Canto XIII

mine eyes I opened; I looked before me, and saw shades with mantles Not from the color 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. Well knew he what the mute one wished to say, And therefore waited not for my demand, But said: “Speak, and be brief, and to the point.” I had Virgilius upon that side Of the embankment from which one may fall, Since by no border ’tis engarlanded; Upon the other side of me I had The shades devout, who through the horrible seam Pressed out the tears so that they bathed their cheeks. To them I turned me, and, “O people, certain,” Began I, “of beholding the high light, Which your desire has solely in its care, So may grace speedily dissolve the scum Upon your consciences, that limpidly Through them descend the river of the mind, Tell me, for dear ’twill be to me and gracious, If any soul among you here is Latian, And ’twill perchance be good for him I learn it.” “O brother mine, each one is citizen Of one true city; but thy meaning is, Who may have lived in Italy a pilgrim.” By way of answer this I seemed to hear A little farther on than where I stood, Whereat I made myself still nearer heard. Among the rest I saw a shade that waited In