Nor did more love cause me to be more ready, But the high charity, that makes us servants Prompt to the counsel which controls the world, "I see full well," said I, "O sacred lamp! Wherefore predestinate wast thou alone Than of its middle made the light a centre, Whirling itself about like a swift millstone. Then answer made the love that was therein : "On me directed is a light divine, Piercing through this in which I am embosomed, Of which the virtue with my sight conjoined Lifts me above myself so far, I see The supreme essence from which this is drawn. For to my sight, as far as it is clear, 70 75 80 85 90 But that soul in the heaven which is most pure, Of the eternal statute what thou askest, And to the mortal world, when thou returnest, Longer tow'rd such a goal to move its feet. From this observe how can it do below 95 100 That which it cannot though the heaven assume it?" Such limit did its words prescribe to me, The question I relinquished, and restricted And not far distant from thy native place, 'Neath which is consecrate a hermitage Thus unto me the third speech recommenced, 105 110 That feeding only on the juice of olives Lightly I passed away the heats and frosts, Contented in my thoughts contemplative. That cloister used to render to these heavens Abundantly, and now is empty grown, So that perforce it soon must be revealed. I in that place was Peter Damiano; And Peter the Sinner was I in the house Of Our Lady on the Adriatic shore. Little of mortal life remained to me, 115 120 When I was called and dragged forth to the hat 125 Which shifteth evermore from bad to worse. Came Cephas, and the mighty Vessel came Of the Holy Spirit, meagre and barefooted, Taking the food of any hostelry. Now some one to support them on each side 130 The modern shepherds need, and some to lead them, They cover up their palfreys with their cloaks, So that two beasts go underneath one skin; At this voice saw I many little flames From step to step descending and revolving, 135 Round about this one came they and stood still, It here could find no parallel, nor I Distinguished it, the thunder so o'ercame me. 140 CANTO XXII. OPPRESSED with stupor, I unto my guide Turned like a little child who always runs Gives comfort to her pale and breathless boy Said to me: "Knowest thou not thou art in heaven, The sword above here smiteth not in haste |