# Purgatory Canto 28

*Exported from [Holy-Writings.com](https://www.holy-writings.com/) on 2026-06-19 — 1 clipping.*

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> 
> Canto XXVIII
> 
> Argument
> 
>      Dante wanders through the forest of the terrestrial Paradise, till he is
> stopped by a stream, on the other side of which he beholds a fair lady,
> culling flowers. He speaks to her; and she, in reply, explains to him certain
> things touching the nature of that place, and tells that the water, which
> flows between them, is here called Lethe, and in another place has the name of
> Eunoe.
> 
> Through that celestial forest, whose thick shade
> With lively greenness the new - springing day
> Attemper'd, eager now to roam, and search
> Its limits round, forthwith I left the bank;
> Along the champain leisurely my way
> Pursuing, o'er the ground, that on all sides
> Delicious odour breathed. A pleasant air,
> That intermitted never, never veer'd,
> Smote on my temples, gently, as a wind
> Of softest influence: at which the sprays,
> Obedient all, lean'd trembling to that part[1]
> Where first the holy mountain casts his shade;
> Yet were not so disorder'd, but that still
> Upon their top the feather'd quiristers
> Applied their wonted art, and with full joy
> Welcomed those hours of prime, and warbled shrill
> Amid the leaves, that to their jocund lays
> Kept tenour; even as from branch to branch,
> Along the piny forests on the shore
> Of Chiassi, rolls the gathering melody,
> When Eolus hath from his cavern loosed
> The dripping south. Already had my steps,
> Though slow, so far into that ancient wood
> Transported me, I could not ken the place
> Where I had enter'd; when, behold! my path
> Was bounded by a rill, which, to the left,
> With little rippling waters bent the grass
> That issued from its brink. On earth no wave
> How clean soe'er, that would not seem to have
> 
> [1: "To that part." The west.]
> 
> Some mixture in itself, compared with this,
> Transpicuous clear; yet darkly on it roll'd,
> Darkly beneath perpetual gloom, which ne'er
> Admits or sun or moon - light there to shine.
> 
> My feet advanced not; but my wondering eyes
> Pass'd onward, o'er the streamlet to survey
> The tender May - bloom, flush'd through many a hue,
> In prodigal variety: and there,
> As object, rising suddenly to view,
> That from our bosom every thought beside
> With the rare marvel chases, I beheld
> A lady[2] all alone, who, singing, went,
> And culling flower from flower, wherewith her way
> Was all o'er painted. "Lady beautiful!
> Thou, who (if looks, that use to speak the heart,
> Art worthy of our trust) with love's own beam
> Dost warm thee," thus to her my speech I framed;
> "Ah! please thee hither toward the streamlet bend
> Thy steps so near, that I may list thy song.
> Beholding thee and this fair place, methinks,
> I call to mind where wander'd and how look'd
> Proserpine, in that season, when her child
> The mother lost, and she the bloomy spring."
> 
> [2: Most of the commentators suppose that this lady, who in the last
> Canto is called Matilda, is the Countess Matilda, who endowed the Holy See
> with the estates called the Patrimony of St. Peter, and died in 1115. But it
> seems more probable that she should be intended for an allegorical personage.]
> 
> As when a lady, turning in the dance,
> Doth foot it featly, and advances scarce
> One step before the other to the ground;
> Over the yellow and vermilion flowers,
> Thus turn'd she at my suit, most maiden - like
> Valing her sober eyes; and came so near,
> That I distinctly caught the dulcet sound.
> Arriving where the limpid waters now
> Laved the greensward, her eyes she deign'd to raise,
> That shot such splendour on me, as I ween
> Ne'er glanced from Cytherea's, when her son
> Had sped his keenest weapon to her heart.
> Upon the opposite bank she stood and smiled;
> As through her graceful fingers shifted still
> 
> The intermingling dyes, which without seed
> That lofty land unbosoms. By the stream
> Three paces only were we sunder'd: yet,
> The Hellespont, where Xerxes pass'd it o'er,
> (A curb for ever to the pride of man,[3])
> Was by Leander not more hateful held
> For floating, with inhospitable wave,
> 'Twixt Sestos and Abydos, than by me
> That flood, because it gave no passage thence.
