The divine comedy

THE DIVINE COMEDY

THE VISION

of

HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE

BY DANTE ALIGHIERI

TRANSLATED BY

THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A.

Illustrated by M. Gustave Doré

LIST OF CANTOS

HELL

Canto 1

Canto 2

Canto 3

Canto 4

Canto 5

Canto 6

Canto 7

Canto 8

Canto 9

Canto 10

Canto 11

Canto 12

Canto 13

Canto 14

Canto 15

Canto 16

Canto 17

Canto 18

Canto 19

Canto 20

Canto 21

Canto 22

Canto 23

Canto 24

Canto 25

Canto 26

Canto 27

Canto 28

Canto 29

Canto 30

Canto 31

Canto 32

Canto 33

Canto 34

PURGATORY

Canto 1

Canto 2

Canto 3

Canto 4

Canto 5

Canto 6

Canto 7

Canto 8

Canto 9

Canto 10

Canto 11

Canto 12

Canto 13

Canto 14

Canto 15

Canto 16

Canto 17

Canto 18

Canto 19

Canto 20

Canto 21

Canto 22

Canto 23

Canto 24

Canto 25

Canto 26

Canto 27

Canto 28

Canto 29

Canto 30

Canto 31

Canto 32

Canto 33

PARADISE

Canto 1

Canto 2

Canto 3

Canto 4

Canto 5

Canto 6

Canto 7

Canto 8

Canto 9

Canto 10

Canto 11

Canto 12

Canto 13

Canto 14

Canto 15

Canto 16

Canto 17

Canto 18

Canto 19

Canto 20

Canto 21

Canto 22

Canto 23

Canto 24

Canto 25

Canto 26

Canto 27

Canto 28

Canto 29

Canto 30

Canto 31

Canto 32

Canto 33

HELL

OR THE INFERNO

CANTO I

In the midway of this our mortal life,

I found me in a gloomy wood, astray

Gone from the path direct: and e’en to tell

It were no easy task, how savage wild

That forest, how robust and rough its growth,

Which to remember only, my dismay

Renews, in bitterness not far from death.

Yet to discourse of what there good befell,

All else will I relate discover’d there.

How first I enter’d it I scarce can say,

Such sleepy dullness in that instant weigh’d

My senses down, when the true path I left,

But when a mountain’s foot I reach’d, where clos’d

The valley, that had pierc’d my heart with dread,

I look’d aloft, and saw his shoulders broad

Already vested with that planet’s beam,

Who leads all wanderers safe through every way.

Then was a little respite to the fear,

That in my heart’s recesses deep had lain,

All of that night, so pitifully pass’d:

And as a man, with difficult short breath,

Forespent with toiling, ’scap’d from sea to shore,

Turns to the perilous wide waste, and stands

At gaze; e’en so my spirit, that yet fail’d

Struggling with terror, turn’d to view the straits,

That none hath pass’d and liv’d. My weary frame

After short pause recomforted, again

I journey’d on over that lonely steep,

The hinder foot still firmer. Scarce the ascent

Began, when, lo! a panther, nimble, light,

And cover’d with a speckled skin, appear’d,

Nor, when it saw me, vanish’d, rather strove

To check my onward going; that ofttimes

With purpose to retrace my steps I turn’d.

The hour was morning’s prime, and on his way

Aloft the sun ascended with those stars,

That with him rose, when Love divine first mov’d

Those its fair works: so that with joyous hope

All things conspir’d to fill me, the gay skin

Of that swift animal, the matin dawn

And the sweet season. Soon that joy was chas’d,

And by new dread succeeded, when in view

A lion came, ’gainst me, as it appear’d,

With his head held aloft and hunger-mad,

That e’en the air was fear-struck. A she-wolf

Was at his heels, who in her leanness seem’d

Full of all wants, and many a land hath made

Disconsolate ere now. She with such fear

O’erwhelmed me, at the sight of her appall’d,

That of the height all hope I lost. As one,

Who with his gain elated, sees the time

When all unwares is gone, he inwardly

Mourns with heart-griping anguish; such was I,

Haunted by that fell beast, never at peace,

Who coming o’er against me, by degrees

Impell’d me where the sun in silence rests.

While to the lower space with backward step

I fell, my ken discern’d the form one of one,

Whose voice seem’d faint through long disuse of speech.

When him in that great desert I espied,

“Have mercy on me!” cried I out aloud,

“Spirit! or living man! what e’er thou be!”

He answer’d: “Now not man, man once I was,

And born of Lombard parents, Mantuana both

By country, when the power of Julius yet

Was scarcely firm. At Rome my life was past

Beneath the mild Augustus, in the time

Of fabled deities and false. A bard

Was I, and made Anchises’ upright son

The subject of my song, who came from Troy,

When the flames prey’d on Ilium’s haughty towers.

But thou, say wherefore to such perils past

Return’st thou? wherefore not this pleasant mount

Ascendest, cause and source of all delight?”

“And art thou then that Virgil, that well-spring,

From which such copious floods of eloquence

Have issued?” I with front abash’d replied.

“Glory and light of all the tuneful train!

May it avail me that I long with zeal

Have sought thy volume, and with love immense

Have conn’d it o’er. My master thou and guide!

Thou he from whom alone I have deriv’d

That style, which for its beauty into fame

Exalts me. See the beast, from whom I fled.

O save me from her, thou illustrious sage!

“For every vein and pulse throughout my frame

She hath made tremble.” He, soon as he saw

That I was weeping, answer’d, “Thou must needs

Another way pursue, if thou wouldst ’scape

From out that savage wilderness. This beast,

At whom thou criest, her way will suffer none

To pass, and no less hindrance makes than death:

So bad and so accursed in her kind,

That never sated is her ravenous will,

Still after food more craving than before.

To many an animal in wedlock vile

She fastens, and shall yet to many more,

Until that greyhound come, who shall destroy

Her with sharp pain. He will not life support

By earth nor its base metals, but by love,

Wisdom, and virtue, and his land shall be

The land ’twixt either Feltro. In his might

Shall safety to Italia’s plains arise,

For whose fair realm, Camilla, virgin pure,

Nisus, Euryalus, and Turnus fell.

He with incessant chase through every town

Shall worry, until he to hell at length

Restore her, thence by envy first let loose.

I for thy profit pond’ring now devise,

That thou mayst follow me, and I thy guide

Will lead thee hence through an eternal space,

Where thou shalt hear despairing shrieks, and see

Spirits of old tormented, who invoke

A second death; and those next view, who dwell

Content in fire, for that they hope to come,

Whene’er the time may be, among the blest,

Into whose regions if thou then desire

T’ ascend, a spirit worthier than I

Must lead thee, in whose charge, when I depart,

Thou shalt be left: for that Almighty King,

Who reigns above, a rebel to his law,

Adjudges me, and therefore hath decreed,

That to his city none through me should come.

He in all parts hath sway; there rules, there holds

His citadel and throne. O happy those,

Whom there he chooses!” I to him in few:

“Bard! by that God, whom thou didst not adore,

I do beseech thee (that this ill and worse

I may escape) to lead me, where thou saidst,

That I Saint Peter’s gate may view, and those

Who as thou tell’st, are in such dismal plight.”

Onward he mov’d, I close his steps pursu’d.

CANTO II

Now was the day departing, and the air,

Imbrown’d with shadows, from their toils releas’d

All animals on earth; and I alone

Prepar’d myself the conflict to sustain,

Both of sad pity, and that perilous road,

Which my unerring memory shall retrace.

O Muses! O high genius! now vouchsafe

Your aid! O mind! that all I saw hast kept

Safe in a written record, here thy worth

And eminent endowments come to proof.

I thus began: “Bard! thou who art my guide,

Consider well, if virtue be in me

Sufficient, ere to this high enterprise

Thou trust me. Thou hast told that Silvius’ sire,

Yet cloth’d in corruptible flesh, among

Th’ immortal tribes had entrance, and was there

Sensible present. Yet if heaven’s great Lord,

Almighty foe to ill, such favour shew’d,

In contemplation of the high effect,

Both what and who from him should issue forth,

It seems in reason’s judgment well deserv’d:

Sith he of Rome, and of Rome’s empire wide,

In heaven’s empyreal height was chosen sire:

Both which, if truth be spoken, were ordain’d

And ’stablish’d for the holy place, where sits

Who to great Peter’s sacred chair succeeds.

He from this journey, in thy song renown’d,

Learn’d things, that to his victory gave rise

And to the papal robe. In after-times

The chosen vessel also travel’d there,

To bring us back assurance in that faith,

Which is the entrance to salvation’s way.

But I, why should I there presume? or who

Permits it? not Aeneas I nor Paul.

Myself I deem not worthy, and none else

Will deem me. I, if on this voyage then

I venture, fear it will in folly end.

Thou, who art wise, better my meaning know’st,

Than I can speak.” As one, who unresolves

What he hath late resolv’d, and with new thoughts

Changes his purpose, from his first intent

Remov’d; e’en such was I on that dun coast,

Wasting in thought my enterprise, at first

So eagerly embrac’d. “If right thy words

I scan,” replied that shade magnanimous,

“Thy soul is by vile fear assail’d, which oft

So overcasts a man, that he recoils

From noblest resolution, like a beast

At some false semblance in the twilight gloom.

That from this terror thou mayst free thyself,

I will instruct thee why I came, and what

I heard in that same instant, when for thee

Grief touch’d me first. I was among the tribe,

Who rest suspended, when a dame, so blest

And lovely, I besought her to command,

Call’d me; her eyes were brighter than the star

Of day; and she with gentle voice and soft

Angelically tun’d her speech address’d:

“O courteous shade of Mantua! thou whose fame

Yet lives, and shall live long as nature lasts!

A friend, not of my fortune but myself,

On the wide desert in his road has met

Hindrance so great, that he through fear has turn’d.

Now much I dread lest he past help have stray’d,

And I be ris’n too late for his relief,

From what in heaven of him I heard. Speed now,

And by thy eloquent persuasive tongue,

And by all means for his deliverance meet,

Assist him. So to me will comfort spring.

I who now bid thee on this errand forth

Am Beatrice; from a place I come.

(Note: Beatrice. I use this word, as it is

pronounced in the Italian, as consisting of four

syllables, of which the third is a long one.) Revisited with joy. Love

brought me thence,

Who prompts my speech. When in my Master’s sight

I stand, thy praise to him I oft will tell.”

She then was silent, and I thus began:

“O Lady! by whose influence alone,

Mankind excels whatever is contain’d

Within that heaven which hath the smallest orb,

So thy command delights me, that to obey,

If it were done already, would seem late.

No need hast thou farther to speak thy will;

Yet tell the reason, why thou art not loth

To leave that ample space, where to return

Thou burnest, for this centre here beneath.”

She then: “Since thou so deeply wouldst inquire,

I will instruct thee briefly, why no dread

Hinders my entrance here. Those things alone

Are to be fear’d, whence evil may proceed,

None else, for none are terrible beside.

I am so fram’d by God, thanks to his grace!

That any suff’rance of your misery

Touches me not, nor flame of that fierce fire

Assails me. In high heaven a blessed dame

Besides, who mourns with such effectual grief

That hindrance, which I send thee to remove,

That God’s stern judgment to her will inclines.”

To Lucia calling, her she thus bespake:

“Now doth thy faithful servant need thy aid

And I commend him to thee.” At her word

Sped Lucia, of all cruelty the foe,

And coming to the place, where I abode

Seated with Rachel, her of ancient days,

She thus address’d me: “Thou true praise of God!

Beatrice! why is not thy succour lent

To him, who so much lov’d thee, as to leave

For thy sake all the multitude admires?

Dost thou not hear how pitiful his wail,

Nor mark the death, which in the torrent flood,

Swoln mightier than a sea, him struggling holds?”

Ne’er among men did any with such speed

Haste to their profit, flee from their annoy,

As when these words were spoken, I came here,

Down from my blessed seat, trusting the force

Of thy pure eloquence, which thee, and all

Who well have mark’d it, into honour brings.”

“When she had ended, her bright beaming eyes

Tearful she turn’d aside; whereat I felt

Redoubled zeal to serve thee. As she will’d,

Thus am I come: I sav’d thee from the beast,

Who thy near way across the goodly mount

Prevented. What is this comes o’er thee then?

Why, why dost thou hang back? why in thy breast

Harbour vile fear? why hast not courage there

And noble daring? Since three maids so blest

Thy safety plan, e’en in the court of heaven;

And so much certain good my words forebode.”

As florets, by the frosty air of night

Bent down and clos’d, when day has blanch’d their leaves,

Rise all unfolded on their spiry stems;

So was my fainting vigour new restor’d,

And to my heart such kindly courage ran,

That I as one undaunted soon replied:

“O full of pity she, who undertook

My succour! and thou kind who didst perform

So soon her true behest! With such desire

Thou hast dispos’d me to renew my voyage,

That my first purpose fully is resum’d.

Lead on: one only will is in us both.

Thou art my guide, my master thou, and lord.”

So spake I; and when he had onward mov’d,

I enter’d on the deep and woody way.

CANTO III

“Through me you pass into the city of woe:

Through me you pass into eternal pain:

Through me among the people lost for aye.

Justice the founder of my fabric mov’d:

To rear me was the task of power divine,

Supremest wisdom, and primeval love.

Before me things create were none, save things

Eternal, and eternal I endure.

“All hope abandon ye who enter here.”

Such characters in colour dim I mark’d

Over a portal’s lofty arch inscrib’d:

Whereat I thus: “Master, these words import

Hard meaning.” He as one prepar’d replied:

“Here thou must all distrust behind thee leave;

Here be vile fear extinguish’d. We are come

Where I have told thee we shall see the souls

To misery doom’d, who intellectual good

Have lost.” And when his hand he had stretch’d forth

To mine, with pleasant looks, whence I was cheer’d,

Into that secret place he led me on.

Here sighs with lamentations and loud moans

Resounded through the air pierc’d by no star,

That e’en I wept at entering. Various tongues,

Horrible languages, outcries of woe,

Accents of anger, voices deep and hoarse,

With hands together smote that swell’d the sounds,

Made up a tumult, that for ever whirls

Round through that air with solid darkness stain’d,

Like to the sand that in the whirlwind flies.

I then, with error yet encompass’d, cried:

“O master! What is this I hear? What race

Are these, who seem so overcome with woe?”

He thus to me: “This miserable fate

Suffer the wretched souls of those, who liv’d

Without or praise or blame, with that ill band

Of angels mix’d, who nor rebellious prov’d

Nor yet were true to God, but for themselves

Were only. From his bounds Heaven drove them forth,

Not to impair his lustre, nor the depth

Of Hell receives them, lest th’ accursed tribe

Should glory thence with exultation vain.”

I then: “Master! what doth aggrieve them thus,

That they lament so loud?” He straight replied:

“That will I tell thee briefly. These of death

No hope may entertain: and their blind life

So meanly passes, that all other lots

They envy. Fame of them the world hath none,

Nor suffers; mercy and justice scorn them both.

Speak not of them, but look, and pass them by.”

And I, who straightway look’d, beheld a flag,

Which whirling ran around so rapidly,

That it no pause obtain’d: and following came

Such a long train of spirits, I should ne’er

Have thought, that death so many had despoil’d.

