Part 5

WITHIN my bosom, from long apathy, Love’s mood of tenderness extreme awoke, And spying him far off, mine eye bespoke Love’s self, so joyous scarce it seemèd he, Crying: ‘Now, verily, pay thy vows to me!’ And bright thro’ every word his smile outbroke. Then stood we twain, I in my liege lord’s yoke, Watching the path he came by, soon to see The Lady Joan and Lady Beatrice Nearing our very nook, each marvel close Following her peer, all beauty else above; And Love said, in a voice like Memory’s: ‘The first is Spring; but she that with her goes, My counterpart, bears my own name of Love!’

II.

‘_Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare._’

SO chaste, so noble looks that lady mine Saluting on her way, that tongues of some Are mute a-tremble, and the eyes that clomb High as her eyes, abashed, their gaze decline. Thro’ perils of heard praise she moves benign, Armored in her own meekness, as if come Hither from Heaven, to give our Christendom Even of a miracle the vouch divine. So with beholders doth her worth avail, It sheds, thro’ sight, a sweetness on the soul, (Alas! how told to one that felt it never?) And from her presence seemeth to exhale A breath half-solace and of love the whole, That saith to the bowed spirit ‘Sigh!’ forever.

III.

‘_Era venuta nella mente mia._’

THERE came upon my mind remembrances Of my lost lady, who for her reward Is now set safe, by Heaven’s Most Highest Lord, In kingdoms of the meek, where Mary is. And Love, whose own are her dear memories, Called to the sighs in my heart’s wreckage stored: ‘Go!’ whereby outwardly, with one accord, Not having ever other vent than this, Plaining athwart my breast they flocked to air, With speech that, oft recalled, draws unaware The darkened tears into my mournful eyes; And those that came in greatest anguish thence Sang: ‘O most glorious Intelligence! Thou art one year this day in Paradise.’

IV.

‘_Deh peregrini, che pensosi andate._’

YE pilgrims, who with pensive aspect go Thinking, perhaps, of bygone things and dear, Come you from lands so very far from here As unto us who watch your port would show? For that you weep not outright, filing slow Thro’ the mid-highway of this city drear, You even as gentle stranger-folk appear, Who of the common sorrow nothing know! Would you but linger, would you but be told, Pledge with its thousand sighs my soul doth give That you, likewise, should travel on heart-broken: Ah, we have lost our Beatrice! Behold, What least soever word be of her spoken, The tears must follow now from all that live.

University Press: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.