Canto 12
Like oxen keeping step beneath their yoke,
we moved along, that burdened soul and I,
as long as my kind teacher would allow
but when he said: "Now leave him and move on,
for each one here must drive his boat ahead
with sail and oar, and all the might he has,"
I stood up straight to walk the way man should,
but, though my body was erect, my thoughts
were bowed and shrunken to humility.
Now I was moving, happily following
the footsteps of my master, both of us
showing how light of foot we had become,
when, "Now look down," he said. "You will be pleased,
and it will make your journey easier,
to see this bed of stone beneath your feet."
As tombs set in a church floor often bear
carved indications of the dead man's life,
in preservation of his memory
(pierced by such recollection of the dead,
a man is very often brought to tears —
though only those with piety are moved):
just so, I saw — but far more true to life,
being divinely wrought — stone carvings there
covering the path that juts out from the mount.
I saw, on one side, him who was supposed
to be the noblest creature of creation,
plunge swift as lightning from the height of Heaven.
I saw Briareus on the other side,
pierced through by the celestial thunderbolt,
heavy upon the ground, frozen in death.
I saw Thymbraeus, saw Pallas and Mars
still armed, close to their father, looking down
at severed, scattered members of the giants.
I saw the mighty Nimrod by his tower,
standing there stunned and gazing at the men
who shared at Shinar his bold fantasy.
O Niobe, I saw your grieving eyes:
they wept from your carved image on the road,
between your seven and seven children slain.
O Saul, transfixed by your own sword, how dead
you seemed to lie on Mount Gilboa's plain —
which since that time has known no rain or dew.
O mad Arachne, I could see you there,
half-turned to spider, sad above the shreds
of your own work of art that sentenced you.
O Rehoboam, the image of you here
no longer threatens: in a chariot,
it flees fear-stricken, though no man pursues.
Depicted, too, in that hard pavement stone
was Alcmeon, who made his mother pay
so dearly for the accursed ornament.
Depicted were Sennacherib's own sons
assaulting him at prayer within the temple,
and their departure, as he lay there dead.
Depicted was Tomyris with the ruin
and slaughter that she wrought, her words to Cyrus:
"Blood you have thirsted for — now, drink your own
Depicted was the rout of the Assyrians
who fled at Holofernes' death" — it showed
the remnants of his mutilated corpse.
I saw Troy gaping from its ashes there:
O Ilium, how you were fallen low,
depicted on the sculptured road of stone.
What master artist with his brush or pen
could reproduce these shapes and shadings here?
Such art must overwhelm the subtlest mind!
The dead seemed dead, the living seemed alive;
no witness to the scene itself saw better
than I who trod upon it, head bent low.
Be proud, then! Onward, haughty heads held high,
you sons of Eve! Yes, never bow your head
to see how evil is the road you tread!
We had, by now, gone farther round the rnoun',
and much more of the sun's course had been traced,
than I, preoccupied, could have conceived —
when he who always kept a watchful eye
as he moved on said: "Raise your head up now,
you have spent time enough lost in your thoughts.
Look over there, and see. The angel comes!
And, see — the sixth handmaiden has returned
already from her service to the day.
Show reverence in your face and attitude,
so that he will be glad to. help us up;
think that this day will never dawn again!"
I was well used to his admonishments
not to waste time, so, anything he said
to that effect could never be obscure.
Still closer to us, clothed in white, he came,
the radiantly fair creature, and his face
was shining like a trembling star at dawn.
He spread his arms out wide, and then his wings.
He said: "Come, now, the steps are very close;
henceforth, the climbing will be easier."
To such an invitation few respond:
0 race of men, born to fly heavenward,
how can a breath of wind make you fall back?
He led us straight to where the rock was cleft.
Once there, he brushed his wings against my brow,
then he assured me of a safe ascent.
As, on the way up to the mountaintop
crowned by the church, beyond the Rubaconte,
set high, above that so well-governed town,
the steepness of the bold ascent is cut
on the right hand by steps carved in the rock
in times when one could trust ledgers and staves —
so here, the bank that from the second round
falls steep has been made easier with steps
though, on both sides, the high rock presses close.
While we were walking toward those steps, the song
Beati pauperes spiritu! rang out
more sweetly than could ever be described.
How different are these passageways from those
of Hell! One enters here to music — there,
below, to sounds of violent laments.
As we were climbing up the sacred steps,
1 seemed to feel myself much lighter now
than I had been before on level ground.
"Master," I said, "tell me, what heavy thing
has been removed from me? I feel as if
to keep on climbing would be effortless."
He answered: "When the P's that still remain
(though they have almost faded) on your brow
shall be erased completely like the first,
then will your feet be light with good desire;
they will no longer feel the heavy road
but will rejoice as they are urged to climb."
Then I did something anyone might do,
made conscious by the way men looked at him
that he must have some strange thing on his head:
his hand will try hard to investigate,
feeling around to find, fulfilling thus
the duty that the eyes cannot perform;
so, my right hand with fingers spread found just
six of the seven letters that were carved
upon my brow by him who keeps the keys.
