And tow’rds us there were heard to fly, albeit They were not visible, spirits uttering Unto Love’s table courteous invitations, The first voice that passed onward in its flight, “Vinum non habent,” said in accents loud, And went reiterating it behind us. And ere it wholly grew inaudible Because of distance, passed another, crying, “I am Orestes!” and it also stayed not. “O,” said I, “Father, these, what voices are they?” And even as I asked, behold the third, Saying: “Love those from whom ye have had evil!” And the good Master said: “This circle scourges The sin of envy, and on that account Are drawn from love the lashes of the scourge. The bridle of another sound shall be; I think that thou wilt hear it, as I judge, Before thou comest to the Pass of Pardon. But fix thine eyes athwart the air right steadfast, And people thou wilt see before us sitting, And each one close against the cliff is seated.” Then wider than at first mine eyes I opened; I looked before me, and saw shades with mantles Not from the colour of the stone diverse. And when we were a little farther onward, I heard a cry of, “Mary, pray for us!” A cry of, “Michael, Peter, and all Saints!” I do not think there walketh still on earth A man so hard, that he would not be pierced With pity at what afterward I saw. For when I had approached so near to them That manifest to me their acts became, Drained was I at the eyes by heavy grief. Covered with sackcloth vile they seemed to me, And one sustained the other with his shoulder, And all of them were by the bank sustained. Thus do the blind, in want of livelihood, Stand at the doors of churches asking alms, And one upon another leans his head, So that in others pity soon may rise, Not only at the accent of their words, But at their aspect, which no less implores. And as unto the blind the sun comes not, So to the shades, of whom just now I spake, Heaven’s light will not be bounteous of itself; For all their lids an iron wire transpierces, And sews them up, as to a sparhawk wild Is done, because it will not quiet stay. To me it seemed, in passing, to do outrage, Seeing the others without being seen; Wherefore I turned me to my counsel sage. Well knew he what the mute one wished to say, And therefore waited not for my demand, But said: “Speak, and be brief, and to the point.” I had Virgilius upon that side Of the embankment from which one may fall, Since by no border ’tis engarlanded; Upon the other side of me I had The shades devout, who through the horrible seam Pressed out the tears so that they bathed their cheeks. To them I turned me, and, “O people, certain,” Began I, “of beholding the high light, Which your desire has solely in its care,