When some of these I recogniz’d, I saw

And knew the shade of him, who to base fear

Yielding, abjur’d his high estate. Forthwith

I understood for certain this the tribe

Of those ill spirits both to God displeasing

And to his foes. These wretches, who ne’er lived,

Went on in nakedness, and sorely stung

By wasps and hornets, which bedew’d their cheeks

With blood, that mix’d with tears dropp’d to their feet,

And by disgustful worms was gather’d there.

Then looking farther onwards I beheld

A throng upon the shore of a great stream:

Whereat I thus: “Sir! grant me now to know

Whom here we view, and whence impell’d they seem

So eager to pass o’er, as I discern

Through the blear light?” He thus to me in few:

“This shalt thou know, soon as our steps arrive

Beside the woeful tide of Acheron.”

Then with eyes downward cast and fill’d with shame,

Fearing my words offensive to his ear,

Till we had reach’d the river, I from speech

Abstain’d. And lo! toward us in a bark

Comes on an old man hoary white with eld,

Crying, “Woe to you wicked spirits! hope not

Ever to see the sky again. I come

To take you to the other shore across,

Into eternal darkness, there to dwell

In fierce heat and in ice. And thou, who there

Standest, live spirit! get thee hence, and leave

These who are dead.” But soon as he beheld

I left them not, “By other way,” said he,

“By other haven shalt thou come to shore,

Not by this passage; thee a nimbler boat

Must carry.” Then to him thus spake my guide:

“Charon! thyself torment not: so ’t is will’d,

Where will and power are one: ask thou no more.”

Straightway in silence fell the shaggy cheeks

Of him the boatman o’er the livid lake,

Around whose eyes glar’d wheeling flames. Meanwhile

Those spirits, faint and naked, color chang’d,

And gnash’d their teeth, soon as the cruel words

They heard. God and their parents they blasphem’d,

The human kind, the place, the time, and seed

That did engender them and give them birth.

Then all together sorely wailing drew

To the curs’d strand, that every man must pass

Who fears not God. Charon, demoniac form,

With eyes of burning coal, collects them all,

Beck’ning, and each, that lingers, with his oar

Strikes. As fall off the light autumnal leaves,

One still another following, till the bough

Strews all its honours on the earth beneath;

E’en in like manner Adam’s evil brood

Cast themselves one by one down from the shore,

Each at a beck, as falcon at his call.

Thus go they over through the umber’d wave,

And ever they on the opposing bank

Be landed, on this side another throng

Still gathers. “Son,” thus spake the courteous guide,

“Those, who die subject to the wrath of God,

All here together come from every clime,

And to o’erpass the river are not loth:

For so heaven’s justice goads them on, that fear

Is turn’d into desire. Hence ne’er hath past

Good spirit. If of thee Charon complain,

Now mayst thou know the import of his words.”

This said, the gloomy region trembling shook

So terribly, that yet with clammy dews

Fear chills my brow. The sad earth gave a blast,

That, lightening, shot forth a vermilion flame,

Which all my senses conquer’d quite, and I

Down dropp’d, as one with sudden slumber seiz’d.

CANTO IV

Broke the deep slumber in my brain a crash

Of heavy thunder, that I shook myself,

As one by main force rous’d. Risen upright,

My rested eyes I mov’d around, and search’d

With fixed ken to know what place it was,

Wherein I stood. For certain on the brink

I found me of the lamentable vale,

The dread abyss, that joins a thund’rous sound

Of plaints innumerable. Dark and deep,

And thick with clouds o’erspread, mine eye in vain

Explor’d its bottom, nor could aught discern.

“Now let us to the blind world there beneath

Descend;” the bard began all pale of look:

“I go the first, and thou shalt follow next.”

Then I his alter’d hue perceiving, thus:

“How may I speed, if thou yieldest to dread,

Who still art wont to comfort me in doubt?”

He then: “The anguish of that race below

With pity stains my cheek, which thou for fear

Mistakest. Let us on. Our length of way

Urges to haste.” Onward, this said, he mov’d;

And ent’ring led me with him on the bounds

Of the first circle, that surrounds th’ abyss.

Here, as mine ear could note, no plaint was heard

Except of sighs, that made th’ eternal air

Tremble, not caus’d by tortures, but from grief

Felt by those multitudes, many and vast,

Of men, women, and infants. Then to me

The gentle guide: “Inquir’st thou not what spirits

Are these, which thou beholdest? Ere thou pass

Farther, I would thou know, that these of sin

Were blameless; and if aught they merited,

It profits not, since baptism was not theirs,

The portal to thy faith. If they before

The Gospel liv’d, they serv’d not God aright;

And among such am I. For these defects,

And for no other evil, we are lost;

“Only so far afflicted, that we live

Desiring without hope.” So grief assail’d

My heart at hearing this, for well I knew

Suspended in that Limbo many a soul

Of mighty worth. “O tell me, sire rever’d!

Tell me, my master!” I began through wish

Of full assurance in that holy faith,

Which vanquishes all error; “say, did e’er

Any, or through his own or other’s merit,

Come forth from thence, whom afterward was blest?”

Piercing the secret purport of my speech,

He answer’d: “I was new to that estate,

When I beheld a puissant one arrive

Amongst us, with victorious trophy crown’d.

He forth the shade of our first parent drew,

Abel his child, and Noah righteous man,

Of Moses lawgiver for faith approv’d,

Of patriarch Abraham, and David king,

Israel with his sire and with his sons,

Nor without Rachel whom so hard he won,

And others many more, whom he to bliss

Exalted. Before these, be thou assur’d,

No spirit of human kind was ever sav’d.”

We, while he spake, ceas’d not our onward road,

Still passing through the wood; for so I name

Those spirits thick beset. We were not far

On this side from the summit, when I kenn’d

A flame, that o’er the darken’d hemisphere

Prevailing shin’d. Yet we a little space

Were distant, not so far but I in part

Discover’d, that a tribe in honour high

That place possess’d. “O thou, who every art

And science valu’st! who are these, that boast

Such honour, separate from all the rest?”

He answer’d: “The renown of their great names

That echoes through your world above, acquires

Favour in heaven, which holds them thus advanc’d.”

Meantime a voice I heard: “Honour the bard

Sublime! his shade returns that left us late!”

No sooner ceas’d the sound, than I beheld

Four mighty spirits toward us bend their steps,

Of semblance neither sorrowful nor glad.

When thus my master kind began: “Mark him,

Who in his right hand bears that falchion keen,

The other three preceding, as their lord.

This is that Homer, of all bards supreme:

Flaccus the next in satire’s vein excelling;

The third is Naso; Lucan is the last.

Because they all that appellation own,

With which the voice singly accosted me,

Honouring they greet me thus, and well they judge.”

So I beheld united the bright school

Of him the monarch of sublimest song,

That o’er the others like an eagle soars.

When they together short discourse had held,

They turn’d to me, with salutation kind

Beck’ning me; at the which my master smil’d:

Nor was this all; but greater honour still

They gave me, for they made me of their tribe;

And I was sixth amid so learn’d a band.

Far as the luminous beacon on we pass’d

Speaking of matters, then befitting well

To speak, now fitter left untold. At foot

Of a magnificent castle we arriv’d,

Seven times with lofty walls begirt, and round

Defended by a pleasant stream. O’er this

As o’er dry land we pass’d. Next through seven gates

I with those sages enter’d, and we came

Into a mead with lively verdure fresh.

There dwelt a race, who slow their eyes around

Majestically mov’d, and in their port

Bore eminent authority; they spake

Seldom, but all their words were tuneful sweet.

We to one side retir’d, into a place

Open and bright and lofty, whence each one

Stood manifest to view. Incontinent

There on the green enamel of the plain

Were shown me the great spirits, by whose sight

I am exalted in my own esteem.

Electra there I saw accompanied

By many, among whom Hector I knew,

Anchises’ pious son, and with hawk’s eye

Caesar all arm’d, and by Camilla there

Penthesilea. On the other side

Old King Latinus, seated by his child

Lavinia, and that Brutus I beheld,

Who Tarquin chas’d, Lucretia, Cato’s wife

Marcia, with Julia and Cornelia there;

And sole apart retir’d, the Soldan fierce.

Then when a little more I rais’d my brow,

I spied the master of the sapient throng,

Seated amid the philosophic train.

Him all admire, all pay him rev’rence due.

There Socrates and Plato both I mark’d,

Nearest to him in rank; Democritus,

Who sets the world at chance, Diogenes,

With Heraclitus, and Empedocles,

And Anaxagoras, and Thales sage,

Zeno, and Dioscorides well read

In nature’s secret lore. Orpheus I mark’d

And Linus, Tully and moral Seneca,

Euclid and Ptolemy, Hippocrates,

Galenus, Avicen, and him who made

That commentary vast, Averroes.

Of all to speak at full were vain attempt;

For my wide theme so urges, that ofttimes

My words fall short of what bechanc’d. In two

The six associates part. Another way

My sage guide leads me, from that air serene,

Into a climate ever vex’d with storms:

And to a part I come where no light shines.

CANTO V

From the first circle I descended thus

Down to the second, which, a lesser space

Embracing, so much more of grief contains

Provoking bitter moans. There, Minos stands

Grinning with ghastly feature: he, of all

Who enter, strict examining the crimes,

Gives sentence, and dismisses them beneath,

According as he foldeth him around:

For when before him comes th’ ill fated soul,

It all confesses; and that judge severe

Of sins, considering what place in hell

Suits the transgression, with his tail so oft

Himself encircles, as degrees beneath

He dooms it to descend. Before him stand

Always a num’rous throng; and in his turn

Each one to judgment passing, speaks, and hears

His fate, thence downward to his dwelling hurl’d.

“O thou! who to this residence of woe

Approachest?” when he saw me coming, cried

Minos, relinquishing his dread employ,

“Look how thou enter here; beware in whom

Thou place thy trust; let not the entrance broad

Deceive thee to thy harm.” To him my guide:

“Wherefore exclaimest? Hinder not his way

By destiny appointed; so ’tis will’d

Where will and power are one. Ask thou no more.”

Now ’gin the rueful wailings to be heard.

Now am I come where many a plaining voice

Smites on mine ear. Into a place I came

Where light was silent all. Bellowing there groan’d

A noise as of a sea in tempest torn

By warring winds. The stormy blast of hell

With restless fury drives the spirits on

Whirl’d round and dash’d amain with sore annoy.

When they arrive before the ruinous sweep,

There shrieks are heard, there lamentations, moans,

And blasphemies ’gainst the good Power in heaven.

I understood that to this torment sad

The carnal sinners are condemn’d, in whom

Reason by lust is sway’d. As in large troops

And multitudinous, when winter reigns,

The starlings on their wings are borne abroad;

So bears the tyrannous gust those evil souls.

On this side and on that, above, below,

It drives them: hope of rest to solace them

Is none, nor e’en of milder pang. As cranes,

Chanting their dol’rous notes, traverse the sky,

Stretch’d out in long array: so I beheld

Spirits, who came loud wailing, hurried on

By their dire doom. Then I: “Instructor! who

Are these, by the black air so scourg’d?”—“The first

’Mong those, of whom thou question’st,” he replied,

“O’er many tongues was empress. She in vice

Of luxury was so shameless, that she made

Liking be lawful by promulg’d decree,

To clear the blame she had herself incurr’d.

This is Semiramis, of whom ’tis writ,

That she succeeded Ninus her espous’d;

And held the land, which now the Soldan rules.

The next in amorous fury slew herself,

And to Sicheus’ ashes broke her faith:

Then follows Cleopatra, lustful queen.”

There mark’d I Helen, for whose sake so long

The time was fraught with evil; there the great

Achilles, who with love fought to the end.

Paris I saw, and Tristan; and beside

A thousand more he show’d me, and by name

Pointed them out, whom love bereav’d of life.

When I had heard my sage instructor name

Those dames and knights of antique days, o’erpower’d

By pity, well-nigh in amaze my mind

Was lost; and I began: “Bard! willingly

I would address those two together coming,

Which seem so light before the wind.” He thus:

“Note thou, when nearer they to us approach.

“Then by that love which carries them along,

Entreat; and they will come.” Soon as the wind

Sway’d them toward us, I thus fram’d my speech:

“O wearied spirits! come, and hold discourse

With us, if by none else restrain’d.” As doves

By fond desire invited, on wide wings

And firm, to their sweet nest returning home,

Cleave the air, wafted by their will along;

Thus issu’d from that troop, where Dido ranks,

They through the ill air speeding; with such force

My cry prevail’d by strong affection urg’d.

“O gracious creature and benign! who go’st

Visiting, through this element obscure,

Us, who the world with bloody stain imbru’d;

If for a friend the King of all we own’d,

Our pray’r to him should for thy peace arise,

Since thou hast pity on our evil plight.

Of whatsoe’er to hear or to discourse

It pleases thee, that will we hear, of that

Freely with thee discourse, while e’er the wind,

As now, is mute. The land, that gave me birth,

Is situate on the coast, where Po descends

To rest in ocean with his sequent streams.

“Love, that in gentle heart is quickly learnt,

Entangled him by that fair form, from me

Ta’en in such cruel sort, as grieves me still:

Love, that denial takes from none belov’d,

Caught me with pleasing him so passing well,

That, as thou see’st, he yet deserts me not.

“Love brought us to one death: Caina waits

The soul, who spilt our life.” Such were their words;

At hearing which downward I bent my looks,

And held them there so long, that the bard cried:

“What art thou pond’ring?” I in answer thus:

“Alas! by what sweet thoughts, what fond desire

Must they at length to that ill pass have reach’d!”

Then turning, I to them my speech address’d.

And thus began: “Francesca! your sad fate

Even to tears my grief and pity moves.

But tell me; in the time of your sweet sighs,

By what, and how love granted, that ye knew

Your yet uncertain wishes?” She replied:

“No greater grief than to remember days

Of joy, when mis’ry is at hand! That kens

Thy learn’d instructor. Yet so eagerly

If thou art bent to know the primal root,

From whence our love gat being, I will do,

As one, who weeps and tells his tale. One day

For our delight we read of Lancelot,

How him love thrall’d. Alone we were, and no

Suspicion near us. Ofttimes by that reading

Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue

Fled from our alter’d cheek. But at one point

Alone we fell. When of that smile we read,

The wished smile, rapturously kiss’d

By one so deep in love, then he, who ne’er

From me shall separate, at once my lips

All trembling kiss’d. The book and writer both

Were love’s purveyors. In its leaves that day

We read no more.” While thus one spirit spake,

The other wail’d so sorely, that heartstruck

I through compassion fainting, seem’d not far

From death, and like a corpse fell to the ground.

CANTO VI

My sense reviving, that erewhile had droop’d

With pity for the kindred shades, whence grief

O’ercame me wholly, straight around I see

New torments, new tormented souls, which way

Soe’er I move, or turn, or bend my sight.

In the third circle I arrive, of show’rs

Ceaseless, accursed, heavy, and cold, unchang’d

For ever, both in kind and in degree.

Large hail, discolour’d water, sleety flaw

Through the dun midnight air stream’d down amain:

Stank all the land whereon that tempest fell.

