Part 77

And even as we the trespass we have suffered Pardon in one another, pardon thou Benignly, and regard not our desert.

Our virtue, which is easily o’ercome, Put not to proof with the old Adversary, But thou from him who spurs it so, deliver.

This last petition verily, dear Lord, Not for ourselves is made, who need it not, But for their sake who have remained behind us.”

Thus for themselves and us good furtherance Those shades imploring, went beneath a weight Like unto that of which we sometimes dream,

Unequally in anguish round and round And weary all, upon that foremost cornice, Purging away the smoke-stains of the world.

If there good words are always said for us, What may not here be said and done for them, By those who have a good root to their will?

Well may we help them wash away the marks That hence they carried, so that clean and light They may ascend unto the starry wheels!

“Ah! so may pity and justice you disburden Soon, that ye may have power to move the wing, That shall uplift you after your desire,

Show us on which hand tow’rd the stairs the way Is shortest, and if more than one the passes, Point us out that which least abruptly falls;

For he who cometh with me, through the burden Of Adam’s flesh wherewith he is invested, Against his will is chary of his climbing.”

The words of theirs which they returned to those That he whom I was following had spoken, It was not manifest from whom they came,

But it was said: “To the right hand come with us Along the bank, and ye shall find a pass Possible for living person to ascend.

And were I not impeded by the stone, Which this proud neck of mine doth subjugate, Whence I am forced to hold my visage down,

Him, who still lives and does not name himself, Would I regard, to see if I may know him And make him piteous unto this burden.

A Latian was I, and born of a great Tuscan; Guglielmo Aldobrandeschi was my father; I know not if his name were ever with you.

The ancient blood and deeds of gallantry Of my progenitors so arrogant made me That, thinking not upon the common mother,

All men I held in scorn to such extent I died therefor, as know the Sienese, And every child in Campagnatico.

I am Omberto; and not to me alone Has pride done harm, but all my kith and kin Has with it dragged into adversity.

And here must I this burden bear for it Till God be satisfied, since I did not Among the living, here among the dead.”

Listening I downward bent my countenance; And one of them, not this one who was speaking, Twisted himself beneath the weight that cramps him,

And looked at me, and knew me, and called out, Keeping his eyes laboriously fixed On me, who all bowed down was going with them.

“O,” asked I him, “art thou not Oderisi, Agobbio’s honour, and honour of that art Which is in Paris called illuminating?”

“Brother,” said he, “more laughing are the leaves Touched by the brush of Franco Bolognese; All his the honour now, and mine in part.

In sooth I had not been so courteous While I was living, for the great desire Of excellence, on which my heart was bent.

Here of such pride is paid the forfeiture; And yet I should not be here, were it not That, having power to sin, I turned to God.

O thou vain glory of the human powers, How little green upon thy summit lingers, If’t be not followed by an age of grossness!

In painting Cimabue thought that he Should hold the field, now Giotto has the cry, So that the other’s fame is growing dim.

So has one Guido from the other taken The glory of our tongue, and he perchance Is born, who from the nest shall chase them both.