s to the unwarranted severity here of
Dante's censures of the Church.

"An eagle falls like lightning upon the tree, from which he tears the
bark, and upon the car, which bends beneath his weight. Then comes a fox
which finds its way within, and then a portion is torn off by a dragon
that issues from the gaping earth. Thus far it is easy to recognize the
persecutions of the Roman emperors which so harried the Church, the
heresies by which it was desolated, and the schisms by which it was
torn. Soon, the eagle reappeared, less menacing but not less dangerous;
he shook his plumes above the sacred car, which speedily underwent a
monstrous transformation. From divers parts of it arose seven heads
armed with ten horns; a courtesan was seated in the midst; a giant stood
at her side, exchanging with her impure caresses which he interrupted to
scourge her cruelly. Then, cutting loose the metamorphosed car, he bears
it away, and is lost with it in the depths of the forest.

"Is not this again the Church, enriched, by the gifts of princes who
have become her protectors, sadly marred in appearance, sundry of her
members defiled by the taint of the seven capital sins, and herself
ruled over by unworthy pontiffs? Is not this the court of Rome,
exchanging criminal flatteries with the temporal power, which flatteries
are to be followed by cruel injuries, when the Holy See, torn from the
foot of the cross of the Vatican, is transferred to a distant land, on
the banks of a foreign river? But these ills will not be without end nor
without retribution. The tree that lost and that saved the world cannot
be touched with impunity, and if the Church has been made militant here
below, it is with the liability of suffering from passing reverses, but
also with the assurance of final victory."

Dante's own eternal victory is now assured, Beatrice directs Matilda to
lead him to the Eunoe, whose waters will regenerate him and fit him to
ascend to Paradise. "Behold, Eunoe which gushes forth yonder, lead him
thereto and as thou art wont, revive in him again his fainting powers."

The poem closes with an address to the reader:

"If, Reader, I possessed a longer space
For writing it, I yet would sing in part
Of the sweet draught that ne'er would satiate me;
But inasmuch as full are all the leaves
Made ready for this second canticle,
The curb of art no farther lets me go.
From the most holy water I returned
Regenerate, in the mann