We were upon the summit of the stairs, Where for the second time is cut away The mountain, which ascending shriveth all.

There in like manner doth a cornice bind The hill all round about, as does the first, Save that its arc more suddenly is curved.

Shade is there none, nor sculpture that appears;

So seems the bank, and so the road seems smooth, With but the livid colour of the stone.

"If to inquire we wait for people here,"

The Poet said, "I fear that peradventure Too much delay will our election have."

Then steadfast on the sun his eyes he fixed, Made his right side the centre of his motion, And turned the left part of himself about.

"O thou sweet light! with trust in whom I enter Upon this novel journey, do thou lead us,"

Said he, "as one within here should be led.

Thou warmest the world, thou shinest over it;

If other reason prompt not otherwise, Thy rays should evermore our leaders be!"

As much as here is counted for a mile, So much already there had we advanced In little time, by dint of ready will;

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.