After mine eyes had with meek reverence
Sought the celestial guide, and were by her
Assur’d, they turn’d again unto the light
Who had so largely promis’d, and with voice
That bare the lively pressure of my zeal,
“Tell who ye are,” I cried.  Forthwith it grew
In size and splendour, through augmented joy;
And thus it answer’d:  “A short date below
The world possess’d me.  Had the time been more,
Much evil, that will come, had never chanc’d. 
My gladness hides thee from me, which doth shine
Around, and shroud me, as an animal
In its own silk enswath’d.  Thou lov’dst me well,
And had’st good cause; for had my sojourning
Been longer on the earth, the love I bare thee
Had put forth more than blossoms.  The left bank,
That Rhone, when he hath mix’d with Sorga, laves.

“In me its lord expected, and that horn
Of fair Ausonia, with its boroughs old,
Bari, and Croton, and Gaeta pil’d,
From where the Trento disembogues his waves,
With Verde mingled, to the salt sea-flood. 
Already on my temples beam’d the crown,
Which gave me sov’reignty over the land
By Danube wash’d, whenas he strays beyond
The limits of his German shores.  The realm,
Where, on the gulf by stormy Eurus lash’d,
Betwixt Pelorus and Pachynian heights,
The beautiful Trinacria lies in gloom
(Not through Typhaeus, but the vap’ry cloud
Bituminous upsteam’d), that too did look
To have its scepter wielded by a race
Of monarchs, sprung through me from Charles and Rodolph;
had not ill lording which doth spirit up
The people ever, in Palermo rais’d
The shout of ‘death,’ re-echo’d loud and long. 
Had but my brother’s foresight kenn’d as much,
He had been warier that the greedy want
Of Catalonia might not work his bale. 
And truly need there is, that he forecast,
Or other for him, lest more freight be laid
On his already over-laden bark. 
Nature in him, from bounty fall’n to thrift,
Would ask the guard of braver arms, than such
As only care to have their coffers fill’d.”

“My liege, it doth enhance the joy thy words
Infuse into me, mighty as it is,
To think my gladness manifest to thee,
As to myself, who own it, when thou lookst
Into the source and limit of all good,
There, where thou markest that which thou dost speak,
Thence priz’d of me the more.  Glad thou hast made me. 
Now make intelligent, clearing the doubt
Thy speech hath raised in me; for much I muse,
How bitter can spring up, when sweet is sown.”

I thus inquiring; he forthwith replied: 
“If I have power to show one truth, soon that
Shall face thee, which thy questioning declares
Behind thee now conceal’d.  The Good, that guides
And blessed makes this realm, which thou dost mount,
Ordains its providence to be the virtue
In these great bodies:  nor th’ all perfect Mind