Hugh Capet—The earthquake.
Ill strives the will against a better will; Therefore, to pleasure him, against my pleasure I drew the sponge not saturate from the water. Onward I moved, and onward moved my Leader, Through vacant places, skirting still the rock, As on a wall close to the battlements; For they that through their eyes pour drop by drop The malady which all the world pervades, On the other side too near the verge approach. Accursed mayst thou be, thou old she-wolf, That more than all the other beasts hast prey, Because of hunger infinitely hollow! O heaven, in whose gyrations some appear To think conditions here below are changed, When will he come through whom she shall depart? Onward we went with footsteps slow and scarce, And I attentive to the shades I heard Piteously weeping and bemoaning them; And I by peradventure heard “Sweet Mary!” Uttered in front of us amid the weeping Even as a woman does who is in child-birth; And in continuance: “How poor thou wast Is manifested by that hostelry Where thou didst lay thy sacred burden down.” Thereafterward I heard: “O good Fabricius, Virtue with poverty didst thou prefer To the possession of great wealth with vice.” So pleasurable were these words to me That I drew farther onward to have knowledge Touching that spirit whence they seemed to come. He furthermore was speaking of the largess Which Nicholas unto the maidens gave, In order to conduct their youth to honor. “O soul that dost so excellently speak, Tell me who wast thou,” said I, “and why only Thou dost renew these praises well deserved? Not without recompense shall be thy word, If I return to finish the short journey Of that life which is flying to its end.” And he: “I’ll tell thee, not for any comfort I may expect from earth, but that so much Grace shines in thee or ever thou art dead. I was the root of that malignant plant Which overshadows all the Christian world, So that