> 
> [3: Because Xerxes had been so humbled, when he was compelled to
> repass the Hellespont in one small bark, after having a little before crossed
> with a prodigious army, in the hopes of subduing Greece.]
> 
> "Strangers ye come; and haply in this place,
> That cradled human nature in its birth,
> Wondering, ye not without suspicion view
> My smiles: but that sweet strain of psalmody,
> 'Thou, Lord! hast made me glad,'[4] will give ye light,
> Which may uncloud your minds. And thou, who stand'st
> The foremost, and didst make thy suit to me,
> Say if aught else thou wish to hear: for I
> Came prompt to answer every doubt of thine."
> 
> [4: "Thou, Lord! hast made me glad." - Psalm xcii. 4.]
> 
> She spake; and I replied: "I know not how
> To reconcile this wave, and rustling sound
> Of forest leaves, with what I late have heard
> Of opposite report." She answering thus:
> "I will unfold the cause, whence that proceeds,
> Which makes thee wonder; and so purge the cloud
> That hath enwrapt thee. The First Good, whose joy
> Is only in Himself, created man,
> For happiness; and gave this goodly place,
> His pledge and earnest of eternal peace.
> Favour'd thus highly, through his own defect
> He fell; and here made short sojourn; he fell,
> And, for the bitterness of sorrow, changed
> Laughter unblamed and ever - new delight.
> That vapours none, exhaled from earth beneath,
> Or from the waters, (which, wherever heat
> Attracts them, follow), might ascend thus far
> To vex man's peaceful state, this mountain rose
> So high toward the Heaven, nor fears the rage
> 
> Of elements contending; from that part
> Exempted, where the gate his limit bars.
> Because the circumambient air, throughout,
> With its first impulse circles still, unless
> Aught interpose to check or thwart its course;
> Upon the summit, which on every side
> To visitation of the impassive air
> Is open, doth that motion strike, and makes
> Beneath its sway the umbrageous wood resound:
> And in the shaken plant such power resides,
> That it impregnates with its efficacy
> The voyaging breeze, upon whose subtle plume
> That, wafted, flies abroad; and the other land,[5]
> Receiving, (as 'tis worthy in itself,
> Or in the clime, that warms it,) doth conceive;
> And from its womb produces many a tree
> Of various virtue. This when thou hast heard,
> The marvel ceases, if in yonder earth
> Some plant, without apparent seed, be found
> To fix its fibrous stem. And further learn,
> That with prolific foison of all seeds
> This holy plain is fill'd, and in itself
> Bears fruit that ne'er was pluck'd on other soil.
> 
> [5: The continent, inhabited by the living, and separated from
> Purgatory by the ocean, is affected (and that diversely, according to the
> nature of the soil, or the climate) by a virtue, conveyed to it by the winds
> from plants growing in the terrestrial Paradise, which is situated on the
> summit of Purgatory; and this is the cause why some plants are found on earth
> without any apparent seed to produce them.]
> 
> "The water, thou behold'st, springs not from vein,
> Restored by vapour, that the cold converts;
> As stream that intermittently repairs
> And spends his pulse of life; but issues forth
> From fountain, solid, undecaying, sure:
> And, by the Will Omnific, full supply
> Feeds whatsoe'er on either side it pours;
> On this, devolved with power to take away
> Remembrance of offence; on that, to bring
> Remembrance back of every good deed done.
> From whence its name of Lethe on this part;
> On the other, Eunoe: both of which must first
> 
> Be tasted, ere it work; the last exceeding
> All flavours else. Albeit thy thirst may now
> Be well contented, if I here break off,
> No more revealing; yet a corollary
> I freely give beside: nor deem my words
> Less grateful to thee, if they somewhat pass
> The stretch of promise. They, whose verse of yore
> The golden age recorded and its bliss,
> On the Parnassian mountain, of this place
> Perhaps had dream'd. Here was man guiltless; here
> Perpetual spring, and every fruit; and this
> The far - famed nectar." Turning to the bards,
> When she had ceased, I noted in their looks
> A smile at her conclusion; then my face
> Again directed to the lovely dame.
>
> — *Purgatory Canto 28*