DANTE’S PURGATORIO.

CANTO SEVENTH.

[Still among souls, on the outside of Purgatory, who have delayed repentance, Dante, in this Canto, is conducted to those who had postponed spiritual duties from having been involved in state affairs. The persons introduced are the Emperor Rodolph, first of that Austrian house of Hapsburg, Ottocar, King of Bohemia, Philip III. of France, Henry of Navarre, Peter III. of Aragon, Charles I. of Naples, Henry III. of England, and the Marquis William of Monferrat. To know more of these men the curious reader must consult more volumes than we have space to mention in this magazine. He may spare much research, however, and find the most accessible information by turning to the interesting notes which Mr. Longfellow has appended to his translation.—Trans.]

Three times and four these greetings, glad and free, Had been repeated, when Sordello’s shade

Drew from embrace, and said: “Now, who are ye?” And thereupon my Guide this answer made:

“Ere to this mountain those just souls, to whom Heavenward to climb was given, had guided been,

My bones Octavian gathered to the tomb. Virgil I am, and for none other sin

But want of faith was I from heaven shut out.” Like one who suddenly before him sees

Something that wakes his wonder, whence, in doubt, He says, It is not; then believing, ’Tis!

Sordello stood, then back to him without Lifting his eyelids, turned and clasped his knees.

“O glory of the Latin race!” he cried, “Through whom to such a height our language rose,

Oh! of my birthplace everlasting pride, What merit or grace on me thy sight bestows?

Tell me, unless to hear thee is denied, Com’st thou from hell, or where hast thou repose?”

VIRGIL.

He to this answered: “Grace from heaven moved me, And leads me still: the circles every one

Of sorrow’s kingdom have I trod to thee. My sight is barred from that supernal Sun,

Whom I knew late, and thou desir’st to see, Not for I did, but for I left undone.

A place below there is where no groans rise From torment, sad alone with want of light,

Where the lament sounds not like moan, but sighs. The little innocents whom Death’s fell bite

Snatched, ere their sin was purified, are there: And there I dwell with guiltless ones that still

The three most holy virtues did not wear, Though all the rest they knew, and did fulfil.

But if thou knowest, and may’st us apprise, Tell us how we most speedily may find

Where Purgatory’s actual entrance lies.”

SORDELLO.

“We have,” he answered, “no set place assigned;

Around and upward I am free to stray; My guidance far as I may go I lend:

But see how fast already fails the day! And in the night none ever can ascend:

Best, then, we think of some good resting-place. Some souls there be, removed here to the right,

Whom, if thou wilt, I’ll show thee face to face, And thou shalt know them not without delight.”

“How, then,” said Virgil—“should a soul aspire To climb by night, would other check be found?

Or his own weakness hinder his desire?” And good Sordello drew along the ground

His finger, saying: “Look! not even this line May’st thou pass over when the sun hath gone:

Not that aught else, though, would thy power confine, Save want of light, from journeying upwards on:

Darkness makes impotent thy will. By night One may go back again, and grope below,

And, while the horizon shuts the day from sight, Wander about the hillside to and fro.”

My Master then, as ‘twere in wonder, spake: “Then lead us thitherward where thou hast said,

That we in lingering shall such pleasure take.” Nor had we forward far advanced our tread,

When I perceived that on the mountain-side A valley opened, just like valleys here.

“We will go forward,” said our shadowy guide, “Where on the slope yon hollow doth appear;

There let us wait the dawning of the day.” ‘Twixt steep and level went a winding path

Which led us where the vale-side dies away Till less than half its height the margin hath.

Gold and fine silver, ceruse, cochineal, India’s rich wood, heaven’s lucid blue serene,[15]

Or glow that emeralds freshly broke reveal, Had all been vanquished by the varied sheen

Of this bright valley set with shrubs and flowers, As less by greater. Nor had Nature there

Only in painting spent herself, but showers Of odors manifold made sweet the air

With one strange mingling of confused perfume. And there new spirits chanting I descried—

“Salve Regina!”—seated on the bloom And verdure sheltered by the dingle side.

SORDELLO.

“Ere yon low sun shall nestle in his bed” (Began the Mantuan who had brought us here),

“Desire not down among them to be led; You better will observe how they appear,

Both face and action, from this bank, instead Of mixing with them in the dale. That one

Who sits the highest, looking, ‘mid the throng, As though some duty he had left undone,

Who moves his lips not with the rest in song, Was Rodolph, Emperor, he who might have healed

Those wounds which Italy have so far spent That slow relief all other helpers yield.

The other, that on soothing him seems bent, Once ruled the region whence those waters are

Which Moldau bears to Elbe, and Elbe the sea. His name was Ottocar, and better far,

Yea, in his very swaddling-robe, was he Than Vincislaus, his big-bearded son

Whom luxury and ease have made so gross. And he of slender nose, who, with the one

So bland of aspect, seems in consult close, Died flying, and in dust his lilies laid.

Look! how he beats the breast he cannot calm: Mark too his mate there sighing, who hath made

For his pale cheek a pillow of his palm! One is the Father of that pest of France,

Father-in-law the other: well they know His lewd, base life! this misery is the lance

That to the core cuts either of them so. And he so stout of limb, in unison

Singing with him there of the manly nose, Of every virtue put the girdle on;

And if that youth behind him in repose Had after him reigned in his Father’s stead,

Virtue from vase to vase had been well poured, Which of the other heirs may not be said.

Frederic and James now o’er those kingdoms lord, In whom that better heritage lies dead.

Rarely doth human goodness rise again Through the tree’s branches: He hath willed it so

Who gives this boon of excellence, that men Should ask of him who can alone bestow.”

“Not more these words of mine at Peter glance Than him he sings with (of the large nose there)

Whose death Apulia mourneth, and Provènce, So ill the tree doth with its stock compare!

Even so much more of her good lord his wife Constance yet vaunts herself, than Margaret may,

Or Beatrice. That king of simplest life, Harry of England, sitting there survey

All by himself: his branches are more blest! The one who sits there with uplifted gaze

Among the group, but lower than the rest, Is Marquis William, in whose cause the frays

Of Alexandria have with grief oppressed Both Monferrato and the Canavese.”