“Thou virgin mother, daughter of thy Son,
      Humble and high beyond all other creatures,
      The limit fixed of the eternal counsel,—­
      Thou art the one who such nobility
      To human nature gave, that its Creator
      Did not disdain to make himself its creature. 
      Not only thy benignity gives succor
      To him who asketh it, but oftentimes
      Forerunneth of its own accord the asking. 
      In thee compassion is; in thee is pity;
      In thee magnificence; in thee unites
      Whate’er of goodness is in any creature.”

In the glorious meditation of those grand subjects which had such a charm for Benedict and Bernard, and which almost offset the barbarism and misery of the Middle Ages,—­to many still regarded as “ages of faith,”—­Dante seemingly forgets his wrongs; and in the company of her whom he adores he seems to revel in the solemn ecstasy of a soul transported to the realms of eternal light.  He lives now with the angels and the mysteries,—­

     “Like to the fire
      That in a cloud imprisoned doth break out expansive.

* * * * *

     “Thus, in that heavenly banqueting his soul
      Outgrew himself, and, in the transport lost,
      Holds no remembrance now of what she was.”

The Paradise of Dante is not gloomy, although it be obscure and indefinite.  It is the unexplored world of thought and knowledge, the explanation of dogmas which his age accepted.  It is a revelation of glories such as only a lofty soul could conceive, but could not paint,—­a supernal happiness given only to favored mortals, to saints and martyrs who have triumphed over the seductions of sense and the temptations of life,—­a beatified state of blended ecstasy and love.

“Had I a tongue in eloquence as rich as is the coloring in fancy’s
loom,
’Twere all too poor to utter the least part of that enchantment.”

Such is this great poem; in all its parts and exposition of the ideas of the age,—­sometimes fierce and sometimes tender, profound and infantine, lofty and degraded, like the Church itself, which conserved these sentiments.  It is an intensely religious poem, and yet more theological than Christian, and full of classical allusions to pagan heroes and sages,—­a most remarkable production considering the age, and, when we remember that it is without a prototype in any language, a glorious monument of reviving literature, both original and powerful.

Its appearance was of course an epoch, calling out the admiration of Italians, and of all who could understand it,—­of all who appreciated its moral wisdom in every other country of Europe.  And its fame has been steadily increasing, although I fear much of the popular enthusiasm is exaggerated and unfelt.  One who can read Italian well may see its “fiery emphasis and depth,” its condensed thought and language, its supernal scorn and supernal love, its bitterness and its forgiveness; but very few sympathize with its theology or its philosophy, or care at all for the men whose crimes he punishes, and whose virtues he rewards.