Part 76

’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, 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!”

Purgatorio: 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, So may all men make sacrifice of theirs.

Give unto us this day our daily manna, Withouten which in this rough wilderness Backward goes he who toils most to advance.