from the lowest abyss of the universe, far even as here, has seen
one by one the lives of spirits, supplicate thee, through grace,
for virtue such that he may be able with his eyes to uplift
himself higher toward the Ultimate Salvation. And I, who never
for my own vision burned more than I do for his, proffer to thee
all my prayers, and pray that they be not scant, that with thy
prayers thou wouldest dissipate for him every cloud of his
mortality, so that the Supreme Pleasure may be displayed to him.
Further I pray thee, Queen, who canst whatso thou wilt, that,
after so great a vision, thou wouldest preserve his affections
sound. May thy guardianship vanquish human impulses. Behold
Beatrice with all the Blessed for my prayers clasp their hands to
thee."[1]

[1] In the Second Nun's Tale Chaucer has rendered, with great
beauty, the larger part of this prayer.


The eyes beloved and revered by God, fixed on the speaker, showed
to us how pleasing unto her are devout prayers. Then to the
Eternal Light were they directed, on which it is not to be
believed that eye so clear is turned by any creature.

And I, who to the end of all desires was approaching, even as I
ought, ended within myself the ardor of my longing.[1] Bernard
was beckoning to me, and was smiling, that I should look upward;
but I was already, of my own accord, such as he wished; for my
sight, becoming pure, was entering more and more through the
radiance of the lofty Light which of itself is true.

[1] The ardor of longing ceased, as was natural, in the
consummation and enjoyment of desire.


Thenceforward my vision was greater than our speech, which yields
to such a sight, and the memory yields to such excess.[1]

[1] Vague words! but ah, how hard to frame
In matter-moulded forms of speech,
Or ev'n for intellect to reach
Thro' memory that which I became."
--In Memoriam, XCV.


As is he who dreaming sees, and after the dream the passion
remains imprinted, and the rest returns not to the mind, such am
I; for my vision almost wholly fails, while the sweetness that
was born of it yet distils within my heart. Thus the snow is by
the sun unsealed; thus on the wind, in the light leaves, was lost
the saying of the Sibyl.

O Supreme Light, that so high upliftest Thyself from mortal
conceptions, re-lend a little to my mind of what Thou didst
appear, and make my tongue so powerful that it may be able to
leave one single spark of Thy glory for the future people; for,
by returning somewhat to my memory and by sounding a little in
these verses, more of Thy victory shall be conceived.

I think that by the keenness of the living ray which I endured, I
should have been bewildered if my eyes had been averted from it.
And it comes to my mind that for this reason I was the more hardy
to sustain so much, that I joined my look unto the Infinite
Goodness.

O abundant Grace, whereby I presumed to fix my eyes through the
Eternal Light so far that there I consumed my sight!

In its depth I saw that whatsoever is dispersed through the
universe is there included, bound with love in one volume;
substance and accidents and their modes, fused together, as it
were, in such wise, that that of which I speak is one simple
Light. The universal form of this knot[1] I believe that I saw,
because in saying this I feel that I more at large rejoice. One
instant only is greater oblivion for me than five and twenty
centuries to the emprise which made Neptune wonder at the shadow
of Argo.[2]

[1] This union of substance and accident and their modes; the
unity of creation in the Creator.

[2] The mysteries of God vanish in an instant from memory, but
the larger joy felt in recording them is proof that they were
seen.


Thus my mind, wholly rapt, was gazing fixed, motionless, and
intent, and ever with gazing grew enkindled. In that Light one
becomes such that it is impossible he should ever consent to turn
himself from it for other sight; because the Good which is the
object of the will is all collected in it, and outside of it that
is defective which is perfect there.

Now will my speech be shorter, even in respect to that which I
remember, than an infant's who still bathes his tongue at the
breast. Not because more than one simple semblance was in the
Living Light wherein I was gazing, which is always such as it was
before; but through my sight, which was growing strong in me as I
looked, one sole appearance, as I myself changed, was altering
itself to me.



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