Part 111

Even as the Blessed at the final summons Shall rise up quickened each one from his cavern, Uplifting light the reinvested flesh,

So upon that celestial chariot A hundred rose ‘ad vocem tanti senis,’ Ministers and messengers of life eternal.

They all were saying, “Benedictus qui venis,” And, scattering flowers above and round about, “Manibus o date lilia plenis.”

Ere now have I beheld, as day began, The eastern hemisphere all tinged with rose, And the other heaven with fair serene adorned;

And the sun’s face, uprising, overshadowed So that by tempering influence of vapours For a long interval the eye sustained it;

Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers Which from those hands angelical ascended, And downward fell again inside and out,

Over her snow-white veil with olive cinct Appeared a lady under a green mantle, Vested in colour of the living flame.

And my own spirit, that already now So long a time had been, that in her presence Trembling with awe it had not stood abashed,

Without more knowledge having by mine eyes, Through occult virtue that from her proceeded Of ancient love the mighty influence felt.

As soon as on my vision smote the power Sublime, that had already pierced me through Ere from my boyhood I had yet come forth,

To the left hand I turned with that reliance With which the little child runs to his mother, When he has fear, or when he is afflicted,

To say unto Virgilius: “Not a drachm Of blood remains in me, that does not tremble; I know the traces of the ancient flame.”

But us Virgilius of himself deprived Had left, Virgilius, sweetest of all fathers, Virgilius, to whom I for safety gave me:

Nor whatsoever lost the ancient mother Availed my cheeks now purified from dew, That weeping they should not again be darkened.

“Dante, because Virgilius has departed Do not weep yet, do not weep yet awhile; For by another sword thou need’st must weep.”

E’en as an admiral, who on poop and prow Comes to behold the people that are working In other ships, and cheers them to well-doing,

Upon the left hand border of the car, When at the sound I turned of my own name, Which of necessity is here recorded,

I saw the Lady, who erewhile appeared Veiled underneath the angelic festival, Direct her eyes to me across the river.

Although the veil, that from her head descended, Encircled with the foliage of Minerva, Did not permit her to appear distinctly,

In attitude still royally majestic Continued she, like unto one who speaks, And keeps his warmest utterance in reserve:

“Look at me well; in sooth I’m Beatrice! How didst thou deign to come unto the Mountain? Didst thou not know that man is happy here?”

Mine eyes fell downward into the clear fountain, But, seeing myself therein, I sought the grass, So great a shame did weigh my forehead down.

As to the son the mother seems superb, So she appeared to me; for somewhat bitter Tasteth the savour of severe compassion.

Silent became she, and the Angels sang Suddenly, “In te, Domine, speravi:” But beyond ‘pedes meos’ did not pass.

Even as the snow among the living rafters Upon the back of Italy congeals, Blown on and drifted by Sclavonian winds,

And then, dissolving, trickles through itself Whene’er the land that loses shadow breathes, So that it seems a fire that melts a taper;

E’en thus was I without a tear or sigh, Before the song of those who sing for ever After the music of the eternal spheres.

But when I heard in their sweet melodies Compassion for me, more than had they said, “O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus upbraid him?”