Canto VII

After the gracious and joyful greetings

had been exchanged three and four times over,

Sordello stepped back and asked, "Who are you?"

"Before souls worthy of ascending to God

were ever guided to this mountain,

Octavian buried my bones.

I am Virgil, and I lost heaven

for no other sin than for not having faith."

"not having faith." This was how my guide answered.

Like someone who suddenly sees something that amazes him,

who believes and yet doesn't believe, saying "It is! It isn't!"—

that's how he appeared. Then he bowed his head

and with humility returned to us,

embracing him where inferiors embrace superiors.

"O glory of the Latins," he said,

"through whom our language showed what it could achieve,

O eternal pride of the place I came from—

what merit or what grace reveals you to me?

If I am worthy to hear your words, tell me:

do you come from Hell, and from what circle?"

"Through all the circles of that realm of sorrow

I have come here," he replied.

"Heaven's power moved me, and with that power I come.

Not by doing, but by not doing, I lost

the sight of that high sun you long for,

which I recognized too late.

There is a place below, not sad with torments

but only with darkness, where the lamentations

don't sound like wailing but are sighs.

There I dwell with the little innocents

snatched by Death's teeth before they could be

freed from human sinfulness.

There I dwell among those who never wore

the three holy virtues, but without vice

knew all the others and followed them completely.

But if you know and can tell us,

give us some sign by which we might sooner reach

the place where Purgatory truly begins."

He answered: "No fixed place has been assigned to us.

I'm allowed to go up and around;

as far as I can go, I'll join you as guide.

But see how the day is already declining,

and we cannot climb at night.

So we should think of finding some pleasant resting place.

There are souls withdrawn on the right side here—

if you'll let me, I'll lead you to them,

and you'll know them with delight."

"How can this be?" came the answer.

"If someone wished to climb at night,

would he be prevented by others,

or would he simply lack the power?"

And the good Sordello drew his finger

on the ground, saying: "See, you could not pass

even this line once the sun has set.

Not that anything else would hinder

the ascent except the darkness of night—

this perplexes the will with powerlessness.

We could indeed go back down

and wander around the hillside

while the horizon holds the day imprisoned."

Then my lord, as if amazed, said:

"Lead us to the place you speak of,

where we can take pleasure in staying."

We had barely moved from that spot

when I noticed the mountain was hollowed out

the way valleys are carved here.

"Over there," said that shade, "we'll go

where the hillside naturally forms a hollow,

and there we'll wait for the new day."

Between hill and plain ran a winding path

that led us to the edge of that dell

where the border fades more than halfway.

Gold and fine silver, scarlet and pearl-white,

brilliant and serene Indian wood,

fresh emerald the moment it's split—

all would be conquered in color

by the grass and flowers planted in that valley,

as the lesser is conquered by the greater.

And nature had not only painted there

but from the sweetness of a thousand scents

created a single unknown fragrance.

"Salve Regina"—I saw spirits there

seated on the green grass and flowers, singing,

who had not been visible outside the valley.

"Before the weakening sun seeks its nest,"

began the Mantuan who had led us there,

"don't ask me to take you down among them.

From this ledge you'll better make out

the faces and actions of them all

than if you were received among them on the plain below.

He who sits highest and looks like someone

who neglected what he should have done,

who doesn't move his lips to the others' song—

that was Emperor Rudolf, who had the power

to heal the wounds that have killed Italy,

so that now she revives slowly through others.

The other one, who seems to comfort him,

ruled the land where the waters rise

that the Moldau carries to the Elbe, and the Elbe to the sea.

His name was Ottocar, and in swaddling clothes

he was far better than his bearded son Wenceslaus,

who feeds on luxury and idleness.

And that small-nosed one, who appears in close council

with him of such kindly aspect,

died fleeing and deflowering the lily.

Look there—see how he beats his breast!

See the other one, who has made a bed

of his own palm for his cheek, sighing.

They are father and father-in-law to France's plague,

and they know his vicious and dissolute life—

from this comes the grief that pierces them so.

He who looks so robust and joins his voice,

singing with that one with the manly nose,

wore the belt of every virtue.

And if the young man sitting behind him

had remained king after him,

the virtue would have passed from vessel to vessel—

which cannot be said of the other heirs.

James and Frederick possess the kingdoms,

but neither possesses the better inheritance.

Rarely does human worth rise through the branches—

and He wills this, who gives it,

so that we may ask it of Him.

My words reach the large-nosed one no less

than the other, Peter, who sings with him,

for which Provence and Apulia already grieve.

The plant is as inferior to its seed

as Constance still boasts of her husband

more than Beatrice and Margaret can.

See the king of the simple life,

Henry of England, sitting there alone—

he has better issue in his branches.

He who sits lowest on the ground among them,

looking upward, is Marquis William,

for whose sake Alessandria and her war

make Montferrat and Canavese weep."