Cerberus, cruel monster, fierce and strange,

Through his wide threefold throat barks as a dog

Over the multitude immers’d beneath.

His eyes glare crimson, black his unctuous beard,

His belly large, and claw’d the hands, with which

He tears the spirits, flays them, and their limbs

Piecemeal disparts. Howling there spread, as curs,

Under the rainy deluge, with one side

The other screening, oft they roll them round,

A wretched, godless crew. When that great worm

Descried us, savage Cerberus, he op’d

His jaws, and the fangs show’d us; not a limb

Of him but trembled. Then my guide, his palms

Expanding on the ground, thence filled with earth

Rais’d them, and cast it in his ravenous maw.

E’en as a dog, that yelling bays for food

His keeper, when the morsel comes, lets fall

His fury, bent alone with eager haste

To swallow it; so dropp’d the loathsome cheeks

Of demon Cerberus, who thund’ring stuns

The spirits, that they for deafness wish in vain.

We, o’er the shades thrown prostrate by the brunt

Of the heavy tempest passing, set our feet

Upon their emptiness, that substance seem’d.

They all along the earth extended lay

Save one, that sudden rais’d himself to sit,

Soon as that way he saw us pass. “O thou!”

He cried, “who through the infernal shades art led,

Own, if again thou know’st me. Thou wast fram’d

Or ere my frame was broken.” I replied:

“The anguish thou endur’st perchance so takes

Thy form from my remembrance, that it seems

As if I saw thee never. But inform

Me who thou art, that in a place so sad

Art set, and in such torment, that although

Other be greater, more disgustful none

Can be imagin’d.” He in answer thus:

“Thy city heap’d with envy to the brim,

Ay that the measure overflows its bounds,

Held me in brighter days. Ye citizens

Were wont to name me Ciacco. For the sin

Of glutt’ny, damned vice, beneath this rain,

E’en as thou see’st, I with fatigue am worn;

Nor I sole spirit in this woe: all these

Have by like crime incurr’d like punishment.”

No more he said, and I my speech resum’d:

“Ciacco! thy dire affliction grieves me much,

Even to tears. But tell me, if thou know’st,

What shall at length befall the citizens

Of the divided city; whether any just one

Inhabit there: and tell me of the cause,

Whence jarring discord hath assail’d it thus?”

He then: “After long striving they will come

To blood; and the wild party from the woods

Will chase the other with much injury forth.

Then it behoves, that this must fall, within

Three solar circles; and the other rise

By borrow’d force of one, who under shore

Now rests. It shall a long space hold aloof

Its forehead, keeping under heavy weight

The other oppress’d, indignant at the load,

And grieving sore. The just are two in number,

But they neglected. Av’rice, envy, pride,

Three fatal sparks, have set the hearts of all

On fire.” Here ceas’d the lamentable sound;

And I continu’d thus: “Still would I learn

More from thee, farther parley still entreat.

Of Farinata and Tegghiaio say,

They who so well deserv’d, of Giacopo,

Arrigo, Mosca, and the rest, who bent

Their minds on working good. Oh! tell me where

They bide, and to their knowledge let me come.

For I am press’d with keen desire to hear,

If heaven’s sweet cup or poisonous drug of hell

Be to their lip assign’d.” He answer’d straight:

“These are yet blacker spirits. Various crimes

Have sunk them deeper in the dark abyss.

If thou so far descendest, thou mayst see them.

But to the pleasant world when thou return’st,

Of me make mention, I entreat thee, there.

No more I tell thee, answer thee no more.”

This said, his fixed eyes he turn’d askance,

A little ey’d me, then bent down his head,

And ’midst his blind companions with it fell.

When thus my guide: “No more his bed he leaves,

Ere the last angel-trumpet blow. The Power

Adverse to these shall then in glory come,

Each one forthwith to his sad tomb repair,

Resume his fleshly vesture and his form,

And hear the eternal doom re-echoing rend

The vault.” So pass’d we through that mixture foul

Of spirits and rain, with tardy steps; meanwhile

Touching, though slightly, on the life to come.

For thus I question’d: “Shall these tortures, Sir!

When the great sentence passes, be increas’d,

Or mitigated, or as now severe?”

He then: “Consult thy knowledge; that decides

That as each thing to more perfection grows,

It feels more sensibly both good and pain.

Though ne’er to true perfection may arrive

This race accurs’d, yet nearer then than now

They shall approach it.” Compassing that path

Circuitous we journeyed, and discourse

Much more than I relate between us pass’d:

Till at the point, where the steps led below,

Arriv’d, there Plutus, the great foe, we found.

CANTO VII

“Ah me! O Satan! Satan!” loud exclaim’d

Plutus, in accent hoarse of wild alarm:

And the kind sage, whom no event surpris’d,

To comfort me thus spake: “Let not thy fear

Harm thee, for power in him, be sure, is none

To hinder down this rock thy safe descent.”

Then to that sworn lip turning, “Peace!” he cried,

“Curs’d wolf! thy fury inward on thyself

Prey, and consume thee! Through the dark profound

Not without cause he passes. So ’t is will’d

On high, there where the great Archangel pour’d

Heav’n’s vengeance on the first adulterer proud.”

As sails full spread and bellying with the wind

Drop suddenly collaps’d, if the mast split;

So to the ground down dropp’d the cruel fiend.

Thus we, descending to the fourth steep ledge,

Gain’d on the dismal shore, that all the woe

Hems in of all the universe. Ah me!

Almighty Justice! in what store thou heap’st

New pains, new troubles, as I here beheld!

Wherefore doth fault of ours bring us to this?

E’en as a billow, on Charybdis rising,

Against encounter’d billow dashing breaks;

Such is the dance this wretched race must lead,

Whom more than elsewhere numerous here I found,

From one side and the other, with loud voice,

Both roll’d on weights by main forge of their breasts,

Then smote together, and each one forthwith

Roll’d them back voluble, turning again,

Exclaiming these, “Why holdest thou so fast?”

Those answering, “And why castest thou away?”

So still repeating their despiteful song,

They to the opposite point on either hand

Travers’d the horrid circle: then arriv’d,

Both turn’d them round, and through the middle space

Conflicting met again. At sight whereof

I, stung with grief, thus spake: “O say, my guide!

What race is this? Were these, whose heads are shorn,

On our left hand, all sep’rate to the church?”

He straight replied: “In their first life these all

In mind were so distorted, that they made,

According to due measure, of their wealth,

No use. This clearly from their words collect,

Which they howl forth, at each extremity

Arriving of the circle, where their crime

Contrary in kind disparts them. To the church

Were separate those, that with no hairy cowls

Are crown’d, both Popes and Cardinals, o’er whom

Av’rice dominion absolute maintains.”

I then: “Mid such as these some needs must be,

Whom I shall recognize, that with the blot

Of these foul sins were stain’d.” He answering thus:

“Vain thought conceiv’st thou. That ignoble life,

Which made them vile before, now makes them dark,

And to all knowledge indiscernible.

Forever they shall meet in this rude shock:

These from the tomb with clenched grasp shall rise,

Those with close-shaven locks. That ill they gave,

And ill they kept, hath of the beauteous world

Depriv’d, and set them at this strife, which needs

No labour’d phrase of mine to set it off.

Now may’st thou see, my son! how brief, how vain,

The goods committed into fortune’s hands,

For which the human race keep such a coil!

Not all the gold, that is beneath the moon,

Or ever hath been, of these toil-worn souls

Might purchase rest for one.” I thus rejoin’d:

“My guide! of thee this also would I learn;

This fortune, that thou speak’st of, what it is,

Whose talons grasp the blessings of the world?”

He thus: “O beings blind! what ignorance

Besets you? Now my judgment hear and mark.

He, whose transcendent wisdom passes all,

The heavens creating, gave them ruling powers

To guide them, so that each part shines to each,

Their light in equal distribution pour’d.

By similar appointment he ordain’d

Over the world’s bright images to rule

Superintendence of a guiding hand

And general minister, which at due time

May change the empty vantages of life

From race to race, from one to other’s blood,

Beyond prevention of man’s wisest care:

Wherefore one nation rises into sway,

Another languishes, e’en as her will

Decrees, from us conceal’d, as in the grass

The serpent train. Against her nought avails

Your utmost wisdom. She with foresight plans,

Judges, and carries on her reign, as theirs

The other powers divine. Her changes know

None intermission: by necessity

She is made swift, so frequent come who claim

Succession in her favours. This is she,

So execrated e’en by those, whose debt

To her is rather praise; they wrongfully

With blame requite her, and with evil word;

But she is blessed, and for that recks not:

Amidst the other primal beings glad

Rolls on her sphere, and in her bliss exults.

Now on our way pass we, to heavier woe

Descending: for each star is falling now,

That mounted at our entrance, and forbids

Too long our tarrying.” We the circle cross’d

To the next steep, arriving at a well,

That boiling pours itself down to a foss

Sluic’d from its source. Far murkier was the wave

Than sablest grain: and we in company

Of the inky waters, journeying by their side,

Enter’d, though by a different track, beneath.

Into a lake, the Stygian nam’d, expands

The dismal stream, when it hath reach’d the foot

Of the grey wither’d cliffs. Intent I stood

To gaze, and in the marish sunk descried

A miry tribe, all naked, and with looks

Betok’ning rage. They with their hands alone

Struck not, but with the head, the breast, the feet,

Cutting each other piecemeal with their fangs.

The good instructor spake; “Now seest thou, son!

The souls of those, whom anger overcame.

This too for certain know, that underneath

The water dwells a multitude, whose sighs

Into these bubbles make the surface heave,

As thine eye tells thee wheresoe’er it turn.

Fix’d in the slime they say: ‘Sad once were we

In the sweet air made gladsome by the sun,

Carrying a foul and lazy mist within:

Now in these murky settlings are we sad.’

Such dolorous strain they gurgle in their throats.

But word distinct can utter none.” Our route

Thus compass’d we, a segment widely stretch’d

Between the dry embankment, and the core

Of the loath’d pool, turning meanwhile our eyes

Downward on those who gulp’d its muddy lees;

Nor stopp’d, till to a tower’s low base we came.

CANTO VIII

My theme pursuing, I relate that ere

We reach’d the lofty turret’s base, our eyes

Its height ascended, where two cressets hung

We mark’d, and from afar another light

Return the signal, so remote, that scarce

The eye could catch its beam. I turning round

To the deep source of knowledge, thus inquir’d:

“Say what this means? and what that other light

In answer set? what agency doth this?”

“There on the filthy waters,” he replied,

“E’en now what next awaits us mayst thou see,

If the marsh-gender’d fog conceal it not.”

Never was arrow from the cord dismiss’d,

That ran its way so nimbly through the air,

As a small bark, that through the waves I spied

Toward us coming, under the sole sway

Of one that ferried it, who cried aloud:

“Art thou arriv’d, fell spirit?”—“Phlegyas, Phlegyas,

This time thou criest in vain,” my lord replied;

“No longer shalt thou have us, but while o’er

The slimy pool we pass.” As one who hears

Of some great wrong he hath sustain’d, whereat

Inly he pines; so Phlegyas inly pin’d

In his fierce ire. My guide descending stepp’d

Into the skiff, and bade me enter next

Close at his side; nor till my entrance seem’d

The vessel freighted. Soon as both embark’d,

Cutting the waves, goes on the ancient prow,

More deeply than with others it is wont.

While we our course o’er the dead channel held.

One drench’d in mire before me came, and said;

“Who art thou, that thou comest ere thine hour?”

I answer’d: “Though I come, I tarry not;

But who art thou, that art become so foul?”

“One, as thou seest, who mourn:” he straight replied.

To which I thus: “In mourning and in woe,

Curs’d spirit! tarry thou. I know thee well,

E’en thus in filth disguis’d.” Then stretch’d he forth

Hands to the bark; whereof my teacher sage

Aware, thrusting him back: “Away! down there,

“To the other dogs!” then, with his arms my neck

Encircling, kiss’d my cheek, and spake: “O soul

Justly disdainful! blest was she in whom

Thou was conceiv’d! He in the world was one

For arrogance noted; to his memory

No virtue lends its lustre; even so

Here is his shadow furious. There above

How many now hold themselves mighty kings

Who here like swine shall wallow in the mire,

Leaving behind them horrible dispraise!”

I then: “Master! him fain would I behold

Whelm’d in these dregs, before we quit the lake.”

He thus: “Or ever to thy view the shore

Be offer’d, satisfied shall be that wish,

Which well deserves completion.” Scarce his words

Were ended, when I saw the miry tribes

Set on him with such violence, that yet

For that render I thanks to God and praise

“To Filippo Argenti:” cried they all:

And on himself the moody Florentine

Turn’d his avenging fangs. Him here we left,

Nor speak I of him more. But on mine ear

Sudden a sound of lamentation smote,

Whereat mine eye unbarr’d I sent abroad.

And thus the good instructor: “Now, my son!

Draws near the city, that of Dis is nam’d,

With its grave denizens, a mighty throng.”

I thus: “The minarets already, Sir!

There certes in the valley I descry,

Gleaming vermilion, as if they from fire

Had issu’d.” He replied: “Eternal fire,

That inward burns, shows them with ruddy flame

Illum’d; as in this nether hell thou seest.”

We came within the fosses deep, that moat

This region comfortless. The walls appear’d

As they were fram’d of iron. We had made

Wide circuit, ere a place we reach’d, where loud

The mariner cried vehement: “Go forth!

The entrance is here!” Upon the gates I spied

More than a thousand, who of old from heaven

Were hurl’d. With ireful gestures, “Who is this,”

They cried, “that without death first felt, goes through

The regions of the dead?” My sapient guide

Made sign that he for secret parley wish’d;

Whereat their angry scorn abating, thus

They spake: “Come thou alone; and let him go

Who hath so hardily enter’d this realm.

Alone return he by his witless way;

If well he know it, let him prove. For thee,

Here shalt thou tarry, who through clime so dark

Hast been his escort.” Now bethink thee, reader!

What cheer was mine at sound of those curs’d words.

I did believe I never should return.

“O my lov’d guide! who more than seven times

Security hast render’d me, and drawn

From peril deep, whereto I stood expos’d,

Desert me not,” I cried, “in this extreme.

And if our onward going be denied,

Together trace we back our steps with speed.”

My liege, who thither had conducted me,

Replied: “Fear not: for of our passage none

Hath power to disappoint us, by such high

Authority permitted. But do thou

Expect me here; meanwhile thy wearied spirit

Comfort, and feed with kindly hope, assur’d

I will not leave thee in this lower world.”

This said, departs the sire benevolent,

And quits me. Hesitating I remain

At war ’twixt will and will not in my thoughts.

I could not hear what terms he offer’d them,

But they conferr’d not long, for all at once

To trial fled within. Clos’d were the gates

By those our adversaries on the breast

Of my liege lord: excluded he return’d

To me with tardy steps. Upon the ground

His eyes were bent, and from his brow eras’d

All confidence, while thus with sighs he spake:

“Who hath denied me these abodes of woe?”

Then thus to me: “That I am anger’d, think

No ground of terror: in this trial I

Shall vanquish, use what arts they may within

For hindrance. This their insolence, not new,

Erewhile at gate less secret they display’d,

Which still is without bolt; upon its arch

Thou saw’st the deadly scroll: and even now

On this side of its entrance, down the steep,

Passing the circles, unescorted, comes

One whose strong might can open us this land.”

