Part 11

Come and behold Montecchi and Cappelletti, Monaldi and Fillippeschi, careless man! Those sad already, and these doubt-depressed!

Come, cruel one! come and behold the oppression Of thy nobility, and cure their wounds, And thou shalt see how safe is Santafiore!

Come and behold thy Rome, that is lamenting, Widowed, alone, and day and night exclaims, “My Caesar, why hast thou forsaken me?”

Come and behold how loving are the people; And if for us no pity moveth thee, Come and be made ashamed of thy renown!

And if it lawful be, O Jove Supreme! Who upon earth for us wast crucified, Are thy just eyes averted otherwhere?

Or preparation is ’t, that, in the abyss Of thine own counsel, for some good thou makest From our perception utterly cut off?

For all the towns of Italy are full Of tyrants, and becometh a Marcellus Each peasant churl who plays the partisan!

My Florence! well mayst thou contented be With this digression, which concerns thee not, Thanks to thy people who such forethought take!

Many at heart have justice, but shoot slowly, That unadvised they come not to the bow, But on their very lips thy people have it!

Many refuse to bear the common burden; But thy solicitous people answereth Without being asked, and crieth: “I submit.”

Now be thou joyful, for thou hast good reason; Thou affluent, thou in peace, thou full of wisdom! If I speak true, the event conceals it not.

Athens and Lacedaemon, they who made The ancient laws, and were so civilized, Made towards living well a little sign

Compared with thee, who makest such fine-spun Provisions, that to middle of November Reaches not what thou in October spinnest.

How oft, within the time of thy remembrance, Laws, money, offices, and usages Hast thou remodelled, and renewed thy members?

And if thou mind thee well, and see the light, Thou shalt behold thyself like a sick woman, Who cannot find repose upon her down,

But by her tossing wardeth off her pain.

Purgatorio: Canto VII

After the gracious and glad salutations Had three and four times been reiterated, Sordello backward drew and said, “Who are you?”

“Or ever to this mountain were directed The souls deserving to ascend to God, My bones were buried by Octavian.

I am Virgilius; and for no crime else Did I lose heaven, than for not having faith;” In this wise then my Leader made reply.

As one who suddenly before him sees Something whereat he marvels, who believes And yet does not, saying, “It is! it is not!”

So he appeared; and then bowed down his brow, And with humility returned towards him, And, where inferiors embrace, embraced him.

“O glory of the Latians, thou,” he said, “Through whom our language showed what it could do O pride eternal of the place I came from,

What merit or what grace to me reveals thee? If I to hear thy words be worthy, tell me If thou dost come from Hell, and from what cloister.”

“Through all the circles of the doleful realm,” Responded he, “have I come hitherward; Heaven’s power impelled me, and with that I come.

I by not doing, not by doing, lost The sight of that high sun which thou desirest, And which too late by me was recognized.

A place there is below not sad with torments, But darkness only, where the lamentations Have not the sound of wailing, but are sighs.

There dwell I with the little innocents Snatched by the teeth of Death, or ever they Were from our human sinfulness exempt.