Canto XXX

When the seven stars of heaven's highest realm—

those that never set nor rise,

never veiled except by sin itself,

that guide each soul to know its sacred duty

as the earthly compass guides ships home—

came to rest, the faithful gathered there

between the stars and Griffin

turned toward the chariot as toward their peace.

And one among them, as if sent by Heaven,

sang out three times: "Come, bride, from Lebanon!"

and all the others echoed after him.

Just as the blessed shall rise at the final trumpet,

each quickened soul emerging from its grave

to lift again its glorified flesh,

so upon that divine chariot

a hundred rose at the elder's voice—

ministers and messengers of eternal life.

All were singing, "Blessed is he who comes,"

and scattering flowers above and all around,

"Oh, give lilies with full hands."

I have seen dawn break over the eastern sky,

the hemisphere all rose-flushed with light

while fair serenity adorned the west,

and the sun's face rising veiled by mists

so the eye could bear its tempered radiance—

Thus, within a cloud of flowers

cast by those angelic hands

and falling gently up and down,

a lady appeared above her snow-white veil

crowned with olive leaves,

clothed in a green mantle

and robed in living flame.

My spirit, which for so long a time

had not trembled with awe in her presence,

now without seeing her more clearly

felt through her hidden power

the mighty influence of ancient love.

The moment that sublime force struck my sight—

the same that pierced me through

before I'd grown beyond my boyhood—

I turned left with the trust

of a frightened child running to his mother

to say to Virgil: "Not one drop

of blood in me is still.

I know the marks of the ancient flame."

But Virgil had left us bereft of himself—

Virgil, sweetest of all fathers,

Virgil, to whom I gave myself for salvation.

Nothing that our first mother lost

could keep my cheeks, now cleansed of tears,

from being darkened again with weeping.

"Dante, do not weep because Virgil has gone—

do not weep yet.

You must weep for another sword instead."

Like an admiral who moves from stern to bow

to see the crews working other ships

and encourage them to do well,

so on the chariot's left side—

when I turned at the sound of my own name,

which must be recorded here—

I saw the Lady who had appeared before

veiled beneath the angelic celebration

now directing her eyes toward me across the stream.

Though her veil descended from her head,

circled with Minerva's leaves,

and kept her from appearing clearly,

her bearing remained regally majestic

as she continued like one who speaks

while holding back the harshest words:

"Look at me closely. Yes, I am Beatrice.

How did you dare to climb the Mountain?

Did you not know that here humanity is blessed?"

My eyes dropped to the clear fountain,

but seeing myself reflected there

I turned to the grass instead,

so heavy was the shame upon my brow.

As a mother seems stern to her son,

so she appeared to me—

for bitter is the taste of harsh compassion.

She fell silent, and suddenly the Angels sang:

"In you, Lord, I have hoped"—

but went no further than "you lifted up my feet."

Like snow that freezes among Italy's living peaks,

blown and drifted by Slavonian winds,

then melting, trickles through itself

when the shadowless land breathes warm again

until it seems like fire melting a candle—

so I was, without tears or sighs,

before the song of those who sing forever

in harmony with the eternal spheres.

But when I heard in their sweet melodies

such pity for me—more than if they'd said,

"Lady, why do you rebuke him so?"—

the ice that had formed around my heart

turned to breath and water, and in anguish

came rushing from my chest through mouth and eyes.

She, still standing firmly on the chariot's right,

then directed these words to those holy beings:

"You keep watch in the eternal day

where neither night nor sleep can steal from you

a single step the ages take along their path.

So I answer with greater care

that he who weeps there might hear me clearly,

and let his sin and sorrow match in measure.

Not only through the work of those great wheels

that destine every seed toward its end

according to the stars' conjunction,

but through the bounty of celestial graces—

whose rain falls from such lofty heights

our sight cannot approach them—

this man had become in his young life

so filled with possibility that every virtuous habit

would have shown magnificent results in him.

But the richer the soil's natural vigor,

the more wild and rank it grows

when left untilled and sown with weeds.

For a time I sustained him with my gaze,

revealing to him my youthful eyes,

I led him with me turned toward the right path.

But when I crossed the threshold of my second age

and changed life for life,

he took himself from me and gave himself to others.

When I ascended from flesh to spirit

and beauty and virtue increased in me,

I became less dear and pleasing to him.

He turned his steps onto false paths,

chasing after those deceptive images of good

that never fulfill their promises.

Neither prayers for inspiration helped me—

through dreams and other ways

I called him back, but he paid so little heed.

He fell so low that every means

for his salvation had already failed

except to show him the lost souls.

For this I visited the gates of death,

and to him who has led you so far up

I carried my petitions with tears.

God's high decree would be broken

if you crossed Lethe and tasted such food

without paying some price

of penitence that flows forth in tears."