XXX. Virgil's Departure. Beatrice. Dante's Shame.

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      When the Septentrion of the highest heaven

       (Which never either setting knew or rising,

       Nor veil of other cloud than that of sin,

      And which made every one therein aware

       Of his own duty, as the lower makes

       Whoever turns the helm to come to port)

      Motionless halted, the veracious people,

       That came at first between it and the Griffin,

       Turned themselves to the car, as to their peace.

      And one of them, as if by Heaven commissioned,

       Singing, "Veni, sponsa, de Libano"

       Shouted three times, and all the others after.

      Even as the Blessed at the final summons

       Shall rise up quickened each one from his cavern,

       Uplifting light the reinvested flesh,

      So upon that celestial chariot

       A hundred rose 'ad vocem tanti senis,'

       Ministers and messengers of life eternal.

      They all were saying, "Benedictus qui venis,"

       And, scattering flowers above and round about,

       "Manibus o date lilia plenis."

      Ere now have I beheld, as day began,

       The eastern hemisphere all tinged with rose,

       And the other heaven with fair serene adorned;

      And the sun's face, uprising, overshadowed

       So that by tempering influence of vapours

       For a long interval the eye sustained it;

      Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers

       Which from those hands angelical ascended,

       And downward fell again inside and out,

      Over her snow-white veil with olive cinct

       Appeared a lady under a green mantle,

       Vested in colour of the living flame.

      And my own spirit, that already now

       So long a time had been, that in her presence

       Trembling with awe it had not stood abashed,

      Without more knowledge having by mine eyes,

       Through occult virtue that from her proceeded

       Of ancient love the mighty influence felt.

      As soon as on my vision smote the power

       Sublime, that had already pierced me through

       Ere from my boyhood I had yet come forth,

      To the left hand I turned with that reliance

       With which the little child runs to his mother,

       When he has fear, or when he is afflicted,

      To say unto Virgilius: "Not a drachm

       Of blood remains in me, that does not tremble;

       I know the traces of the ancient flame."

      But us Virgilius of himself deprived

       Had left, Virgilius, sweetest of all fathers,

       Virgilius, to whom I for safety gave me:

      Nor whatsoever lost the ancient mother

       Availed my cheeks now purified from dew,

       That weeping they should not again be darkened.

      "Dante, because Virgilius has departed

       Do not weep yet, do not weep yet awhile;

       For by another sword thou need'st must weep."

      E'en as an admiral, who on poop and prow

       Comes to behold the people that are working

       In other ships, and cheers them to well-doing,

      Upon the left hand border of the car,

       When at the sound I turned of my own name,

       Which of necessity is here recorded,

      I saw the Lady, who erewhile appeared

       Veiled underneath the angelic festival,

       Direct her eyes to me across the river.

      Although the veil, that from her head descended,

       Encircled with the foliage of Minerva,

       Did not permit her to appear distinctly,

      In attitude still royally majestic

       Continued she, like unto one who speaks,

       And keeps his warmest utterance in reserve:

      "Look at me well; in sooth I'm Beatrice!

       How didst thou deign to come unto the Mountain?

       Didst thou not know that man is happy here?"

      Mine eyes fell downward into the clear fountain,

       But, seeing myself therein, I sought the grass,

       So great a shame did weigh my forehead down.

      As to the son the mother seems superb,

       So she appeared to me; for somewhat bitter

       Tasteth the savour of severe compassion.

      Silent became she, and the Angels sang

       Suddenly, "In te, Domine, speravi:"

       But beyond 'pedes meos' did not pass.

      Even as the snow among the living rafters