CANTO IX

The hue, which coward dread on my pale cheeks

Imprinted, when I saw my guide turn back,

Chas’d that from his which newly they had worn,

And inwardly restrain’d it. He, as one

Who listens, stood attentive: for his eye

Not far could lead him through the sable air,

And the thick-gath’ring cloud. “It yet behooves

We win this fight”—thus he began—“if not—

Such aid to us is offer’d.—Oh, how long

Me seems it, ere the promis’d help arrive!”

I noted, how the sequel of his words

Clok’d their beginning; for the last he spake

Agreed not with the first. But not the less

My fear was at his saying; sith I drew

To import worse perchance, than that he held,

His mutilated speech. “Doth ever any

Into this rueful concave’s extreme depth

Descend, out of the first degree, whose pain

Is deprivation merely of sweet hope?”

Thus I inquiring. “Rarely,” he replied,

“It chances, that among us any makes

This journey, which I wend. Erewhile ’tis true

Once came I here beneath, conjur’d by fell

Erictho, sorceress, who compell’d the shades

Back to their bodies. No long space my flesh

Was naked of me, when within these walls

She made me enter, to draw forth a spirit

From out of Judas’ circle. Lowest place

Is that of all, obscurest, and remov’d

Farthest from heav’n’s all-circling orb. The road

Full well I know: thou therefore rest secure.

That lake, the noisome stench exhaling, round

The city’ of grief encompasses, which now

We may not enter without rage.” Yet more

He added: but I hold it not in mind,

For that mine eye toward the lofty tower

Had drawn me wholly, to its burning top.

Where in an instant I beheld uprisen

At once three hellish furies stain’d with blood:

In limb and motion feminine they seem’d;

Around them greenest hydras twisting roll’d

Their volumes; adders and cerastes crept

Instead of hair, and their fierce temples bound.

He knowing well the miserable hags

Who tend the queen of endless woe, thus spake:

“Mark thou each dire Erinnys. To the left

This is Megaera; on the right hand she,

Who wails, Alecto; and Tisiphone

I’ th’ midst.” This said, in silence he remain’d

Their breast they each one clawing tore; themselves

Smote with their palms, and such shrill clamour rais’d,

That to the bard I clung, suspicion-bound.

“Hasten Medusa: so to adamant

Him shall we change;” all looking down exclaim’d.

“E’en when by Theseus’ might assail’d, we took

No ill revenge.” “Turn thyself round, and keep

Thy count’nance hid; for if the Gorgon dire

Be shown, and thou shouldst view it, thy return

Upwards would be for ever lost.” This said,

Himself my gentle master turn’d me round,

Nor trusted he my hands, but with his own

He also hid me. Ye of intellect

Sound and entire, mark well the lore conceal’d

Under close texture of the mystic strain!

And now there came o’er the perturbed waves

Loud-crashing, terrible, a sound that made

Either shore tremble, as if of a wind

Impetuous, from conflicting vapours sprung,

That ’gainst some forest driving all its might,

Plucks off the branches, beats them down and hurls

Afar; then onward passing proudly sweeps

Its whirlwind rage, while beasts and shepherds fly.

Mine eyes he loos’d, and spake: “And now direct

Thy visual nerve along that ancient foam,

There, thickest where the smoke ascends.” As frogs

Before their foe the serpent, through the wave

Ply swiftly all, till at the ground each one

Lies on a heap; more than a thousand spirits

Destroy’d, so saw I fleeing before one

Who pass’d with unwet feet the Stygian sound.

He, from his face removing the gross air,

Oft his left hand forth stretch’d, and seem’d alone

By that annoyance wearied. I perceiv’d

That he was sent from heav’n, and to my guide

Turn’d me, who signal made that I should stand

Quiet, and bend to him. Ah me! how full

Of noble anger seem’d he! To the gate

He came, and with his wand touch’d it, whereat

Open without impediment it flew.

“Outcasts of heav’n! O abject race and scorn’d!”

Began he on the horrid grunsel standing,

“Whence doth this wild excess of insolence

Lodge in you? wherefore kick you ’gainst that will

Ne’er frustrate of its end, and which so oft

Hath laid on you enforcement of your pangs?

What profits at the fays to but the horn?

Your Cerberus, if ye remember, hence

Bears still, peel’d of their hair, his throat and maw.”

This said, he turn’d back o’er the filthy way,

And syllable to us spake none, but wore

The semblance of a man by other care

Beset, and keenly press’d, than thought of him

Who in his presence stands. Then we our steps

Toward that territory mov’d, secure

After the hallow’d words. We unoppos’d

There enter’d; and my mind eager to learn

What state a fortress like to that might hold,

I soon as enter’d throw mine eye around,

And see on every part wide-stretching space

Replete with bitter pain and torment ill.

As where Rhone stagnates on the plains of Arles,

Or as at Pola, near Quarnaro’s gulf,

That closes Italy and laves her bounds,

The place is all thick spread with sepulchres;

So was it here, save what in horror here

Excell’d: for ’midst the graves were scattered flames,

Wherewith intensely all throughout they burn’d,

That iron for no craft there hotter needs.

Their lids all hung suspended, and beneath

From them forth issu’d lamentable moans,

Such as the sad and tortur’d well might raise.

I thus: “Master! say who are these, interr’d

Within these vaults, of whom distinct we hear

The dolorous sighs?” He answer thus return’d:

“The arch-heretics are here, accompanied

By every sect their followers; and much more,

Than thou believest, tombs are freighted: like

With like is buried; and the monuments

Are different in degrees of heat.” This said,

He to the right hand turning, on we pass’d

Betwixt the afflicted and the ramparts high.

CANTO X

Now by a secret pathway we proceed,

Between the walls, that hem the region round,

And the tormented souls: my master first,

I close behind his steps. “Virtue supreme!”

I thus began; “who through these ample orbs

In circuit lead’st me, even as thou will’st,

Speak thou, and satisfy my wish. May those,

Who lie within these sepulchres, be seen?

Already all the lids are rais’d, and none

O’er them keeps watch.” He thus in answer spake

“They shall be closed all, what-time they here

From Josaphat return’d shall come, and bring

Their bodies, which above they now have left.

The cemetery on this part obtain

With Epicurus all his followers,

Who with the body make the spirit die.

Here therefore satisfaction shall be soon

Both to the question ask’d, and to the wish,

Which thou conceal’st in silence.” I replied:

“I keep not, guide belov’d! from thee my heart

Secreted, but to shun vain length of words,

A lesson erewhile taught me by thyself.”

“O Tuscan! thou who through the city of fire

Alive art passing, so discreet of speech!

Here please thee stay awhile. Thy utterance

Declares the place of thy nativity

To be that noble land, with which perchance

I too severely dealt.” Sudden that sound

Forth issu’d from a vault, whereat in fear

I somewhat closer to my leader’s side

Approaching, he thus spake: “What dost thou? Turn.

Lo, Farinata, there! who hath himself

Uplifted: from his girdle upwards all

Expos’d behold him.” On his face was mine

Already fix’d; his breast and forehead there

Erecting, seem’d as in high scorn he held

E’en hell. Between the sepulchres to him

My guide thrust me with fearless hands and prompt,

This warning added: “See thy words be clear!”

He, soon as there I stood at the tomb’s foot,

Ey’d me a space, then in disdainful mood

Address’d me: “Say, what ancestors were thine?”

I, willing to obey him, straight reveal’d

The whole, nor kept back aught: whence he, his brow

Somewhat uplifting, cried: “Fiercely were they

Adverse to me, my party, and the blood

From whence I sprang: twice therefore I abroad

Scatter’d them.” “Though driv’n out, yet they each time

From all parts,” answer’d I, “return’d; an art

Which yours have shown, they are not skill’d to learn.”

Then, peering forth from the unclosed jaw,

Rose from his side a shade, high as the chin,

Leaning, methought, upon its knees uprais’d.

It look’d around, as eager to explore

If there were other with me; but perceiving

That fond imagination quench’d, with tears

Thus spake: “If thou through this blind prison go’st.

Led by thy lofty genius and profound,

Where is my son? and wherefore not with thee?”

I straight replied: “Not of myself I come,

By him, who there expects me, through this clime

Conducted, whom perchance Guido thy son

Had in contempt.” Already had his words

And mode of punishment read me his name,

Whence I so fully answer’d. He at once

Exclaim’d, up starting, “How! said’st thou he HAD?

No longer lives he? Strikes not on his eye

The blessed daylight?” Then of some delay

I made ere my reply aware, down fell

Supine, not after forth appear’d he more.

Meanwhile the other, great of soul, near whom

I yet was station’d, chang’d not count’nance stern,

Nor mov’d the neck, nor bent his ribbed side.

“And if,” continuing the first discourse,

“They in this art,” he cried, “small skill have shown,

That doth torment me more e’en than this bed.

But not yet fifty times shall be relum’d

Her aspect, who reigns here Queen of this realm,

Ere thou shalt know the full weight of that art.

So to the pleasant world mayst thou return,

As thou shalt tell me, why in all their laws,

Against my kin this people is so fell?”

“The slaughter and great havoc,” I replied,

“That colour’d Arbia’s flood with crimson stain—

To these impute, that in our hallow’d dome

Such orisons ascend.” Sighing he shook

The head, then thus resum’d: “In that affray

I stood not singly, nor without just cause

Assuredly should with the rest have stirr’d;

But singly there I stood, when by consent

Of all, Florence had to the ground been raz’d,

The one who openly forbad the deed.”

“So may thy lineage find at last repose,”

I thus adjur’d him, “as thou solve this knot,

Which now involves my mind. If right I hear,

Ye seem to view beforehand, that which time

Leads with him, of the present uninform’d.”

“We view, as one who hath an evil sight,”

He answer’d, “plainly, objects far remote:

So much of his large spendour yet imparts

The Almighty Ruler; but when they approach

Or actually exist, our intellect

Then wholly fails, nor of your human state

Except what others bring us know we aught.

Hence therefore mayst thou understand, that all

Our knowledge in that instant shall expire,

When on futurity the portals close.”

Then conscious of my fault, and by remorse

Smitten, I added thus: “Now shalt thou say

To him there fallen, that his offspring still

Is to the living join’d; and bid him know,

That if from answer silent I abstain’d,

’Twas that my thought was occupied intent

Upon that error, which thy help hath solv’d.”

But now my master summoning me back

I heard, and with more eager haste besought

The spirit to inform me, who with him

Partook his lot. He answer thus return’d:

“More than a thousand with me here are laid

Within is Frederick, second of that name,

And the Lord Cardinal, and of the rest

I speak not.” He, this said, from sight withdrew.

But I my steps towards the ancient bard

Reverting, ruminated on the words

Betokening me such ill. Onward he mov’d,

And thus in going question’d: “Whence the amaze

That holds thy senses wrapt?” I satisfied

The inquiry, and the sage enjoin’d me straight:

“Let thy safe memory store what thou hast heard

To thee importing harm; and note thou this,”

With his rais’d finger bidding me take heed,

“When thou shalt stand before her gracious beam,

Whose bright eye all surveys, she of thy life

The future tenour will to thee unfold.”

Forthwith he to the left hand turn’d his feet:

We left the wall, and tow’rds the middle space

Went by a path, that to a valley strikes;

Which e’en thus high exhal’d its noisome steam.

CANTO XI

Upon the utmost verge of a high bank,

By craggy rocks environ’d round, we came,

Where woes beneath more cruel yet were stow’d:

And here to shun the horrible excess

Of fetid exhalation, upward cast

From the profound abyss, behind the lid

Of a great monument we stood retir’d,

Whereon this scroll I mark’d: “I have in charge

Pope Anastasius, whom Photinus drew

From the right path.—Ere our descent behooves

We make delay, that somewhat first the sense,

To the dire breath accustom’d, afterward

Regard it not.” My master thus; to whom

Answering I spake: “Some compensation find

That the time past not wholly lost.” He then:

“Lo! how my thoughts e’en to thy wishes tend!

My son! within these rocks,” he thus began,

“Are three close circles in gradation plac’d,

As these which now thou leav’st. Each one is full

Of spirits accurs’d; but that the sight alone

Hereafter may suffice thee, listen how

And for what cause in durance they abide.

“Of all malicious act abhorr’d in heaven,

The end is injury; and all such end

Either by force or fraud works other’s woe

But fraud, because of man peculiar evil,

To God is more displeasing; and beneath

The fraudulent are therefore doom’d to’ endure

Severer pang. The violent occupy

All the first circle; and because to force

Three persons are obnoxious, in three rounds

Each within other sep’rate is it fram’d.

To God, his neighbour, and himself, by man

Force may be offer’d; to himself I say

And his possessions, as thou soon shalt hear

At full. Death, violent death, and painful wounds

Upon his neighbour he inflicts; and wastes

By devastation, pillage, and the flames,

His substance. Slayers, and each one that smites

In malice, plund’rers, and all robbers, hence

The torment undergo of the first round

In different herds. Man can do violence

To himself and his own blessings: and for this

He in the second round must aye deplore

With unavailing penitence his crime,

Whoe’er deprives himself of life and light,

In reckless lavishment his talent wastes,

And sorrows there where he should dwell in joy.

To God may force be offer’d, in the heart

Denying and blaspheming his high power,

And nature with her kindly law contemning.

And thence the inmost round marks with its seal

Sodom and Cahors, and all such as speak

Contemptuously of the Godhead in their hearts.

“Fraud, that in every conscience leaves a sting,

May be by man employ’d on one, whose trust

He wins, or on another who withholds

Strict confidence. Seems as the latter way

Broke but the bond of love which Nature makes.

Whence in the second circle have their nest

Dissimulation, witchcraft, flatteries,

Theft, falsehood, simony, all who seduce

To lust, or set their honesty at pawn,

With such vile scum as these. The other way

Forgets both Nature’s general love, and that

Which thereto added afterwards gives birth

To special faith. Whence in the lesser circle,

Point of the universe, dread seat of Dis,

The traitor is eternally consum’d.”

I thus: “Instructor, clearly thy discourse

Proceeds, distinguishing the hideous chasm

And its inhabitants with skill exact.

But tell me this: they of the dull, fat pool,

Whom the rain beats, or whom the tempest drives,

Or who with tongues so fierce conflicting meet,

Wherefore within the city fire-illum’d

Are not these punish’d, if God’s wrath be on them?

And if it be not, wherefore in such guise

Are they condemned?” He answer thus return’d:

“Wherefore in dotage wanders thus thy mind,

Not so accustom’d? or what other thoughts

Possess it? Dwell not in thy memory

The words, wherein thy ethic page describes

Three dispositions adverse to Heav’n’s will,

Incont’nence, malice, and mad brutishness,

And how incontinence the least offends

God, and least guilt incurs? If well thou note

This judgment, and remember who they are,

Without these walls to vain repentance doom’d,

Thou shalt discern why they apart are plac’d

From these fell spirits, and less wreakful pours

Justice divine on them its vengeance down.”

“O Sun! who healest all imperfect sight,

Thou so content’st me, when thou solv’st my doubt,

That ignorance not less than knowledge charms.

