Began I: “It appears that thou deniest, O light of mine, expressly in some text, That orison can bend decree of Heaven; And ne’ertheless these people pray for this. Might then their expectation bootless be? Or is to me thy saying not quite clear?” And he to me: “My writing is explicit, And not fallacious is the hope of these, If with sane intellect ’tis well regarded; For top of judgment doth not vail itself, Because the fire of love fulfils at once What he must satisfy who here installs him. And there, where I affirmed that proposition, Defect was not amended by a prayer, Because the prayer from God was separate. Verily, in so deep a questioning Do not decide, unless she tell it thee, Who light ’twixt truth and intellect shall be. I know not if thou understand; I speak Of Beatrice; her shalt thou see above, Smiling and happy, on this mountain’s top.” And I: “Good Leader, let us make more haste, For I no longer tire me as before; And see, e’en now the hill a shadow casts.” “We will go forward with this day” he answered, “As far as now is possible for us; But otherwise the fact is than thou thinkest. Ere thou art up there, thou shalt see return Him, who now hides himself behind the hill, So that thou dost not interrupt his rays. But yonder there behold! a soul that stationed All, all alone is looking hitherward; It will point out to us the quickest way.” We came up unto it; O Lombard soul, How lofty and disdainful thou didst bear thee, And grand and slow in moving of thine eyes! Nothing whatever did it say to us, But let us go our way, eying us only After the manner of a couchant lion; Still near to it Virgilius drew, entreating That it would point us out the best ascent; And it replied not unto his demand, But of our native land and of our life It questioned us; and the sweet Guide began: “Mantua,”—and the shade, all in itself recluse, Rose tow’rds him from the place where first it was, Saying: “O Mantuan, I am Sordello Of thine own land!” and one embraced the other. Ah! servile Italy, grief’s hostelry! A ship without a pilot in great tempest! No Lady thou of Provinces, but brothel! That noble soul was so impatient, only At the sweet sound of his own native land, To make its citizen glad welcome there; And now within thee are not without war Thy living ones, and one doth gnaw the other Of those whom one wall and one fosse shut in! Search, wretched one, all round about the shores Thy seaboard, and then look within thy bosom, If any part of thee enjoyeth peace! What boots it, that for thee Justinian The bridle mend, if empty be the saddle? Withouten this the shame would be the less. Ah! people, thou that oughtest to be devout, And to let Caesar sit upon the saddle, If well thou hearest what God teacheth thee,