# Purgatory Canto 10

*Exported from [Holy-Writings.com](https://www.holy-writings.com/) on 2026-06-18 — 1 clipping.*

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> 
> Canto X
> 
> Argument
> 
>      Being admitted at the gate of Purgatory, our Poets ascend a winding path
> up the rock, till they reach an open and level space that extends each way
> round the mountain. On the side that rises, and which is of white marble, are
> seen artfully engraven many stories of humility, which whilst they are
> contemplating, there approach the souls of those who expiate the sin of pride,
> and who are bent down beneath the weight of heavy stones.
> 
> When we had passed the threshold of the gate,
> (Which the soul's ill affection doth disuse,
> Making the crooked seem the straighter path,)
> I heard its closing sound. Had mine eyes turn'd,
> For that offence what plea might have avail'd?
> 
> We mounted up the riven rock, that wound
> On either side alternate, as the wave
> Flies and advances. "Here some little art
> Behoves us," said my leader, "that our steps
> Observe the varying flexure of the path."
> 
> Thus we so slowly sped, that with cleft orb
> The moon once more o'erhangs her watery couch,
> Ere we that strait have threaded. But when free,
> We came, and open, where the mount above
> One solid mass retires; I spent with toil,
> And both uncertain of the way, we stood,
> Upon a plain more lonesome than the roads
> That traverse desert wilds. From whence the brink
> Borders upon vacuity, to foot
> Of the steep bank that rises still, the space
> Had measured thrice the stature of a man:
> And, distant as mine eye could wing its flight,
> To leftward now and now to right despatch'd,
> That cornice equal in extent appear'd.
> 
> Not yet our feet had on that summit moved,
> When I discover'd that the bank, around,
> Whose proud uprising all ascent denied,
> Was marble white; and so exactly wrought
> With quaintest sculpture, that not there alone
> Had Polycletus, but e'en nature's self
> Been shamed. The Angel (who came down to earth
> With tidings of the peace so many years
> Wept for in vain, that oped the heavenly gates
> From their long interdict) before us seem'd,
> In a sweet act, so sculptured to the life,
> He look'd no silent image. One had sworn
> He had said "Hail!" for she was imaged there,
> By whom the key did open to God's love;
> And in her act as sensibly imprest
> That word, "Behold the handmaid of the Lord,"
> As figure seal'd on wax. "Fix not thy mind
> On one place only," said the guide beloved,
> Who had me near him on that part where lies
> The heart of man. My sight forthwith I turn'd,
> And mark'd, behind the Virgin Mother's form,
> Upon that side where he that moved me stood,
> Another story graven on the rock.
> 
> I past athwart the bard, and drew me near,
> That it might stand more aptly for my view.
> There, in the self - same marble, were engraved
> The cart and kine, drawing the sacred ark,
> That from unbidden office awes mankind.
> Before it came much people; and the whole
> Parted in seven quires. One sense cried "Nay,"
> Another, "Yes, they sing." Like doubt arose
> Betwixt the eye and smell, from the curl'd fume
> Of incense breathing up the well - wrought toil.
> Preceding the blest vessel, onward came
> With light dance leaping, girt in humble guise,
> Israel's sweet harper: in that hap he seem'd
> Less, and yet more, than kingly. Opposite
> At a great palace, from the lattice forth
> Look'd Michol, like a lady full of scorn
> And sorrow. To behold the tablet next,
> Which, at the back of Michol, whitely shone,
> I moved me. There, was storied on the rock
> The exalted glory of the Roman prince,
> Whose mighty worth moved Gregory[1] to earn
> His mighty conquest, Trajan the Emperor.
> A widow at his bridle stood, attired
> In tears and mourning. Round about them troop'd
> Full throng of knights; and overhead in gold
> The eagles floated, struggling with the wind.
> The wretch appear'd amid all these to say:
> "Grant vengeance, Sire! for, woe beshrew this heart,
> My son is murder'd." He replying seem'd:
> "Wait now till I return." And she, as one
> Made hasty by her grief: "O Sire! if thou
> Dost not return?" - "Where I am, who then is,
> May right thee." - "What to thee is other's good,
> If thou neglect thy own?" - "Now comfort thee;"
> At length he answers. "It beseemeth well
> My duty be perform'd, ere I move hence:
> So justice wills; and pity bids me stay."
> 
> [1: "Gregory." St. Gregory's prayers are said to have delivered
> Trajan from hell. See Paradise, Canto xx. 40.]
> 
> He, whose ken nothing new surveys, produced
> That visible speaking, new to us and strange,
> The like not found on earth. Fondly I gazed
> Upon those patterns of meek humbleness,
> Shapes yet more precious for their artist's sake;
> When "Lo!" the poet whisper'd, "where this way
> (But slack their pace) a multitude advance,
> These to the lofty steps shall guide us on."
> 
> Mine eyes, though bent on view of novel sights,
> Their loved allurement, were not slow to turn.
> 
> Reader! I would not that amazed thou miss
> Of thy good purpose, hearing how just God
> Decrees our debts be cancel'd. Ponder not
> The form of suffering. Think on what succeeds:
> Think that, at worst, beyond the mighty doom
> It cannot pass. "Instructor!" I began,
> "What I see hither tending, bears no trace
> Of human semblance, nor of aught beside
> 
> That my foil'd sight can guess." He answering thus:
> "So curb'd to earth, beneath their heavy terms
> Of torment stoop they, that mine eye at first
> Struggled as thine. But look intently thither;
> And disentangle with thy laboring view,
> What, underneath those stones, approacheth: now,
> E'en now, mayst thou discern the pangs of each."
> 
> Christians and proud! O poor and wretched ones!
> That, feeble in the mind's eye, lean your trust
> Upon unstaid perverseness: know ye not
> That we are worms, yet made at last to form
> The winged insect,[2] imp'd with angel plumes,
> That to Heaven's justice unobstructed soars?
> Why buoy ye up aloft your unfledged souls?
> Abortive then and shapeless ye remain,
> Like the untimely embryon of a worm.
> 
> [2: "The winged insect." The butterfly was an ancient and well -
> known symbol of the human soul.]
> 
> As, to support incumbent floor or roof,
> For corbel, is a figure sometimes seen,
> That crumples up its knees unto its breast;
> With the feign'd posture, stirring ruth unfeign'd
> In the beholder's fancy; so I saw
> These fashion'd, when I noted well their guise.
> 
> Each, as his back was laden, came indeed
> Or more or less contracted; and it seem'd
> As he, who show'd most patience in his look,
> Wailing exclaim'd: "I can endure no more."
>
> — *Purgatory Canto 10*