smile
  Impurpled, well denoted our ascent. 
    With all the heart, and with that tongue which speaks
  The same in all, an holocaust I made
  To God befitting the new grace vouchsafed. 
  And from my bosom had not yet upsteamed
  The fuming of that incense, when I knew
  The rite accepted.  With such mighty sheen
  And mantling crimson, in two listed rays
  The splendors shot before me, that I cried,
  “God of Sabaoth! that dost prank them thus!”
    As leads the galaxy from pole to pole,
  Distinguished into greater lights and less,
  Its pathway, which the wisest fail to spell;
  So thickly studded, in the depth of Mars,
  Those rays described the venerable sign,
  That quadrants in the round conjoining frame. 
    Here memory mocks the toil of genius.  Christ
  Beamed on that cross; and pattern fails me now. 
  But whoso takes his cross, and follows Christ,
  Will pardon me for that I leave untold,
  When in the fleckered dawning he shall spy
  The glitterance of Christ.  From horn to horn,
  And ’tween the summit and the base, did move
  Lights, scintillating, as they met and passed. 
  Thus oft are seen with ever-changeful glance,
  Straight or athwart, now rapid and now slow,
  The atomies of bodies, long or short,
  To move along the sunbeam, whose slant line
  Checkers the shadow interposed by art
  Against the noontide heat.  And as the chime
  Of minstrel music, dulcimer, and harp
  With many strings, a pleasant dinning makes
  To him, who heareth not distinct the note;
  So from the lights, which there appeared to me,
  Gathered along the cross a melody,
  That, indistinctly heard, with ravishment
  Possessed me.  Yet I marked it was a hymn
  Of lofty praises; for there came to me
  “Arise,” and “Conquer,” as to one who hears
  And comprehends not.  Me such ecstasy
  O’ercame, that never, till that hour, was thing
  That held me in so sweet imprisonment.

* * * * *

    THE SAINTS IN GLORY.

    CANTO XXXI.

  In fashion, as a snow-white rose, lay then
  Before my view the saintly multitude,
  Which is his own blood Christ espoused.  Meanwhile,
  That other host, that soar aloft to gaze
  And celebrate his glory, whom they love,
  Hovered around; and, like a troop of bees,
  Amid the vernal sweets alighting now,
  Now, clustering, where their fragrant labor glows,
  Flew downward to the mighty flower, or rose
  From the redundant petals, streaming back
  Unto the steadfast dwelling of their joy. 
  Faces had they of flame, and wings of gold: 
  The rest was whiter than the driven snow;
  And, as they flitted down into the flower,
  From range to range, fanning their plumy loins,
  Whispered the peace and ardor, which they won
  From that soft winnowing.  Shadow