Yet somewhat turn thee back,” I in these words

Continu’d, “where thou saidst, that usury

Offends celestial Goodness; and this knot

Perplex’d unravel.” He thus made reply:

“Philosophy, to an attentive ear,

Clearly points out, not in one part alone,

How imitative nature takes her course

From the celestial mind and from its art:

And where her laws the Stagyrite unfolds,

Not many leaves scann’d o’er, observing well

Thou shalt discover, that your art on her

Obsequious follows, as the learner treads

In his instructor’s step, so that your art

Deserves the name of second in descent

From God. These two, if thou recall to mind

Creation’s holy book, from the beginning

Were the right source of life and excellence

To human kind. But in another path

The usurer walks; and Nature in herself

And in her follower thus he sets at nought,

Placing elsewhere his hope. But follow now

My steps on forward journey bent; for now

The Pisces play with undulating glance

Along the horizon, and the Wain lies all

O’er the north-west; and onward there a space

Is our steep passage down the rocky height.”

CANTO XII

The place where to descend the precipice

We came, was rough as Alp, and on its verge

Such object lay, as every eye would shun.

As is that ruin, which Adice’s stream

On this side Trento struck, should’ring the wave,

Or loos’d by earthquake or for lack of prop;

For from the mountain’s summit, whence it mov’d

To the low level, so the headlong rock

Is shiver’d, that some passage it might give

To him who from above would pass; e’en such

Into the chasm was that descent: and there

At point of the disparted ridge lay stretch’d

The infamy of Crete, detested brood

Of the feign’d heifer: and at sight of us

It gnaw’d itself, as one with rage distract.

To him my guide exclaim’d: “Perchance thou deem’st

The King of Athens here, who, in the world

Above, thy death contriv’d. Monster! avaunt!

He comes not tutor’d by thy sister’s art,

But to behold your torments is he come.”

Like to a bull, that with impetuous spring

Darts, at the moment when the fatal blow

Hath struck him, but unable to proceed

Plunges on either side; so saw I plunge

The Minotaur; whereat the sage exclaim’d:

“Run to the passage! while he storms, ’t is well

That thou descend.” Thus down our road we took

Through those dilapidated crags, that oft

Mov’d underneath my feet, to weight like theirs

Unus’d. I pond’ring went, and thus he spake:

“Perhaps thy thoughts are of this ruin’d steep,

Guarded by the brute violence, which I

Have vanquish’d now. Know then, that when I erst

Hither descended to the nether hell,

This rock was not yet fallen. But past doubt

(If well I mark) not long ere He arrived,

Who carried off from Dis the mighty spoil

Of the highest circle, then through all its bounds

Such trembling seiz’d the deep concave and foul,

I thought the universe was thrill’d with love,

Whereby, there are who deem, the world hath oft

Been into chaos turn’d: and in that point,

Here, and elsewhere, that old rock toppled down.

But fix thine eyes beneath: the river of blood

Approaches, in the which all those are steep’d,

Who have by violence injur’d.” O blind lust!

O foolish wrath! who so dost goad us on

In the brief life, and in the eternal then

Thus miserably o’erwhelm us. I beheld

An ample foss, that in a bow was bent,

As circling all the plain; for so my guide

Had told. Between it and the rampart’s base

On trail ran Centaurs, with keen arrows arm’d,

As to the chase they on the earth were wont.

At seeing us descend they each one stood;

And issuing from the troop, three sped with bows

And missile weapons chosen first; of whom

One cried from far: “Say to what pain ye come

Condemn’d, who down this steep have journied? Speak

From whence ye stand, or else the bow I draw.”

To whom my guide: “Our answer shall be made

To Chiron, there, when nearer him we come.

Ill was thy mind, thus ever quick and rash.”

Then me he touch’d, and spake: “Nessus is this,

Who for the fair Deianira died,

And wrought himself revenge for his own fate.

He in the midst, that on his breast looks down,

Is the great Chiron who Achilles nurs’d;

That other Pholus, prone to wrath.” Around

The foss these go by thousands, aiming shafts

At whatsoever spirit dares emerge

From out the blood, more than his guilt allows.

We to those beasts, that rapid strode along,

Drew near, when Chiron took an arrow forth,

And with the notch push’d back his shaggy beard

To the cheek-bone, then his great mouth to view

Exposing, to his fellows thus exclaim’d:

“Are ye aware, that he who comes behind

Moves what he touches? The feet of the dead

Are not so wont.” My trusty guide, who now

Stood near his breast, where the two natures join,

Thus made reply: “He is indeed alive,

And solitary so must needs by me

Be shown the gloomy vale, thereto induc’d

By strict necessity, not by delight.

She left her joyful harpings in the sky,

Who this new office to my care consign’d.

He is no robber, no dark spirit I.

But by that virtue, which empowers my step

To treat so wild a path, grant us, I pray,

One of thy band, whom we may trust secure,

Who to the ford may lead us, and convey

Across, him mounted on his back; for he

Is not a spirit that may walk the air.”

Then on his right breast turning, Chiron thus

To Nessus spake: “Return, and be their guide.

And if ye chance to cross another troop,

Command them keep aloof.” Onward we mov’d,

The faithful escort by our side, along

The border of the crimson-seething flood,

Whence from those steep’d within loud shrieks arose.

Some there I mark’d, as high as to their brow

Immers’d, of whom the mighty Centaur thus:

“These are the souls of tyrants, who were given

To blood and rapine. Here they wail aloud

Their merciless wrongs. Here Alexander dwells,

And Dionysius fell, who many a year

Of woe wrought for fair Sicily. That brow

Whereon the hair so jetty clust’ring hangs,

Is Azzolino; that with flaxen locks

Obizzo’ of Este, in the world destroy’d

By his foul step-son.” To the bard rever’d

I turned me round, and thus he spake; “Let him

Be to thee now first leader, me but next

To him in rank.” Then farther on a space

The Centaur paus’d, near some, who at the throat

Were extant from the wave; and showing us

A spirit by itself apart retir’d,

Exclaim’d: “He in God’s bosom smote the heart,

Which yet is honour’d on the bank of Thames.”

A race I next espied, who held the head,

And even all the bust above the stream.

’Midst these I many a face remember’d well.

Thus shallow more and more the blood became,

So that at last it but imbru’d the feet;

And there our passage lay athwart the foss.

“As ever on this side the boiling wave

Thou seest diminishing,” the Centaur said,

“So on the other, be thou well assur’d,

It lower still and lower sinks its bed,

Till in that part it reuniting join,

Where ’t is the lot of tyranny to mourn.

There Heav’n’s stern justice lays chastising hand

On Attila, who was the scourge of earth,

On Sextus, and on Pyrrhus, and extracts

Tears ever by the seething flood unlock’d

From the Rinieri, of Corneto this,

Pazzo the other nam’d, who fill’d the ways

With violence and war.” This said, he turn’d,

And quitting us, alone repass’d the ford.

CANTO XIII

Ere Nessus yet had reach’d the other bank,

We enter’d on a forest, where no track

Of steps had worn a way. Not verdant there

The foliage, but of dusky hue; not light

The boughs and tapering, but with knares deform’d

And matted thick: fruits there were none, but thorns

Instead, with venom fill’d. Less sharp than these,

Less intricate the brakes, wherein abide

Those animals, that hate the cultur’d fields,

Betwixt Corneto and Cecina’s stream.

Here the brute Harpies make their nest, the same

Who from the Strophades the Trojan band

Drove with dire boding of their future woe.

Broad are their pennons, of the human form

Their neck and count’nance, arm’d with talons keen

The feet, and the huge belly fledge with wings

These sit and wail on the drear mystic wood.

The kind instructor in these words began:

“Ere farther thou proceed, know thou art now

I’ th’ second round, and shalt be, till thou come

Upon the horrid sand: look therefore well

Around thee, and such things thou shalt behold,

As would my speech discredit.” On all sides

I heard sad plainings breathe, and none could see

From whom they might have issu’d. In amaze

Fast bound I stood. He, as it seem’d, believ’d,

That I had thought so many voices came

From some amid those thickets close conceal’d,

And thus his speech resum’d: “If thou lop off

A single twig from one of those ill plants,

The thought thou hast conceiv’d shall vanish quite.”

Thereat a little stretching forth my hand,

From a great wilding gather’d I a branch,

And straight the trunk exclaim’d: “Why pluck’st thou me?”

Then as the dark blood trickled down its side,

These words it added: “Wherefore tear’st me thus?

Is there no touch of mercy in thy breast?

Men once were we, that now are rooted here.

Thy hand might well have spar’d us, had we been

The souls of serpents.” As a brand yet green,

That burning at one end from the other sends

A groaning sound, and hisses with the wind

That forces out its way, so burst at once,

Forth from the broken splinter words and blood.

I, letting fall the bough, remain’d as one

Assail’d by terror, and the sage replied:

“If he, O injur’d spirit! could have believ’d

What he hath seen but in my verse describ’d,

He never against thee had stretch’d his hand.

But I, because the thing surpass’d belief,

Prompted him to this deed, which even now

Myself I rue. But tell me, who thou wast;

That, for this wrong to do thee some amends,

In the upper world (for thither to return

Is granted him) thy fame he may revive.”

“That pleasant word of thine,” the trunk replied

“Hath so inveigled me, that I from speech

Cannot refrain, wherein if I indulge

A little longer, in the snare detain’d,

Count it not grievous. I it was, who held

Both keys to Frederick’s heart, and turn’d the wards,

Opening and shutting, with a skill so sweet,

That besides me, into his inmost breast

Scarce any other could admittance find.

The faith I bore to my high charge was such,

It cost me the life-blood that warm’d my veins.

The harlot, who ne’er turn’d her gloating eyes

From Caesar’s household, common vice and pest

Of courts, ’gainst me inflam’d the minds of all;

And to Augustus they so spread the flame,

That my glad honours chang’d to bitter woes.

My soul, disdainful and disgusted, sought

Refuge in death from scorn, and I became,

Just as I was, unjust toward myself.

By the new roots, which fix this stem, I swear,

That never faith I broke to my liege lord,

Who merited such honour; and of you,

If any to the world indeed return,

Clear he from wrong my memory, that lies

Yet prostrate under envy’s cruel blow.”

First somewhat pausing, till the mournful words

Were ended, then to me the bard began:

“Lose not the time; but speak and of him ask,

If more thou wish to learn.” Whence I replied:

“Question thou him again of whatsoe’er

Will, as thou think’st, content me; for no power

Have I to ask, such pity’ is at my heart.”

He thus resum’d; “So may he do for thee

Freely what thou entreatest, as thou yet

Be pleas’d, imprison’d Spirit! to declare,

How in these gnarled joints the soul is tied;

And whether any ever from such frame

Be loosen’d, if thou canst, that also tell.”

Thereat the trunk breath’d hard, and the wind soon

Chang’d into sounds articulate like these;

Briefly ye shall be answer’d. “When departs

The fierce soul from the body, by itself

Thence torn asunder, to the seventh gulf

By Minos doom’d, into the wood it falls,

No place assign’d, but wheresoever chance

Hurls it, there sprouting, as a grain of spelt,

It rises to a sapling, growing thence

A savage plant. The Harpies, on its leaves

Then feeding, cause both pain and for the pain

A vent to grief. We, as the rest, shall come

For our own spoils, yet not so that with them

We may again be clad; for what a man

Takes from himself it is not just he have.

Here we perforce shall drag them; and throughout

The dismal glade our bodies shall be hung,

Each on the wild thorn of his wretched shade.”

Attentive yet to listen to the trunk

We stood, expecting farther speech, when us

A noise surpris’d, as when a man perceives

The wild boar and the hunt approach his place

Of station’d watch, who of the beasts and boughs

Loud rustling round him hears. And lo! there came

Two naked, torn with briers, in headlong flight,

That they before them broke each fan o’ th’ wood.

“Haste now,” the foremost cried, “now haste thee death!”

The other, as seem’d, impatient of delay

Exclaiming, “Lano! not so bent for speed

Thy sinews, in the lists of Toppo’s field.”

And then, for that perchance no longer breath

Suffic’d him, of himself and of a bush

One group he made. Behind them was the wood

Full of black female mastiffs, gaunt and fleet,

As greyhounds that have newly slipp’d the leash.

On him, who squatted down, they stuck their fangs,

And having rent him piecemeal bore away

The tortur’d limbs. My guide then seiz’d my hand,

And led me to the thicket, which in vain

Mourn’d through its bleeding wounds: “O Giacomo

Of Sant’ Andrea! what avails it thee,”

It cried, “that of me thou hast made thy screen?

For thy ill life what blame on me recoils?”

When o’er it he had paus’d, my master spake:

“Say who wast thou, that at so many points

Breath’st out with blood thy lamentable speech?”

He answer’d: “Oh, ye spirits: arriv’d in time

To spy the shameful havoc, that from me

My leaves hath sever’d thus, gather them up,

And at the foot of their sad parent-tree

Carefully lay them. In that city’ I dwelt,

Who for the Baptist her first patron chang’d,

Whence he for this shall cease not with his art

To work her woe: and if there still remain’d not

On Arno’s passage some faint glimpse of him,

Those citizens, who rear’d once more her walls

Upon the ashes left by Attila,

Had labour’d without profit of their toil.

I slung the fatal noose from my own roof.”

CANTO XIV

Soon as the charity of native land

Wrought in my bosom, I the scatter’d leaves

Collected, and to him restor’d, who now

Was hoarse with utt’rance. To the limit thence

We came, which from the third the second round

Divides, and where of justice is display’d

Contrivance horrible. Things then first seen

Clearlier to manifest, I tell how next

A plain we reach’d, that from its sterile bed

Each plant repell’d. The mournful wood waves round

Its garland on all sides, as round the wood

Spreads the sad foss. There, on the very edge,

Our steps we stay’d. It was an area wide

Of arid sand and thick, resembling most

The soil that erst by Cato’s foot was trod.

Vengeance of Heav’n! Oh! how shouldst thou be fear’d

By all, who read what here my eyes beheld!

Of naked spirits many a flock I saw,

All weeping piteously, to different laws

Subjected: for on the earth some lay supine,

Some crouching close were seated, others pac’d

Incessantly around; the latter tribe,

More numerous, those fewer who beneath

The torment lay, but louder in their grief.

O’er all the sand fell slowly wafting down

Dilated flakes of fire, as flakes of snow

On Alpine summit, when the wind is hush’d.

As in the torrid Indian clime, the son

Of Ammon saw upon his warrior band

Descending, solid flames, that to the ground

Came down: whence he bethought him with his troop

To trample on the soil; for easier thus

The vapour was extinguish’d, while alone;

So fell the eternal fiery flood, wherewith

The marble glow’d underneath, as under stove

The viands, doubly to augment the pain.

Unceasing was the play of wretched hands,

Now this, now that way glancing, to shake off

The heat, still falling fresh. I thus began:

“Instructor! thou who all things overcom’st,

Except the hardy demons, that rush’d forth

To stop our entrance at the gate, say who

Is yon huge spirit, that, as seems, heeds not

The burning, but lies writhen in proud scorn,

As by the sultry tempest immatur’d?”

