The Divine Comedy by Dante, Illustrated, Purgatory, Complete. Dante Alighieri

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       Yet in this deep suspicion rest thou not

       Contented unless she assure thee so,

       Who betwixt truth and mind infuses light.

       I know not if thou take me right; I mean

       Beatrice. Her thou shalt behold above,

       Upon this mountain's crown, fair seat of joy."

       Then I: "Sir! let us mend our speed; for now

       I tire not as before; and lo! the hill

       Stretches its shadow far." He answer'd thus:

       "Our progress with this day shall be as much

       As we may now dispatch; but otherwise

       Than thou supposest is the truth. For there

       Thou canst not be, ere thou once more behold

       Him back returning, who behind the steep

       Is now so hidden, that as erst his beam

       Thou dost not break. But lo! a spirit there

       Stands solitary, and toward us looks:

       It will instruct us in the speediest way."

       We soon approach'd it. O thou Lombard spirit!

       How didst thou stand, in high abstracted mood,

       Scarce moving with slow dignity thine eyes!

       It spoke not aught, but let us onward pass,

       Eyeing us as a lion on his watch.

       But Virgil with entreaty mild advanc'd,

       Requesting it to show the best ascent.

       It answer to his question none return'd,

       But of our country and our kind of life

       Demanded. When my courteous guide began,

       "Mantua," the solitary shadow quick

       Rose towards us from the place in which it stood,

       And cry'd, "Mantuan! I am thy countryman

       Sordello." Each the other then embrac'd.

       Ah slavish Italy! thou inn of grief,

       Vessel without a pilot in loud storm,

       Lady no longer of fair provinces,

       But brothel-house impure! this gentle spirit,

       Ev'n from the Pleasant sound of his dear land

       Was prompt to greet a fellow citizen

       With such glad cheer; while now thy living ones

       In thee abide not without war; and one

       Malicious gnaws another, ay of those

       Whom the same wall and the same moat contains,

       Seek, wretched one! around thy sea-coasts wide;

       Then homeward to thy bosom turn, and mark

       If any part of the sweet peace enjoy.

       What boots it, that thy reins Justinian's hand

       Befitted, if thy saddle be unpress'd?

       Nought doth he now but aggravate thy shame.

       Ah people! thou obedient still shouldst live,

       And in the saddle let thy Caesar sit,

       If well thou marked'st that which God commands.

       Look how that beast to felness hath relaps'd

       From having lost correction of the spur,

       Since to the bridle thou hast set thine hand,

       O German Albert! who abandon'st her,

       That is grown savage and unmanageable,

       When thou should'st clasp her flanks with forked heels.

       Just judgment from the stars fall on thy blood!

       And be it strange and manifest to all!

       Such as may strike thy successor with dread!

       For that thy sire and thou have suffer'd thus,

       Through greediness of yonder realms detain'd,

       The garden of the empire to run waste.

       Come see the Capulets and Montagues,

       The Philippeschi and Monaldi! man

       Who car'st for nought! those sunk in grief, and these

       With dire suspicion rack'd. Come, cruel one!

       Come and behold the' oppression of the nobles,

       And mark their injuries: and thou mayst see.

       What safety Santafiore can supply.

       Come and behold thy Rome, who calls on thee,

       Desolate widow! day and night with moans:

       "My Caesar, why dost thou desert my side?"

       Come and behold what love among thy people:

       And if no pity touches thee for us,

       Come and blush for thine own report. For me,

       If it be lawful, O Almighty Power,

       Who wast in earth for our sakes crucified!

       Are thy just eyes turn'd elsewhere? or is this

       A preparation in the wond'rous depth

       Of thy sage counsel made, for some good end,

       Entirely from our reach of thought cut off?

       So are the' Italian cities all o'erthrong'd

       With tyrants, and a great Marcellus made

       Of every petty factious villager.

       My Florence! thou mayst well remain unmov'd

       At this digression, which affects not thee:

       Thanks to thy people, who so wisely speed.

       Many have justice in their heart, that long

       Waiteth for counsel to direct the bow,

       Or ere it dart unto its aim: but shine

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