Dante in Parnassus

Vladyslav Nazarchuk

’Twas night, and in the starry sky I saw
The Lyra, which I remember so clearly
Since I marveled at it in hot summer’s awe

When looking from Venetian roofs and nearly
Straining my neck, so high it was above me.
While flying with Beatrice, I had merely

Briefly turned my face aside so I could see
The source of a sublimely sweet and pure sound
That I had heard, and made an apology

To her; but all in vain, for she flew upbound
Leaving me behind. Now as I paused to look,
I saw a wondrous cloudy field all around

With regal, cushioned benches, and a clear brook
Gurgling in between them. And on these very seats
Sat a host of angels, in each lap a book

Of music, with neumes and ligatures on sheets
Of paper, so white and thin. The angels sung
In sublime harmonies and rhythmic beats

Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, tongues
More beautiful than of any nightingale.
Yet in front of this fair group there stood a young,

Bright man, clad in monkish robe, and, with detail,
Guiding the voices of the sweet angels’ choir.
Seeing me entranced, he briskly cried out, “Hail!

Seeing you are of the flesh, you I can’t hire
For my choir, but ’tis sweet that you stopped to hear!
I am Pérotin, and if thou still inquire

About my virtue, know that the great church near
Which Aquinas to men divine wisdom taught
Still holds the lines of my polyphony dear.”

“What is this bright sphere of Heaven I know not,”
I said, and noticed around me other souls,
With flutes and small harps, their shining gut strings taut,

And reeds and pipes and horns, in hands marked-up scrolls.
Pérotin, Euterpe’s master, answered me:
“This is the realm of music, as God controls

What melodies sound well and pure, the key
To each composer’s hard craft; for, after all,
’Tis His invention, and we can only be

Transcribers and ears of divine music’s call.
Soli Deo gloria: nothing here is ours.
And yet any troubadour in his lord’s hall,

Or any bard with company in late hours,
Or chorister singing in the poorest church,
Or composer, setting notes with modest powers,

All who please God’s ear and satisfy His search
For those who glorify His eternal name,
Those He plucks from Death’s dark depths and lets them perch

Upon these fleecy clouds, like songbirds, their fame
In music enough to outweigh gravest sin.”
Nodding, I looked aside, and my sight became

Focused on an old man, his wide face a grin
Upon his student’s speech. Leaning on his staff,
He said to me, “Know me, I am Léonin,

The one who first split many a note into half
And then into three, with rational durations,
Formless melisma into metrical graph.

Yet, like in buildings, no one sees foundations,
But only what further is coming along:
My student’s fame reigns supreme in all nations.

Oh, how fame disappears on Earth before long!
Think of great Homer, of Sappho, of Horace—
Their words yet remain, yet lost is their song,

Except one ancient’s fame, of Pythagoras,
Teacher of us all, who built music with math,
Showing numbers truly make the best chorus.

Three to two, four to three are good, but God’s wrath
On two to ten over three to six, which makes
The Devil’s interval. Stay clear from that path!

For you see, this quiet music Nature takes
As law, and by it moves the clouds in the sky,
The winds, the planets, and water in the lakes.”

I was struck with joy and awe, then asked, “Then why
Are the rest not here? Cecilia of Rome,
the Psalmist, where can they be seen by my eye?”

Pérotin said, “Ah, don’t bother looking here in our home.
They’re saints, and have higher matters to attend,
Bathed in white light up high in God’s rosy dome.

But I’ve enough light, and our time is at end.
Lo, watch as your Beatrice comes from on high!”
And true. As she landed, she cried, “When will mend

You your stubborn, dumb ways and not go awry,
Thinking you can disregard my own commands!”
I, scared and pleading, replied, “I’ve seen you die

And know better than lose sight of your fair hands.
Forgive me, don’t be mad, lead my poor being!”
And, when I’d bowed to the masters and their lands,

Beatrice and I rose up again, fleeing
This heavenly field, this happy, blissful realm.
And as a lark all forest creatures seeing

When soaring above the mighty trees of elm,
So I saw musicians singing with good taste
In utmost joy, and my heart was overwhelmed

With sublime beauty. “Oh blithe Heaven! How blessed
Are those who make right music!” I conceded,
As my love and I soared up towards the crest

Of our Lord’s created world, unimpeded.