St. Benedict—His lamentation over the corruption of the monks—The Eighth Heaven, or that of the Fixed Stars.
Oppressed with stupor, I unto my guide Turned like a little child who always runs For refuge there where he confideth most; And she, even as a mother who straightway Gives comfort to her pale and breathless boy With voice whose wont it is to reassure him, Said to me: “Knowest thou not thou art in heaven, And knowest thou not that heaven is holy all And what is done here cometh from good zeal? After what wise the singing would have changed thee And I by smiling, thou canst now imagine, Since that the cry has startled thee so much, In which if thou hadst understood its prayers Already would be known to thee the vengeance Which thou shalt look upon before thou diest. The sword above here smiteth not in haste Nor tardily, howe’er it seem to him Who fearing or desiring waits for it. But turn thee round towards the others now, For very illustrious spirits shalt thou see, If thou thy sight directest as I say.” As it seemed good to her mine eyes I turned, And saw a hundred spherules that together With mutual rays each other more embellished. I stood as one who in himself represses The point of his desire, and ventures not To question, he so feareth the too much. And now the largest and most luculent Among those pearls came forward, that it might Make my desire concerning it content. Within it then I heard: “If thou couldst see Even as myself the charity that burns Among us, thy conceits would be expressed; But, that by waiting thou mayst not come late To the high end, I will make answer even Unto the thought of which thou art so chary. That mountain on whose slope Cassino stands Was frequented of old upon its summit By a deluded folk and ill-disposed; And I am he who first up thither bore The name of Him who brought upon the earth The truth that so much sublimateth us. And