowal.” On my facultySuch strange amazement hung, the voice expiredImperfect, ere its organs gave it birth.A little space refraining, then she spake:“What dost thou muse on? Answer me. The waveOn thy remembrances of evil yetHath done no injury.” A mingled senseOf fear and of confusion, from my lipsDid such a “Yea” produce, as needed helpOf vision to interpret. As when breaks,In act to be discharged, a cross-bow bentBeyond 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 voiceWas slacken’d on its way. She straight began:“When my desire invited thee to loveThe good, which sets a bound to our aspirings;What bar of thwarting foss or linked chainDid meet thee, that thou so shouldst quit the hopeOf further progress? or what bait of ease,Or promise of allurement, led thee onElsewhere, that thou elsewhere shouldst rather wait?”A bitter sigh I drew, then scarce found voiceTo answer; hardly to these sounds my lipsGave utterance, wailing: “Thy fair looks withdrawn,Things present, with deceitful pleasures, turn’dMy steps aside.” She answering spake: “Hadst thouBeen silent, or denied what thou avow’st,Thou hadst not hid thy sin the more; such eyeObserves it. But whene’er the sinner’s cheekBreaks forth into the precious-streaming tearsOf self-accusing, in our court the wheelOf justice doth run counter to the edge.7Howe’er, that thou mayst profit by thy shameFor errors past, and that henceforth more strengthMay arm thee, when thou hear’st the Syren-voice;Lay thou aside the motive to this grief,And lend attentive ear, while I unfoldHow opposite a way my buried fleshShould have impell’d thee. Never didst thou spy,In art or nature, aught so passing sweet,As were the limbs that in their beauteous frameEnclosed me, and are scatter’d now in dust.If sweetest thing thus fail’d thee with my death,What, afterward, of mortal, should thy wishHave tempted? When thou first hadst felt the dartOf perishable things, in my departingFor better realms, thy wing thou shouldst have prunedTo follow me; and never stoop’d again,To ‘bide a second blow, for a slight girl,8Or other gaud as transient and as vain.The new and inexperienced bird9 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 ashamedStand, listening, with their eyes upon the earth,Acknowledging their fault, and self-condemn’d.And she resumed: “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 fibres by a blast, that blowsFrom off the pole, or from Iarbas’ land,10Than I at her behest my visage raised: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 I perceived those primal creatures ceaseTheir flowery sprinkling; and mine eyes beheld(Yet unassured and wavering in their view)Beatrice; she, who toward the mystic shape,That joins two natures in one form, had turn’d:And, even under shadow of her veil,And parted by the verdant rill that flow’dBetween, in loveliness she seem’d as muchHer former self surpassing, as on earthAll others she surpass’d. Remorseful goadsShot sudden through me. Each thing else, the moreIts love had late beguiled me, now the moreWas loathsome. On my heart so keenly smoteThe bitter consciousness, that on the groundO’erpower’d I fell: and what my state was then,She knows, who was the cause. When now my strengthFlow’d back, returning outward from the heart,The lady,11 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 highAs 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 heardSo sweetly, “Tu asperges me,” that IMay not remember, much less tell the sound.The beauteous dame, her arms expanding, clasp’dMy temples, and immerged me where ’twas fitThe wave should drench me: and, thence raising up,Within the fourfold dance of lovely nymphsPresented me so laved; and with their armThey each did cover me. “Here are we nymphs,And in the heaven are stars. Or ever earthWas visited of Beatrice, we,Appointed for her handmaids, tended on her.We to her eyes will lead thee: but the lightOf 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,Where, turn’d toward us, Beatrice stood.“Spare not thy vision. We have station’d theeBefore the emeralds, whence love, erewhile,Hath drawn his weapons on thee.” As they spake,A thousand fervent wishes rivetedMine eyes upon her beaming eyes, that stood,Still fix’d toward the Gryphon, motionless.As the sun strikes a mirror, even thusWithin those orbs the twyfold being shone;Forever varying, in one figure nowReflected, now in other. Reader! museHow wondrous in my sight it seem’d, to markA thing, albeit steadfast in itself,Yet in its imaged semblance mutable.Full of amaze, and joyous, while my soulFed on the viand, whereof still desireGrows with satiety; the other three,With gesture that declared a loftier line,Advanced: to their own carol, on they cameDancing, in festive ring angelical.“Turn, Beatrice!” was their song: “Oh! turnThy saintly sight on this thy faithful one,Who, to behold thee, many a wearisome paceHath measured. Gracious at our prayer, vouchsafeUnveiled to him thy cheeks; that he may markThy 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 the essayTo represent thee such as thou didst seem,When under cope of the still-chiming HeavenThou gavest to open air thy charms reveal’d?