Observing this, my master smiled at me.
we moved along, that burdened soul and I,
as long as my kind teacher would allow
but when he said: "Now leave him and move on,
for each one here must drive his boat ahead
with sail and oar, and all the might he has,"
I stood up straight to walk the way man should,
but, though my body was erect, my thoughts
were bowed and shrunken to humility.
Now I was moving, happily following
the footsteps of my master, both of us
showing how light of foot we had become,
when, "Now look down," he said. "You will be pleased,
and it will make your journey easier,
to see this bed of stone beneath your feet."
As tombs set in a church floor often bear
carved indications of the dead man's life,
in preservation of his memory
(pierced by such recollection of the dead,
a man is very often brought to tears —
though only those with piety are moved):
just so, I saw — but far more true to life,
being divinely wrought — stone carvings there
covering the path that juts out from the mount.
I saw, on one side, him who was supposed
to be the noblest creature of creation,
plunge swift as lightning from the height of Heaven.
I saw Briareus on the other side,
pierced through by the celestial thunderbolt,
heavy upon the ground, frozen in death.
I saw Thymbraeus, saw Pallas and Mars
still armed, close to their father, looking down
at severed, scattered members of the giants.
I saw the mighty Nimrod by his tower,
standing there stunned and gazing at the men
who shared at Shinar his bold fantasy.
O Niobe, I saw your grieving eyes:
they wept from your carved image on the road,
between your seven and seven children slain.
O Saul, transfixed by your own sword, how dead
you seemed to lie on Mount Gilboa's plain —
which since that time has known no rain or dew.
O mad Arachne, I could see you there,
half-turned to spider, sad above the shreds
of your own work of art that sentenced you.
O Rehoboam, the image of you here
no longer threatens: in a chariot,
it flees fear-stricken, though no man pursues.
Depicted, too, in that hard pavement stone
was Alcmeon, who made his mother pay
so dearly for the accursed ornament.
Depicted were Sennacherib's own sons
assaulting him at prayer within the temple,
and their departure, as he lay there dead.
Depicted was Tomyris with the ruin
and slaughter that she wrought, her words to Cyrus:
"Blood you have thirsted for — now, drink your own
Depicted was the rout of the Assyrians
who fled at Holofernes' death" — it showed
the remnants of his mutilated corpse.
I saw Troy gaping from its ashes there:
O Ilium, how you were fallen low,
depicted on the sculptured road of stone.
What master artist with his brush or pen
could reproduce these shapes and shadings here?
Such art must overwhelm the subtlest mind!
The dead seemed dead, the living seemed alive;
no witness to the scene itself saw better
than I who trod upon it, head bent low.
Be proud, then! Onward, haughty heads held high,
you sons of Eve! Yes, never bow your head
to see how evil is the road you tread!
We had, by now, gone farther round the rnoun',
and much more of the sun's course had been traced,
than I, preoccupied, could have conceived —
when he who always kept a watchful eye
as he moved on said: "Raise your head up now,
you have spent time enough lost in your thoughts.
Look over there, and see. The angel comes!
And, see — the sixth handmaiden has returned
already from her service to the day.
Show reverence in your face and attitude,
so that he will be glad to. help us up;
think that this day will never dawn again!"
I was well used to his admonishments
not to waste time, so, anything he said
to that effect could never be obscure.
Still closer to us, clothed in white, he came,
the radiantly fair creature, and his face
was shining like a trembling star at dawn.
He spread his arms out wide, and then his wings.
He said: "Come, now, the steps are very close;
henceforth, the climbing will be easier."
To such an invitation few respond:
0 race of men, born to fly heavenward,
how can a breath of wind make you fall back?
He led us straight to where the rock was cleft.
Once there, he brushed his wings against my brow,
then he assured me of a safe ascent.
As, on the way up to the mountaintop
crowned by the church, beyond the Rubaconte,
set high, above that so well-governed town,
the steepness of the bold ascent is cut
on the right hand by steps carved in the rock
in times when one could trust ledgers and staves —
so here, the bank that from the second round
falls steep has been made easier with steps
though, on both sides, the high rock presses close.
While we were walking toward those steps, the song
Beati pauperes spiritu! rang out
more sweetly than could ever be described.
How different are these passageways from those
of Hell! One enters here to music — there,
below, to sounds of violent laments.
As we were climbing up the sacred steps,
1 seemed to feel myself much lighter now
than I had been before on level ground.
"Master," I said, "tell me, what heavy thing
has been removed from me? I feel as if
to keep on climbing would be effortless."
He answered: "When the P's that still remain
(though they have almost faded) on your brow
shall be erased completely like the first,
then will your feet be light with good desire;
they will no longer feel the heavy road
but will rejoice as they are urged to climb."
Then I did something anyone might do,
made conscious by the way men looked at him
that he must have some strange thing on his head:
his hand will try hard to investigate,
feeling around to find, fulfilling thus
the duty that the eyes cannot perform;
so, my right hand with fingers spread found just
six of the seven letters that were carved
upon my brow by him who keeps the keys.
Observing this, my master smiled at me.