Straight he himself, who was aware I ask’d

My guide of him, exclaim’d: “Such as I was

When living, dead such now I am. If Jove

Weary his workman out, from whom in ire

He snatch’d the lightnings, that at my last day

Transfix’d me, if the rest be weary out

At their black smithy labouring by turns

In Mongibello, while he cries aloud;

“Help, help, good Mulciber!” as erst he cried

In the Phlegraean warfare, and the bolts

Launch he full aim’d at me with all his might,

He never should enjoy a sweet revenge.”

Then thus my guide, in accent higher rais’d

Than I before had heard him: “Capaneus!

Thou art more punish’d, in that this thy pride

Lives yet unquench’d: no torrent, save thy rage,

Were to thy fury pain proportion’d full.”

Next turning round to me with milder lip

He spake: “This of the seven kings was one,

Who girt the Theban walls with siege, and held,

As still he seems to hold, God in disdain,

And sets his high omnipotence at nought.

But, as I told him, his despiteful mood

Is ornament well suits the breast that wears it.

Follow me now; and look thou set not yet

Thy foot in the hot sand, but to the wood

Keep ever close.” Silently on we pass’d

To where there gushes from the forest’s bound

A little brook, whose crimson’d wave yet lifts

My hair with horror. As the rill, that runs

From Bulicame, to be portion’d out

Among the sinful women; so ran this

Down through the sand, its bottom and each bank

Stone-built, and either margin at its side,

Whereon I straight perceiv’d our passage lay.

“Of all that I have shown thee, since that gate

We enter’d first, whose threshold is to none

Denied, nought else so worthy of regard,

As is this river, has thine eye discern’d,

O’er which the flaming volley all is quench’d.”

So spake my guide; and I him thence besought,

That having giv’n me appetite to know,

The food he too would give, that hunger crav’d.

“In midst of ocean,” forthwith he began,

“A desolate country lies, which Crete is nam’d,

Under whose monarch in old times the world

Liv’d pure and chaste. A mountain rises there,

Call’d Ida, joyous once with leaves and streams,

Deserted now like a forbidden thing.

It was the spot which Rhea, Saturn’s spouse,

Chose for the secret cradle of her son;

And better to conceal him, drown’d in shouts

His infant cries. Within the mount, upright

An ancient form there stands and huge, that turns

His shoulders towards Damiata, and at Rome

As in his mirror looks. Of finest gold

His head is shap’d, pure silver are the breast

And arms; thence to the middle is of brass.

And downward all beneath well-temper’d steel,

Save the right foot of potter’s clay, on which

Than on the other more erect he stands,

Each part except the gold, is rent throughout;

And from the fissure tears distil, which join’d

Penetrate to that cave. They in their course

Thus far precipitated down the rock

Form Acheron, and Styx, and Phlegethon;

Then by this straiten’d channel passing hence

Beneath, e’en to the lowest depth of all,

Form there Cocytus, of whose lake (thyself

Shall see it) I here give thee no account.”

Then I to him: “If from our world this sluice

Be thus deriv’d; wherefore to us but now

Appears it at this edge?” He straight replied:

“The place, thou know’st, is round; and though great part

Thou have already pass’d, still to the left

Descending to the nethermost, not yet

Hast thou the circuit made of the whole orb.

Wherefore if aught of new to us appear,

It needs not bring up wonder in thy looks.”

Then I again inquir’d: “Where flow the streams

Of Phlegethon and Lethe? for of one

Thou tell’st not, and the other of that shower,

Thou say’st, is form’d.” He answer thus return’d:

“Doubtless thy questions all well pleas’d I hear.

Yet the red seething wave might have resolv’d

One thou proposest. Lethe thou shalt see,

But not within this hollow, in the place,

Whither to lave themselves the spirits go,

Whose blame hath been by penitence remov’d.”

He added: “Time is now we quit the wood.

Look thou my steps pursue: the margins give

Safe passage, unimpeded by the flames;

For over them all vapour is extinct.”

CANTO XV

One of the solid margins bears us now

Envelop’d in the mist, that from the stream

Arising, hovers o’er, and saves from fire

Both piers and water. As the Flemings rear

Their mound, ’twixt Ghent and Bruges, to chase back

The ocean, fearing his tumultuous tide

That drives toward them, or the Paduans theirs

Along the Brenta, to defend their towns

And castles, ere the genial warmth be felt

On Chiarentana’s top; such were the mounds,

So fram’d, though not in height or bulk to these

Made equal, by the master, whosoe’er

He was, that rais’d them here. We from the wood

Were not so far remov’d, that turning round

I might not have discern’d it, when we met

A troop of spirits, who came beside the pier.

They each one ey’d us, as at eventide

One eyes another under a new moon,

And toward us sharpen’d their sight as keen,

As an old tailor at his needle’s eye.

Thus narrowly explor’d by all the tribe,

I was agniz’d of one, who by the skirt

Caught me, and cried, “What wonder have we here!”

And I, when he to me outstretch’d his arm,

Intently fix’d my ken on his parch’d looks,

That although smirch’d with fire, they hinder’d not

But I remember’d him; and towards his face

My hand inclining, answer’d: “Sir! Brunetto!

“And art thou here?” He thus to me: “My son!

Oh let it not displease thee, if Brunetto

Latini but a little space with thee

Turn back, and leave his fellows to proceed.”

I thus to him replied: “Much as I can,

I thereto pray thee; and if thou be willing,

That I here seat me with thee, I consent;

His leave, with whom I journey, first obtain’d.”

“O son!” said he, “whoever of this throng

One instant stops, lies then a hundred years,

No fan to ventilate him, when the fire

Smites sorest. Pass thou therefore on. I close

Will at thy garments walk, and then rejoin

My troop, who go mourning their endless doom.”

I dar’d not from the path descend to tread

On equal ground with him, but held my head

Bent down, as one who walks in reverent guise.

“What chance or destiny,” thus he began,

“Ere the last day conducts thee here below?

And who is this, that shows to thee the way?”

“There up aloft,” I answer’d, “in the life

Serene, I wander’d in a valley lost,

Before mine age had to its fullness reach’d.

But yester-morn I left it: then once more

Into that vale returning, him I met;

And by this path homeward he leads me back.”

“If thou,” he answer’d, “follow but thy star,

Thou canst not miss at last a glorious haven:

Unless in fairer days my judgment err’d.

And if my fate so early had not chanc’d,

Seeing the heav’ns thus bounteous to thee, I

Had gladly giv’n thee comfort in thy work.

But that ungrateful and malignant race,

Who in old times came down from Fesole,

Ay and still smack of their rough mountain-flint,

Will for thy good deeds shew thee enmity.

Nor wonder; for amongst ill-savour’d crabs

It suits not the sweet fig-tree lay her fruit.

Old fame reports them in the world for blind,

Covetous, envious, proud. Look to it well:

Take heed thou cleanse thee of their ways. For thee

Thy fortune hath such honour in reserve,

That thou by either party shalt be crav’d

With hunger keen: but be the fresh herb far

From the goat’s tooth. The herd of Fesole

May of themselves make litter, not touch the plant,

If any such yet spring on their rank bed,

In which the holy seed revives, transmitted

From those true Romans, who still there remain’d,

When it was made the nest of so much ill.”

“Were all my wish fulfill’d,” I straight replied,

“Thou from the confines of man’s nature yet

Hadst not been driven forth; for in my mind

Is fix’d, and now strikes full upon my heart

The dear, benign, paternal image, such

As thine was, when so lately thou didst teach me

The way for man to win eternity;

And how I priz’d the lesson, it behooves,

That, long as life endures, my tongue should speak,

What of my fate thou tell’st, that write I down:

And with another text to comment on

For her I keep it, the celestial dame,

Who will know all, if I to her arrive.

This only would I have thee clearly note:

That so my conscience have no plea against me;

Do fortune as she list, I stand prepar’d.

Not new or strange such earnest to mine ear.

Speed fortune then her wheel, as likes her best,

The clown his mattock; all things have their course.”

Thereat my sapient guide upon his right

Turn’d himself back, then look’d at me and spake:

“He listens to good purpose who takes note.”

I not the less still on my way proceed,

Discoursing with Brunetto, and inquire

Who are most known and chief among his tribe.

“To know of some is well;” thus he replied,

“But of the rest silence may best beseem.

Time would not serve us for report so long.

In brief I tell thee, that all these were clerks,

Men of great learning and no less renown,

By one same sin polluted in the world.

With them is Priscian, and Accorso’s son

Francesco herds among that wretched throng:

And, if the wish of so impure a blotch

Possess’d thee, him thou also might’st have seen,

Who by the servants’ servant was transferr’d

From Arno’s seat to Bacchiglione, where

His ill-strain’d nerves he left. I more would add,

But must from farther speech and onward way

Alike desist, for yonder I behold

A mist new-risen on the sandy plain.

A company, with whom I may not sort,

Approaches. I commend my TREASURE to thee,

Wherein I yet survive; my sole request.”

This said he turn’d, and seem’d as one of those,

Who o’er Verona’s champain try their speed

For the green mantle, and of them he seem’d,

Not he who loses but who gains the prize.

CANTO XVI

Now came I where the water’s din was heard,

As down it fell into the other round,

Resounding like the hum of swarming bees:

When forth together issu’d from a troop,

That pass’d beneath the fierce tormenting storm,

Three spirits, running swift. They towards us came,

And each one cried aloud, “Oh do thou stay!

Whom by the fashion of thy garb we deem

To be some inmate of our evil land.”

Ah me! what wounds I mark’d upon their limbs,

Recent and old, inflicted by the flames!

E’en the remembrance of them grieves me yet.

Attentive to their cry my teacher paus’d,

And turn’d to me his visage, and then spake;

“Wait now! our courtesy these merit well:

And were ’t not for the nature of the place,

Whence glide the fiery darts, I should have said,

That haste had better suited thee than them.”

They, when we stopp’d, resum’d their ancient wail,

And soon as they had reach’d us, all the three

Whirl’d round together in one restless wheel.

As naked champions, smear’d with slippery oil,

Are wont intent to watch their place of hold

And vantage, ere in closer strife they meet;

Thus each one, as he wheel’d, his countenance

At me directed, so that opposite

The neck mov’d ever to the twinkling feet.

“If misery of this drear wilderness,”

Thus one began, “added to our sad cheer

And destitute, do call forth scorn on us

And our entreaties, let our great renown

Incline thee to inform us who thou art,

That dost imprint with living feet unharm’d

The soil of Hell. He, in whose track thou see’st

My steps pursuing, naked though he be

And reft of all, was of more high estate

Than thou believest; grandchild of the chaste

Gualdrada, him they Guidoguerra call’d,

Who in his lifetime many a noble act

Achiev’d, both by his wisdom and his sword.

The other, next to me that beats the sand,

Is Aldobrandi, name deserving well,

In the upper world, of honour; and myself

Who in this torment do partake with them,

Am Rusticucci, whom, past doubt, my wife

Of savage temper, more than aught beside

Hath to this evil brought.” If from the fire

I had been shelter’d, down amidst them straight

I then had cast me, nor my guide, I deem,

Would have restrain’d my going; but that fear

Of the dire burning vanquish’d the desire,

Which made me eager of their wish’d embrace.

I then began: “Not scorn, but grief much more,

Such as long time alone can cure, your doom

Fix’d deep within me, soon as this my lord

Spake words, whose tenour taught me to expect

That such a race, as ye are, was at hand.

I am a countryman of yours, who still

Affectionate have utter’d, and have heard

Your deeds and names renown’d. Leaving the gall

For the sweet fruit I go, that a sure guide

Hath promis’d to me. But behooves, that far

As to the centre first I downward tend.”

“So may long space thy spirit guide thy limbs,”

He answer straight return’d; “and so thy fame

Shine bright, when thou art gone; as thou shalt tell,

If courtesy and valour, as they wont,

Dwell in our city, or have vanish’d clean?

For one amidst us late condemn’d to wail,

Borsiere, yonder walking with his peers,

Grieves us no little by the news he brings.”

“An upstart multitude and sudden gains,

Pride and excess, O Florence! have in thee

Engender’d, so that now in tears thou mourn’st!”

Thus cried I with my face uprais’d, and they

All three, who for an answer took my words,

Look’d at each other, as men look when truth

Comes to their ear. “If thou at other times,”

They all at once rejoin’d, “so easily

Satisfy those, who question, happy thou,

Gifted with words, so apt to speak thy thought!

Wherefore if thou escape this darksome clime,

Returning to behold the radiant stars,

When thou with pleasure shalt retrace the past,

See that of us thou speak among mankind.”

This said, they broke the circle, and so swift

Fled, that as pinions seem’d their nimble feet.

Not in so short a time might one have said

“Amen,” as they had vanish’d. Straight my guide

Pursu’d his track. I follow’d; and small space

Had we pass’d onward, when the water’s sound

Was now so near at hand, that we had scarce

Heard one another’s speech for the loud din.

E’en as the river, that holds on its course

Unmingled, from the mount of Vesulo,

On the left side of Apennine, toward

The east, which Acquacheta higher up

They call, ere it descend into the vale,

At Forli by that name no longer known,

Rebellows o’er Saint Benedict, roll’d on

From the Alpine summit down a precipice,

Where space enough to lodge a thousand spreads;

Thus downward from a craggy steep we found,

That this dark wave resounded, roaring loud,

So that the ear its clamour soon had stunn’d.

I had a cord that brac’d my girdle round,

Wherewith I erst had thought fast bound to take

The painted leopard. This when I had all

Unloosen’d from me (so my master bade)

I gather’d up, and stretch’d it forth to him.

Then to the right he turn’d, and from the brink

Standing few paces distant, cast it down

Into the deep abyss. “And somewhat strange,”

Thus to myself I spake, “signal so strange

Betokens, which my guide with earnest eye

Thus follows.” Ah! what caution must men use

With those who look not at the deed alone,

But spy into the thoughts with subtle skill!

“Quickly shall come,” he said, “what I expect,

Thine eye discover quickly, that whereof

Thy thought is dreaming.” Ever to that truth,

Which but the semblance of a falsehood wears,

A man, if possible, should bar his lip;

Since, although blameless, he incurs reproach.

But silence here were vain; and by these notes

Which now I sing, reader! I swear to thee,

So may they favour find to latest times!

That through the gross and murky air I spied

A shape come swimming up, that might have quell’d

The stoutest heart with wonder, in such guise

As one returns, who hath been down to loose

An anchor grappled fast against some rock,

Or to aught else that in the salt wave lies,

Who upward springing close draws in his feet.

CANTO XVII

“Lo! the fell monster with the deadly sting!

Who passes mountains, breaks through fenced walls

And firm embattled spears, and with his filth

Taints all the world!” Thus me my guide address’d,

And beckon’d him, that he should come to shore,

Near to the stony causeway’s utmost edge.

Forthwith that image vile of fraud appear’d,

His head and upper part expos’d on land,

But laid not on the shore his bestial train.

His face the semblance of a just man’s wore,

So kind and gracious was its outward cheer;

The rest was serpent all: two shaggy claws

Reach’d to the armpits, and the back and breast,

And either side, were painted o’er with nodes

And orbits. Colours variegated more

Nor Turks nor Tartars e’er on cloth of state

With interchangeable embroidery wove,

Nor spread Arachne o’er her curious loom.