CANTO XXXII
ARGUMENT.—Dante is warned not to gaze too fixedly on Beatrice. The procession moves on, accompanied by Matilda, Statius, and Dante, till they reach an exceeding lofty tree, where divers strange chances befall.
MINE eyes with such an eager covetingWere bent to rid them of their ten years’ thirst,12No other sense was waking: and e’en theyWere fenced on either side from heed of aught;So tangled, in its custom’d toils, that smileOf saintly brightness drew me to itself:When forcibly, toward the left, my sightThe sacred virgins turn’d; for from their lipsI heard the warning sounds: “Too fix’d a gazel”Awhile my vision labour’d; as when lateUpon the o’erstrained eyes the sun hath smote:But soon, to lesser object, as the viewWas now recover’d, (lesser in respectTo that excess of sensible, whence lateI had perforce been sunder’d), on their rightI mark’d that glorious army wheel, and turn,Against the sun and sevenfold lights, their front.As when, their bucklers for protection raised,A well-ranged troop, with portly banners curl’d,Wheel circling, ere the whole can change their ground;E’en thus the goodly regiment of HeavenProceeding, all did pass us, ere the carHad sloped his beam. Attendant at the wheelsThe damsels turn’d; and on the Gryphon movedThe sacred burden, with a pace so smooth,No feather on him trembled. The fair dame,Who through the wave had drawn me, companiedBy Statius and myself, pursued the wheel,Whose orbit, rolling, mark’d a lesser arch.Through the high wood, now void, (the more her blame,Who by the serpent was beguiled), I pass’d,With step in cadence to the harmonyAngelic. Onward had we moved, as far,Perchance, as arrow at three several flightsFull wing’d had sped, when from her station downDescended Beatrice. With one voiceAll murmur’d “Adam”; circling next a plantDespoil’d of flowers and leaf, on every bough,Its tresses, spreading more as more they rose,Were such, as ’midst their forest wilds, for height,The Indians might have gazed at. “Blessed thou,Gryphon!13 whose beak hath never pluck’d that treePleasant to taste: for hence the appetiteWas warp’d to evil.” Round the stately trunkThus shouted forth the rest, to whom return’dThe animal twice-gender’d: “Yea! for soThe generation of the just are saved.”And turning to the chariot-pole, to footHe drew it of the widow’d branch, and boundThere, left unto the stock whereon it grew.As when large floods of radiance from aboveStream, with that radiance mingled, which ascendsNext after setting of the scaly sign,Our plants then burgeon, and each wears anewHis wonted colours, ere the sun have yokedBeneath another star his flamy steeds;Thus putting forth a hue more faint than rose,And deeper than the violet, was renew’dThe plant, erewhile in all its branches bare.Unearthly was the hymn, which then arose.I understood it not, nor to the endEndured the harmony. Had I the skillTo pencil forth how closed the unpitying eyesSlumbering, when Syrinx warbled, (eyes that paidSo dearly for their watching), then, like painter,That with a model paints, I might designThe manner of my falling into sleep.But feign who will the slumber cunningly,I pass it by to when I waked; and tell,How suddenly a flash of splendour rentThe curtain of my sleep, and one cries out,“Arise: what dost thou?” As the chosen three,On Tabor’s mount, admitted to beholdThe blossoming of that fair tree,14 whose fruitIs coveted of Angels, and doth makePerpetual feast in Heaven; to themselvesReturning, at the word whence deeper sleeps15Were broken, they their tribe diminish’d saw;Both Moses and Elias gone, and changedThe stole their Master wore; thus to myselfReturning, over me beheld I standThe piteous one,16 who, cross the stream, had broughtMy steps. “And where,” all doubting, I exclaim’d,“Is Beatrice?”