light from every source, and in all its shapes, illuminates, irradiates, gives its glory to the _Commedia_. The remembrance of our "serene life" beneath the "fair stars" keeps up continually the gloom of the _Inferno_. Light, such as we see it and recognise it, the light of morning and evening growing and fading, takes off from the unearthliness of the _Purgatorio_; peopled, as it is, by the undying, who, though suffering for sin, can sin no more, it is thus made like our familiar world, made to touch our sympathies as an image of our own purification in the flesh. And when he rises beyond the regions of earthly day, light, simple, unalloyed, unshadowed, eternal, lifts the creations of his thought above all affinity to time and matter; light never fails him, as the expression of the gradations of bliss; never reappears the same, never refuses the new shapes of his invention, never becomes confused or dim, though it is seldom thrown into distinct figure, and still more seldom _coloured_. Only once, that we remember, is the thought of colour forced on us; when the bright joy of heaven suffers change and eclipse, and deepens into red at the sacrilege of men.[140] [Footnote 140: _Parad._ 27.] Yet his eye is everywhere, not confined to the beauty or character of the sky and its lights. His range of observation and largeness of interest prevent that line of imagery, which is his peculiar instrument and predilection, from becoming, in spite of its brightness and variety, dreamy and monotonous; prevent it from arming against itself sympathies which it does not touch. He has watched with equal attention, and draws with not less power, the occurrences and sights of Italian country life; the summer whirlwind sweeping over the plain--"_dinanzi polveroso va superbo_" (_Inf._ 9); the rain-storm of the Apennines (_Purg._ 5); the peasant's alternations of feeling in spring: In quella parte del giovinetto anno Che 'l sole i crin sotto l'Aquario tempra, E già le notti al mezzo dì sen vanno; Quando la brina in su la terra assempra L'imagine di sua sorella bianca, Ma poco dura alla sua penna tempra, Lo villanello a cui la roba manca Si leva e guarda, e vede la campagna Biancheggiar tutta; ond'ei si batte l'anca; Ritorna a casa, e qua e là si lagna Come 'l tapin che non sa che si faccia: Poi riede e la speranza ringavagna Veggendo 'l mondo aver cangiata faccia In poco d'ora, e prende il suo vincastro E fuor le pecorelle a pascer caccia:--_Inf._ 24.[141] the manner in which sheep come out from the fold: