Part 27

No golden chain she had, nor coronal, Nor ladies shod with sandal shoon, nor girdle That caught the eye more than the person did.

Not yet the daughter at her birth struck fear Into the father, for the time and dower Did not o’errun this side or that the measure.

No houses had she void of families, Not yet had thither come Sardanapalus To show what in a chamber can be done;

Not yet surpassed had Montemalo been By your Uccellatojo, which surpassed Shall in its downfall be as in its rise.

Bellincion Berti saw I go begirt With leather and with bone, and from the mirror His dame depart without a painted face;

And him of Nerli saw, and him of Vecchio, Contented with their simple suits of buff And with the spindle and the flax their dames.

O fortunate women! and each one was certain Of her own burial-place, and none as yet For sake of France was in her bed deserted.

One o’er the cradle kept her studious watch, And in her lullaby the language used That first delights the fathers and the mothers;

Another, drawing tresses from her distaff, Told o’er among her family the tales Of Trojans and of Fesole and Rome.

As great a marvel then would have been held A Lapo Salterello, a Cianghella, As Cincinnatus or Cornelia now.

To such a quiet, such a beautiful Life of the citizen, to such a safe Community, and to so sweet an inn,

Did Mary give me, with loud cries invoked, And in your ancient Baptistery at once Christian and Cacciaguida I became.

Moronto was my brother, and Eliseo; From Val di Pado came to me my wife, And from that place thy surname was derived.

I followed afterward the Emperor Conrad, And he begirt me of his chivalry, So much I pleased him with my noble deeds.

I followed in his train against that law’s Iniquity, whose people doth usurp Your just possession, through your Pastor’s fault.

There by that execrable race was I Released from bonds of the fallacious world, The love of which defileth many souls,

And came from martyrdom unto this peace.”

Paradiso: Canto XVI

O thou our poor nobility of blood, If thou dost make the people glory in thee Down here where our affection languishes,

A marvellous thing it ne’er will be to me; For there where appetite is not perverted, I say in Heaven, of thee I made a boast!

Truly thou art a cloak that quickly shortens, So that unless we piece thee day by day Time goeth round about thee with his shears!

With ‘You,’ which Rome was first to tolerate, (Wherein her family less perseveres,) Yet once again my words beginning made;

Whence Beatrice, who stood somewhat apart, Smiling, appeared like unto her who coughed At the first failing writ of Guenever.

And I began: “You are my ancestor, You give to me all hardihood to speak, You lift me so that I am more than I.

So many rivulets with gladness fill My mind, that of itself it makes a joy Because it can endure this and not burst.

Then tell me, my beloved root ancestral, Who were your ancestors, and what the years That in your boyhood chronicled themselves?

Tell me about the sheepfold of Saint John, How large it was, and who the people were Within it worthy of the highest seats.”

As at the blowing of the winds a coal Quickens to flame, so I beheld that light Become resplendent at my blandishments.