—“See her,” she replied,“Beneath the fresh leaf, seated on its root.Behold the associate choir that circles her.The others, with a melody more sweetAnd more profound, journeying to higher realms,Upon the Gryphon tend.” If there her wordsWere closed, I know not; but mine eyes had nowTa’en view of her, by whom all other thoughtsWere barr’d admittance. On the very groundAlone she sat, as she had there been leftA guard upon the wain, which I beheldBound to the twyform beast. The seven nymphsDid make themselves a cloister round about her;And, in their hands, upheld those lights17 secureFrom blast septentrion and the gusty south.“A little while thou shalt be forester here;And citizen shalt be, forever with me,Of that true Rome,18 wherein Christ dwells a Roman,To profit the misguided world, keep nowThine eyes upon the car; and what thou seest,Take heed thou write, returning to that place.”19Thus Beatrice: at whose feet inclinedDevout, at her behest, my thought and eyesI, as she bade, directed. Never fire,With so swift motion, forth a stormy cloudLeap’d downward from the welkin’s farthest bound,As I beheld the bird of Jove20 descendDown through the tree; and, as he rush’d, the rindDisparting crush beneath him; buds much more,And leaflets. On the car, with all his mightHe struck; whence, staggering, like a ship it reel’d,At random driven, to starboard now, o’ercome,And now to larboard, by the vaulting waves.Next, springing up into the chariot’s womb,A fox21 I saw, with hunger seeming pinedOf all good food. But, for his ugly sinsThe saintly maid rebuking him, awayScampering he turn’d, fast as his hide-bound corpseWould bear him. Next, from whence before he came,I saw the eagle dart into the hullO’ the car, and leave it with his feathers lined:22And then a voice, like that which issues forthFrom heart with sorrow rived, did issue forthFrom Heaven, and “O poor bark of mine!” it cried,“How badly art thou freighted.” Then it seem’dThat the earth open’d, between either wheel;And I beheld a dragon23 issue thence,That through the chariot fix’d his forked train;And like a wasp, that draggeth back the sting,So drawing forth his baleful train, he dragg’dPart of the bottom forth; and went his way,Exulting. What remain’d, as lively turfWith green herb, so did clothe itself with plumes,24Which haply had, with purpose chaste and kind,Been offer’d; and therewith were clothed the wheels,Both one and other, and the beam, so quickly,A sigh were not breathed sooner. Thus transform’d,The holy structure, through its several parts,Did put forth heads;25 three on the beam, and oneOn every side: the first like oxen horn’d;But with a single horn upon their front,The four. Like monster, sight hath never seen.O’er it26 methought there sat, secure as rockOn mountain’s lofty top, a shameless whore,Whose ken roved loosely round her. At her side,As ’t were that none might bear her off, I sawA giant stand; and ever and anonThey mingled kisses. But, her lustful eyesChancing on me to wander, that fell minionScourged her from head to foot all o’er; then fullOf jealousy, and fierce with rage, unloosedThe monster, and dragg’d on,27 so far acrossThe forest, that from me its shades aloneShielded the harlot and the new-form’d brute.
Volume 20, pages 267–279 · See the scanned page on archive.org
This is the reading for January 27 in Fifteen Minutes a Day: The Reading Guide (1930 edition), page 28. There the assignment reads “Vol. 20, pp. 267–279.” Read it in the guide.