As ofttimes a light skiff, moor’d to the shore,

Stands part in water, part upon the land;

Or, as where dwells the greedy German boor,

The beaver settles watching for his prey;

So on the rim, that fenc’d the sand with rock,

Sat perch’d the fiend of evil. In the void

Glancing, his tail upturn’d its venomous fork,

With sting like scorpion’s arm’d. Then thus my guide:

“Now need our way must turn few steps apart,

Far as to that ill beast, who couches there.”

Thereat toward the right our downward course

We shap’d, and, better to escape the flame

And burning marle, ten paces on the verge

Proceeded. Soon as we to him arrive,

A little further on mine eye beholds

A tribe of spirits, seated on the sand

Near the wide chasm. Forthwith my master spake:

“That to the full thy knowledge may extend

Of all this round contains, go now, and mark

The mien these wear: but hold not long discourse.

Till thou returnest, I with him meantime

Will parley, that to us he may vouchsafe

The aid of his strong shoulders.” Thus alone

Yet forward on the extremity I pac’d

Of that seventh circle, where the mournful tribe

Were seated. At the eyes forth gush’d their pangs.

Against the vapours and the torrid soil

Alternately their shifting hands they plied.

Thus use the dogs in summer still to ply

Their jaws and feet by turns, when bitten sore

By gnats, or flies, or gadflies swarming round.

Noting the visages of some, who lay

Beneath the pelting of that dolorous fire,

One of them all I knew not; but perceiv’d,

That pendent from his neck each bore a pouch

With colours and with emblems various mark’d,

On which it seem’d as if their eye did feed.

And when amongst them looking round I came,

A yellow purse I saw with azure wrought,

That wore a lion’s countenance and port.

Then still my sight pursuing its career,

Another I beheld, than blood more red.

A goose display of whiter wing than curd.

And one, who bore a fat and azure swine

Pictur’d on his white scrip, addressed me thus:

“What dost thou in this deep? Go now and know,

Since yet thou livest, that my neighbour here

Vitaliano on my left shall sit.

A Paduan with these Florentines am I.

Ofttimes they thunder in mine ears, exclaiming

‘O haste that noble knight! he who the pouch

With the three beaks will bring!’” This said, he writh’d

The mouth, and loll’d the tongue out, like an ox

That licks his nostrils. I, lest longer stay

He ill might brook, who bade me stay not long,

Backward my steps from those sad spirits turn’d.

My guide already seated on the haunch

Of the fierce animal I found; and thus

He me encourag’d. “Be thou stout; be bold.

Down such a steep flight must we now descend!

Mount thou before: for that no power the tail

May have to harm thee, I will be i’ th’ midst.”

As one, who hath an ague fit so near,

His nails already are turn’d blue, and he

Quivers all o’er, if he but eye the shade;

Such was my cheer at hearing of his words.

But shame soon interpos’d her threat, who makes

The servant bold in presence of his lord.

I settled me upon those shoulders huge,

And would have said, but that the words to aid

My purpose came not, “Look thou clasp me firm!”

But he whose succour then not first I prov’d,

Soon as I mounted, in his arms aloft,

Embracing, held me up, and thus he spake:

“Geryon! now move thee! be thy wheeling gyres

Of ample circuit, easy thy descent.

Think on th’ unusual burden thou sustain’st.”

As a small vessel, back’ning out from land,

Her station quits; so thence the monster loos’d,

And when he felt himself at large, turn’d round

There where the breast had been, his forked tail.

Thus, like an eel, outstretch’d at length he steer’d,

Gath’ring the air up with retractile claws.

Not greater was the dread when Phaeton

The reins let drop at random, whence high heaven,

Whereof signs yet appear, was wrapt in flames;

Nor when ill-fated Icarus perceiv’d,

By liquefaction of the scalded wax,

The trusted pennons loosen’d from his loins,

His sire exclaiming loud, “Ill way thou keep’st!”

Than was my dread, when round me on each part

The air I view’d, and other object none

Save the fell beast. He slowly sailing, wheels

His downward motion, unobserv’d of me,

But that the wind, arising to my face,

Breathes on me from below. Now on our right

I heard the cataract beneath us leap

With hideous crash; whence bending down to’ explore,

New terror I conceiv’d at the steep plunge:

For flames I saw, and wailings smote mine ear:

So that all trembling close I crouch’d my limbs,

And then distinguish’d, unperceiv’d before,

By the dread torments that on every side

Drew nearer, how our downward course we wound.

As falcon, that hath long been on the wing,

But lure nor bird hath seen, while in despair

The falconer cries, “Ah me! thou stoop’st to earth!”

Wearied descends, and swiftly down the sky

In many an orbit wheels, then lighting sits

At distance from his lord in angry mood;

So Geryon lighting places us on foot

Low down at base of the deep-furrow’d rock,

And, of his burden there discharg’d, forthwith

Sprang forward, like an arrow from the string.

CANTO XVIII

There is a place within the depths of hell

Call’d Malebolge, all of rock dark-stain’d

With hue ferruginous, e’en as the steep

That round it circling winds. Right in the midst

Of that abominable region, yawns

A spacious gulf profound, whereof the frame

Due time shall tell. The circle, that remains,

Throughout its round, between the gulf and base

Of the high craggy banks, successive forms

Ten trenches, in its hollow bottom sunk.

As where to guard the walls, full many a foss

Begirds some stately castle, sure defence

Affording to the space within, so here

Were model’d these; and as like fortresses

E’en from their threshold to the brink without,

Are flank’d with bridges; from the rock’s low base

Thus flinty paths advanc’d, that ’cross the moles

And dikes, struck onward far as to the gulf,

That in one bound collected cuts them off.

Such was the place, wherein we found ourselves

From Geryon’s back dislodg’d. The bard to left

Held on his way, and I behind him mov’d.

On our right hand new misery I saw,

New pains, new executioners of wrath,

That swarming peopled the first chasm. Below

Were naked sinners. Hitherward they came,

Meeting our faces from the middle point,

With us beyond but with a larger stride.

E’en thus the Romans, when the year returns

Of Jubilee, with better speed to rid

The thronging multitudes, their means devise

For such as pass the bridge; that on one side

All front toward the castle, and approach

Saint Peter’s fane, on th’ other towards the mount.

Each divers way along the grisly rock,

Horn’d demons I beheld, with lashes huge,

That on their back unmercifully smote.

Ah! how they made them bound at the first stripe!

None for the second waited nor the third.

Meantime as on I pass’d, one met my sight

Whom soon as view’d; “Of him,” cried I, “not yet

Mine eye hath had his fill.” With fixed gaze

I therefore scann’d him. Straight the teacher kind

Paus’d with me, and consented I should walk

Backward a space, and the tormented spirit,

Who thought to hide him, bent his visage down.

But it avail’d him nought; for I exclaim’d:

“Thou who dost cast thy eye upon the ground,

Unless thy features do belie thee much,

Venedico art thou. But what brings thee

Into this bitter seas’ning?” He replied:

“Unwillingly I answer to thy words.

But thy clear speech, that to my mind recalls

The world I once inhabited, constrains me.

Know then ’twas I who led fair Ghisola

To do the Marquis’ will, however fame

The shameful tale have bruited. Nor alone

Bologna hither sendeth me to mourn

Rather with us the place is so o’erthrong’d

That not so many tongues this day are taught,

Betwixt the Reno and Savena’s stream,

To answer SIPA in their country’s phrase.

And if of that securer proof thou need,

Remember but our craving thirst for gold.”

Him speaking thus, a demon with his thong

Struck, and exclaim’d, “Away! corrupter! here

Women are none for sale.” Forthwith I join’d

My escort, and few paces thence we came

To where a rock forth issued from the bank.

That easily ascended, to the right

Upon its splinter turning, we depart

From those eternal barriers. When arriv’d,

Where underneath the gaping arch lets pass

The scourged souls: “Pause here,” the teacher said,

“And let these others miserable, now

Strike on thy ken, faces not yet beheld,

For that together they with us have walk’d.”

From the old bridge we ey’d the pack, who came

From th’ other side towards us, like the rest,

Excoriate from the lash. My gentle guide,

By me unquestion’d, thus his speech resum’d:

“Behold that lofty shade, who this way tends,

And seems too woe-begone to drop a tear.

How yet the regal aspect he retains!

Jason is he, whose skill and prowess won

The ram from Colchos. To the Lemnian isle

His passage thither led him, when those bold

And pitiless women had slain all their males.

There he with tokens and fair witching words

Hypsipyle beguil’d, a virgin young,

Who first had all the rest herself beguil’d.

Impregnated he left her there forlorn.

Such is the guilt condemns him to this pain.

Here too Medea’s inj’ries are avenged.

All bear him company, who like deceit

To his have practis’d. And thus much to know

Of the first vale suffice thee, and of those

Whom its keen torments urge.” Now had we come

Where, crossing the next pier, the straighten’d path

Bestrides its shoulders to another arch.

Hence in the second chasm we heard the ghosts,

Who jibber in low melancholy sounds,

With wide-stretch’d nostrils snort, and on themselves

Smite with their palms. Upon the banks a scurf

From the foul steam condens’d, encrusting hung,

That held sharp combat with the sight and smell.

So hollow is the depth, that from no part,

Save on the summit of the rocky span,

Could I distinguish aught. Thus far we came;

And thence I saw, within the foss below,

A crowd immers’d in ordure, that appear’d

Draff of the human body. There beneath

Searching with eye inquisitive, I mark’d

One with his head so grim’d, ’twere hard to deem,

If he were clerk or layman. Loud he cried:

“Why greedily thus bendest more on me,

Than on these other filthy ones, thy ken?”

“Because if true my mem’ry,” I replied,

“I heretofore have seen thee with dry locks,

And thou Alessio art of Lucca sprung.

Therefore than all the rest I scan thee more.”

Then beating on his brain these words he spake:

“Me thus low down my flatteries have sunk,

Wherewith I ne’er enough could glut my tongue.”

My leader thus: “A little further stretch

Thy face, that thou the visage well mayst note

Of that besotted, sluttish courtezan,

Who there doth rend her with defiled nails,

Now crouching down, now risen on her feet.

“Thais is this, the harlot, whose false lip

Answer’d her doting paramour that ask’d,

‘Thankest me much!’—‘Say rather wondrously,’

And seeing this here satiate be our view.”

CANTO XIX

Woe to thee, Simon Magus! woe to you,

His wretched followers! who the things of God,

Which should be wedded unto goodness, them,

Rapacious as ye are, do prostitute

For gold and silver in adultery!

Now must the trumpet sound for you, since yours

Is the third chasm. Upon the following vault

We now had mounted, where the rock impends

Directly o’er the centre of the foss.

Wisdom Supreme! how wonderful the art,

Which thou dost manifest in heaven, in earth,

And in the evil world, how just a meed

Allotting by thy virtue unto all!

I saw the livid stone, throughout the sides

And in its bottom full of apertures,

All equal in their width, and circular each,

Nor ample less nor larger they appear’d

Than in Saint John’s fair dome of me belov’d

Those fram’d to hold the pure baptismal streams,

One of the which I brake, some few years past,

To save a whelming infant; and be this

A seal to undeceive whoever doubts

The motive of my deed. From out the mouth

Of every one, emerg’d a sinner’s feet

And of the legs high upward as the calf

The rest beneath was hid. On either foot

The soles were burning, whence the flexile joints

Glanc’d with such violent motion, as had snapt

Asunder cords or twisted withs. As flame,

Feeding on unctuous matter, glides along

The surface, scarcely touching where it moves;

So here, from heel to point, glided the flames.

“Master! say who is he, than all the rest

Glancing in fiercer agony, on whom

A ruddier flame doth prey?” I thus inquir’d.

“If thou be willing,” he replied, “that I

Carry thee down, where least the slope bank falls,

He of himself shall tell thee and his wrongs.”

I then: “As pleases thee to me is best.

Thou art my lord; and know’st that ne’er I quit

Thy will: what silence hides that knowest thou.”

Thereat on the fourth pier we came, we turn’d,

And on our left descended to the depth,

A narrow strait and perforated close.

Nor from his side my leader set me down,

Till to his orifice he brought, whose limb

Quiv’ring express’d his pang. “Whoe’er thou art,

Sad spirit! thus revers’d, and as a stake

Driv’n in the soil!” I in these words began,

“If thou be able, utter forth thy voice.”

There stood I like the friar, that doth shrive

A wretch for murder doom’d, who e’en when fix’d,

Calleth him back, whence death awhile delays.

He shouted: “Ha! already standest there?

Already standest there, O Boniface!

By many a year the writing play’d me false.

So early dost thou surfeit with the wealth,

For which thou fearedst not in guile to take

The lovely lady, and then mangle her?”

I felt as those who, piercing not the drift

Of answer made them, stand as if expos’d

In mockery, nor know what to reply,

When Virgil thus admonish’d: “Tell him quick,

I am not he, not he, whom thou believ’st.”

And I, as was enjoin’d me, straight replied.

That heard, the spirit all did wrench his feet,

And sighing next in woeful accent spake:

“What then of me requirest?” “If to know

So much imports thee, who I am, that thou

Hast therefore down the bank descended, learn

That in the mighty mantle I was rob’d,

And of a she-bear was indeed the son,

So eager to advance my whelps, that there

My having in my purse above I stow’d,

And here myself. Under my head are dragg’d

The rest, my predecessors in the guilt

Of simony. Stretch’d at their length they lie

Along an opening in the rock. ’Midst them

I also low shall fall, soon as he comes,

For whom I took thee, when so hastily

I question’d. But already longer time

Hath pass’d, since my souls kindled, and I thus

Upturn’d have stood, than is his doom to stand

Planted with fiery feet. For after him,

One yet of deeds more ugly shall arrive,

From forth the west, a shepherd without law,

Fated to cover both his form and mine.

He a new Jason shall be call’d, of whom

In Maccabees we read; and favour such

As to that priest his king indulgent show’d,

Shall be of France’s monarch shown to him.”

I know not if I here too far presum’d,

But in this strain I answer’d: “Tell me now,

What treasures from St. Peter at the first

Our Lord demanded, when he put the keys

Into his charge? Surely he ask’d no more

But, Follow me! Nor Peter nor the rest

Or gold or silver of Matthias took,

When lots were cast upon the forfeit place

Of the condemned soul. Abide thou then;

Thy punishment of right is merited:

And look thou well to that ill-gotten coin,

Which against Charles thy hardihood inspir’d.

If reverence of the keys restrain’d me not,

Which thou in happier time didst hold, I yet

Severer speech might use. Your avarice

O’ercasts the world with mourning, under foot

Treading the good, and raising bad men up.

Of shepherds, like to you, th’ Evangelist

Was ware, when her, who sits upon the waves,

With kings in filthy whoredom he beheld,

She who with seven heads tower’d at her birth,

And from ten horns her proof of glory drew,

Long as her spouse in virtue took delight.

Of gold and silver ye have made your god,

Diff’ring wherein from the idolater,

But he that worships one, a hundred ye?

Ah, Constantine! to how much ill gave birth,

Not thy conversion, but that plenteous dower,

Which the first wealthy Father gain’d from thee!”

