CANTO X

Looking into his first-born with the love,
Which breathes from both eternal, the first Might
Ineffable, whence eye or mind
Can roam, hath in such order all dispos’d,
As none may see and fail to enjoy.  Raise, then,
O reader! to the lofty wheels, with me,
Thy ken directed to the point, whereat
One motion strikes on th’ other.  There begin
Thy wonder of the mighty Architect,
Who loves his work so inwardly, his eye
Doth ever watch it.  See, how thence oblique
Brancheth the circle, where the planets roll
To pour their wished influence on the world;
Whose path not bending thus, in heav’n above
Much virtue would be lost, and here on earth,
All power well nigh extinct:  or, from direct
Were its departure distant more or less,
I’ th’ universal order, great defect
Must, both in heav’n and here beneath, ensue.

Now rest thee, reader! on thy bench, and muse
Anticipative of the feast to come;
So shall delight make thee not feel thy toil. 
Lo!  I have set before thee, for thyself
Feed now:  the matter I indite, henceforth
Demands entire my thought.  Join’d with the part,
Which late we told of, the great minister
Of nature, that upon the world imprints
The virtue of the heaven, and doles out
Time for us with his beam, went circling on
Along the spires, where each hour sooner comes;
And I was with him, weetless of ascent,
As one, who till arriv’d, weets not his coming.

For Beatrice, she who passeth on
So suddenly from good to better, time
Counts not the act, oh then how great must needs
Have been her brightness!  What she was i’ th’ sun
(Where I had enter’d), not through change of hue,
But light transparent—­did I summon up
Genius, art, practice—­I might not so speak,
It should be e’er imagin’d:  yet believ’d
It may be, and the sight be justly crav’d. 
And if our fantasy fail of such height,
What marvel, since no eye above the sun
Hath ever travel’d?  Such are they dwell here,
Fourth family of the Omnipotent Sire,
Who of his spirit and of his offspring shows;
And holds them still enraptur’d with the view. 
And thus to me Beatrice:  “Thank, oh thank,
The Sun of angels, him, who by his grace
To this perceptible hath lifted thee.”

Never was heart in such devotion bound,
And with complacency so absolute
Dispos’d to render up itself to God,
As mine was at those words:  and so entire
The love for Him, that held me, it eclips’d
Beatrice in oblivion.  Naught displeas’d
Was she, but smil’d thereat so joyously,
That of her laughing eyes the radiance brake
And scatter’d my collected mind abroad.