Day is sinking when the angel of God stands forth of the flame, joy in his mien, and sings Blessed are the pure in heart. Nearer, he cries that they may go no further until the fire has pierced them: enter in, and list the song from thence. Dante is as one laid in the grave. Hands clasp; he looks up; fancy conjures bodies he has seen consumed alive. The escorting spirits turn with gentle looks. Virgil says here he may feel torment, but cannot death. Remember Geryon. Now I come more near to God: wilt thou not trust me now? A thousand years in that womb would not perish a hair. Stretch the vesture's hem if you doubt. Lay all fear aside. Dante still, though conscience urges, advances no step. Disturbed, Virgil names the wall: from Beatrice thou art by this wall divided. As Pyramus opened his eye at Thisbe's name, Dante turns at the name that springs forever in his breast. Virgil shakes his forehead, smiles as at a child who eyes the fruit and yields, and walks into the fire first. Statius he prays to come behind.
The heat is so intense Dante would cast himself into molten glass to cool. The beloved sire talks of Beatrice as they go: her eyes, even now I seem to view. A voice from the other side sings them out. Come, blessed of my Father, hails them from a light Dante cannot endure. The sun hastes; evening comes; delay not; strive for the pass before the west is hung with blackness. The way rises in the rock. Few stairs, and the fading of the shadow tells them the sun is couched. Night forbids further travel: not will, but power, has failed. They make a stair a pallet, close pent by shelving rock, Dante as a goat and the two as shepherds. Through a glimpse of sky the stars shine with more than wonted glory. Sleep, that often brings tidings, overcomes him about the hour Venus lightens the mountain. He dreams a young lady culling flowers: I am Leah; these hands weave a garland for my brow. My sister Rachel abides before her glass the livelong day. Her joy in contemplation, as in labour mine.
Glimmering dawn is more welcome to the pilgrim the nearer home. Darkness flees, and with it slumber. Virgil is already risen. That delicious fruit, which mortals roam so many a branch to find, shall this day appease thy hunger. Desire grows upon desire; at each step Dante feels the wings increase. At the topmost round the Mantuan fixes his eyes. Both fires, my son, the temporal and the eternal, thou hast seen, and art arrived where of itself my ken no further reaches. I with skill and art have drawn thee thus far. Now thy pleasure take for guide. Thou hast overcome the steeper way, overcome the straighter. Lo the sun on thy forehead, the herb and flowers this land pours forth. Till those bright eyes come, which weeping made me haste to succour thee, sit or wander where thou wilt. Expect no more sanction of warning voice or sign from me. Free of thy own arbitrement to choose. To distrust thy sense were henceforth error. I invest thee then with crown and mitre, sovereign over thyself.
Coming Up in Chapter 62
Dante will leave the bank for a celestial forest that never veers, until a rill so clear that earthly water looks mixed stops his feet. Across three paces a lady will cull flowers and sing, and the stream will feel more hateful than the Hellespont.