Meanwhile, as thus I sung, he, whether wrath

Or conscience smote him, violent upsprang

Spinning on either sole. I do believe

My teacher well was pleas’d, with so compos’d

A lip, he listen’d ever to the sound

Of the true words I utter’d. In both arms

He caught, and to his bosom lifting me

Upward retrac’d the way of his descent.

Nor weary of his weight he press’d me close,

Till to the summit of the rock we came,

Our passage from the fourth to the fifth pier.

His cherish’d burden there gently he plac’d

Upon the rugged rock and steep, a path

Not easy for the clamb’ring goat to mount.

Thence to my view another vale appear’d

CANTO XX

And now the verse proceeds to torments new,

Fit argument of this the twentieth strain

Of the first song, whose awful theme records

The spirits whelm’d in woe. Earnest I look’d

Into the depth, that open’d to my view,

Moisten’d with tears of anguish, and beheld

A tribe, that came along the hollow vale,

In silence weeping: such their step as walk

Quires chanting solemn litanies on earth.

As on them more direct mine eye descends,

Each wondrously seem’d to be revers’d

At the neck-bone, so that the countenance

Was from the reins averted: and because

None might before him look, they were compell’d

To’ advance with backward gait. Thus one perhaps

Hath been by force of palsy clean transpos’d,

But I ne’er saw it nor believe it so.

Now, reader! think within thyself, so God

Fruit of thy reading give thee! how I long

Could keep my visage dry, when I beheld

Near me our form distorted in such guise,

That on the hinder parts fall’n from the face

The tears down-streaming roll’d. Against a rock

I leant and wept, so that my guide exclaim’d:

“What, and art thou too witless as the rest?

Here pity most doth show herself alive,

When she is dead. What guilt exceedeth his,

Who with Heaven’s judgment in his passion strives?

Raise up thy head, raise up, and see the man,

Before whose eyes earth gap’d in Thebes, when all

Cried out, ‘Amphiaraus, whither rushest?

‘Why leavest thou the war?’ He not the less

Fell ruining far as to Minos down,

Whose grapple none eludes. Lo! how he makes

The breast his shoulders, and who once too far

Before him wish’d to see, now backward looks,

And treads reverse his path. Tiresias note,

Who semblance chang’d, when woman he became

Of male, through every limb transform’d, and then

Once more behov’d him with his rod to strike

The two entwining serpents, ere the plumes,

That mark’d the better sex, might shoot again.

“Aruns, with more his belly facing, comes.

On Luni’s mountains ’midst the marbles white,

Where delves Carrara’s hind, who wons beneath,

A cavern was his dwelling, whence the stars

And main-sea wide in boundless view he held.

“The next, whose loosen’d tresses overspread

Her bosom, which thou seest not (for each hair

On that side grows) was Manto, she who search’d

Through many regions, and at length her seat

Fix’d in my native land, whence a short space

My words detain thy audience. When her sire

From life departed, and in servitude

The city dedicate to Bacchus mourn’d,

Long time she went a wand’rer through the world.

Aloft in Italy’s delightful land

A lake there lies, at foot of that proud Alp,

That o’er the Tyrol locks Germania in,

Its name Benacus, which a thousand rills,

Methinks, and more, water between the vale

Camonica and Garda and the height

Of Apennine remote. There is a spot

At midway of that lake, where he who bears

Of Trento’s flock the past’ral staff, with him

Of Brescia, and the Veronese, might each

Passing that way his benediction give.

A garrison of goodly site and strong

Peschiera stands, to awe with front oppos’d

The Bergamese and Brescian, whence the shore

More slope each way descends. There, whatsoev’er

Benacus’ bosom holds not, tumbling o’er

Down falls, and winds a river flood beneath

Through the green pastures. Soon as in his course

The steam makes head, Benacus then no more

They call the name, but Mincius, till at last

Reaching Governo into Po he falls.

Not far his course hath run, when a wide flat

It finds, which overstretchmg as a marsh

It covers, pestilent in summer oft.

Hence journeying, the savage maiden saw

’Midst of the fen a territory waste

And naked of inhabitants. To shun

All human converse, here she with her slaves

Plying her arts remain’d, and liv’d, and left

Her body tenantless. Thenceforth the tribes,

Who round were scatter’d, gath’ring to that place

Assembled; for its strength was great, enclos’d

On all parts by the fen. On those dead bones

They rear’d themselves a city, for her sake,

Calling it Mantua, who first chose the spot,

Nor ask’d another omen for the name,

Wherein more numerous the people dwelt,

Ere Casalodi’s madness by deceit

Was wrong’d of Pinamonte. If thou hear

Henceforth another origin assign’d

Of that my country, I forewarn thee now,

That falsehood none beguile thee of the truth.”

I answer’d: “Teacher, I conclude thy words

So certain, that all else shall be to me

As embers lacking life. But now of these,

Who here proceed, instruct me, if thou see

Any that merit more especial note.

For thereon is my mind alone intent.”

He straight replied: “That spirit, from whose cheek

The beard sweeps o’er his shoulders brown, what time

Graecia was emptied of her males, that scarce

The cradles were supplied, the seer was he

In Aulis, who with Calchas gave the sign

When first to cut the cable. Him they nam’d

Eurypilus: so sings my tragic strain,

In which majestic measure well thou know’st,

Who know’st it all. That other, round the loins

So slender of his shape, was Michael Scot,

Practis’d in ev’ry slight of magic wile.

“Guido Bonatti see: Asdente mark,

Who now were willing, he had tended still

The thread and cordwain; and too late repents.

“See next the wretches, who the needle left,

The shuttle and the spindle, and became

Diviners: baneful witcheries they wrought

With images and herbs. But onward now:

For now doth Cain with fork of thorns confine

On either hemisphere, touching the wave

Beneath the towers of Seville. Yesternight

The moon was round. Thou mayst remember well:

For she good service did thee in the gloom

Of the deep wood.” This said, both onward mov’d.

CANTO XXI

Thus we from bridge to bridge, with other talk,

The which my drama cares not to rehearse,

Pass’d on; and to the summit reaching, stood

To view another gap, within the round

Of Malebolge, other bootless pangs.

Marvelous darkness shadow’d o’er the place.

In the Venetians’ arsenal as boils

Through wintry months tenacious pitch, to smear

Their unsound vessels; for th’ inclement time

Sea-faring men restrains, and in that while

His bark one builds anew, another stops

The ribs of his, that hath made many a voyage;

One hammers at the prow, one at the poop;

This shapeth oars, that other cables twirls,

The mizen one repairs and main-sail rent

So not by force of fire but art divine

Boil’d here a glutinous thick mass, that round

Lim’d all the shore beneath. I that beheld,

But therein nought distinguish’d, save the surge,

Rais’d by the boiling, in one mighty swell

Heave, and by turns subsiding and fall. While there

I fix’d my ken below, “Mark! mark!” my guide

Exclaiming, drew me towards him from the place,

Wherein I stood. I turn’d myself as one,

Impatient to behold that which beheld

He needs must shun, whom sudden fear unmans,

That he his flight delays not for the view.

Behind me I discern’d a devil black,

That running, up advanc’d along the rock.

Ah! what fierce cruelty his look bespake!

In act how bitter did he seem, with wings

Buoyant outstretch’d and feet of nimblest tread!

His shoulder proudly eminent and sharp

Was with a sinner charg’d; by either haunch

He held him, the foot’s sinew griping fast.

“Ye of our bridge!” he cried, “keen-talon’d fiends!

Lo! one of Santa Zita’s elders! Him

Whelm ye beneath, while I return for more.

That land hath store of such. All men are there,

Except Bonturo, barterers: of ‘no’

For lucre there an ‘aye’ is quickly made.”

Him dashing down, o’er the rough rock he turn’d,

Nor ever after thief a mastiff loos’d

Sped with like eager haste. That other sank

And forthwith writhing to the surface rose.

But those dark demons, shrouded by the bridge,

Cried “Here the hallow’d visage saves not: here

Is other swimming than in Serchio’s wave.

Wherefore if thou desire we rend thee not,

Take heed thou mount not o’er the pitch.” This said,

They grappled him with more than hundred hooks,

And shouted: “Cover’d thou must sport thee here;

So, if thou canst, in secret mayst thou filch.”

E’en thus the cook bestirs him, with his grooms,

To thrust the flesh into the caldron down

With flesh-hooks, that it float not on the top.

Me then my guide bespake: “Lest they descry,

That thou art here, behind a craggy rock

Bend low and screen thee; and whate’er of force

Be offer’d me, or insult, fear thou not:

For I am well advis’d, who have been erst

In the like fray.” Beyond the bridge’s head

Therewith he pass’d, and reaching the sixth pier,

Behov’d him then a forehead terror-proof.

With storm and fury, as when dogs rush forth

Upon the poor man’s back, who suddenly

From whence he standeth makes his suit; so rush’d

Those from beneath the arch, and against him

Their weapons all they pointed. He aloud:

“Be none of you outrageous: ere your time

Dare seize me, come forth from amongst you one,

“Who having heard my words, decide he then

If he shall tear these limbs.” They shouted loud,

“Go, Malacoda!” Whereat one advanc’d,

The others standing firm, and as he came,

“What may this turn avail him?” he exclaim’d.

“Believ’st thou, Malacoda! I had come

Thus far from all your skirmishing secure,”

My teacher answered, “without will divine

And destiny propitious? Pass we then

For so Heaven’s pleasure is, that I should lead

Another through this savage wilderness.”

Forthwith so fell his pride, that he let drop

The instrument of torture at his feet,

And to the rest exclaim’d: “We have no power

To strike him.” Then to me my guide: “O thou!

Who on the bridge among the crags dost sit

Low crouching, safely now to me return.”

I rose, and towards him moved with speed: the fiends

Meantime all forward drew: me terror seiz’d

Lest they should break the compact they had made.

Thus issuing from Caprona, once I saw

Th’ infantry dreading, lest his covenant

The foe should break; so close he hemm’d them round.

I to my leader’s side adher’d, mine eyes

With fixt and motionless observance bent

On their unkindly visage. They their hooks

Protruding, one the other thus bespake:

“Wilt thou I touch him on the hip?” To whom

Was answer’d: “Even so; nor miss thy aim.”

But he, who was in conf’rence with my guide,

Turn’d rapid round, and thus the demon spake:

“Stay, stay thee, Scarmiglione!” Then to us

He added: “Further footing to your step

This rock affords not, shiver’d to the base

Of the sixth arch. But would you still proceed,

Up by this cavern go: not distant far,

Another rock will yield you passage safe.

Yesterday, later by five hours than now,

Twelve hundred threescore years and six had fill’d

The circuit of their course, since here the way

Was broken. Thitherward I straight dispatch

Certain of these my scouts, who shall espy

If any on the surface bask. With them

Go ye: for ye shall find them nothing fell.

Come Alichino forth,” with that he cried,

“And Calcabrina, and Cagnazzo thou!

The troop of ten let Barbariccia lead.

With Libicocco Draghinazzo haste,

Fang’d Ciriatto, Grafflacane fierce,

And Farfarello, and mad Rubicant.

Search ye around the bubbling tar. For these,

In safety lead them, where the other crag

Uninterrupted traverses the dens.”

I then: “O master! what a sight is there!

Ah! without escort, journey we alone,

Which, if thou know the way, I covet not.

Unless thy prudence fail thee, dost not mark

How they do gnarl upon us, and their scowl

Threatens us present tortures?” He replied:

“I charge thee fear not: let them, as they will,

Gnarl on: ’t is but in token of their spite

Against the souls, who mourn in torment steep’d.”

To leftward o’er the pier they turn’d; but each

Had first between his teeth prest close the tongue,

Toward their leader for a signal looking,

Which he with sound obscene triumphant gave.

CANTO XXII

It hath been heretofore my chance to see

Horsemen with martial order shifting camp,

To onset sallying, or in muster rang’d,

Or in retreat sometimes outstretch’d for flight;

Light-armed squadrons and fleet foragers

Scouring thy plains, Arezzo! have I seen,

And clashing tournaments, and tilting jousts,

Now with the sound of trumpets, now of bells,

Tabors, or signals made from castled heights,

And with inventions multiform, our own,

Or introduc’d from foreign land; but ne’er

To such a strange recorder I beheld,

In evolution moving, horse nor foot,

Nor ship, that tack’d by sign from land or star.

With the ten demons on our way we went;

Ah fearful company! but in the church

With saints, with gluttons at the tavern’s mess.

Still earnest on the pitch I gaz’d, to mark

All things whate’er the chasm contain’d, and those

Who burn’d within. As dolphins, that, in sign

To mariners, heave high their arched backs,

That thence forewarn’d they may advise to save

Their threaten’d vessels; so, at intervals,

To ease the pain his back some sinner show’d,

Then hid more nimbly than the lightning glance.

E’en as the frogs, that of a wat’ry moat

Stand at the brink, with the jaws only out,

Their feet and of the trunk all else concealed,

Thus on each part the sinners stood, but soon

As Barbariccia was at hand, so they

Drew back under the wave. I saw, and yet

My heart doth stagger, one, that waited thus,

As it befalls that oft one frog remains,

While the next springs away: and Graffiacan,

Who of the fiends was nearest, grappling seiz’d

His clotted locks, and dragg’d him sprawling up,

That he appear’d to me an otter. Each

Already by their names I knew, so well

When they were chosen, I observ’d, and mark’d

How one the other call’d. “O Rubicant!

See that his hide thou with thy talons flay,”

Shouted together all the cursed crew.

Then I: “Inform thee, master! if thou may,

What wretched soul is this, on whom their hand

His foes have laid.” My leader to his side

Approach’d, and whence he came inquir’d, to whom

Was answer’d thus: “Born in Navarre’s domain

My mother plac’d me in a lord’s retinue,

For she had borne me to a losel vile,

A spendthrift of his substance and himself.

The good king Thibault after that I serv’d,

To peculating here my thoughts were turn’d,

Whereof I give account in this dire heat.”

Straight Ciriatto, from whose mouth a tusk

Issued on either side, as from a boar,

Ript him with one of these. ’Twixt evil claws

The mouse had fall’n: but Barbariccia cried,

Seizing him with both arms: “Stand thou apart,

While I do fix him on my prong transpierc’d.”

Then added, turning to my guide his face,

“Inquire of him, if more thou wish to learn,

Ere he again be rent.” My leader thus:

“Then tell us of the partners in thy guilt;

Knowest thou any sprung of Latian land

Under the tar?”—“I parted,” he replied,

“But now from one, who sojourn’d not far thence;

So were I under shelter now with him!

Nor hook nor talon then should scare me more.”—.

“Too long we suffer,” Libicocco cried,

Then, darting forth a prong, seiz’d on his arm,

And mangled bore away the sinewy part.

Him Draghinazzo by his thighs beneath

Would next have caught, whence angrily their chief,

Turning on all sides round, with threat’ning brow

Restrain’d them. When their strife a little ceas’d,

Of him, who yet was gazing on his wound,

My teacher thus without delay inquir’d:

“Who was the spirit, from whom by evil hap

Parting, as thou has told, thou cam’st to shore?”—

“It was the friar Gomita,” he rejoin’d,

“He of Gallura, vessel of all guile,

Who had his master’s enemies in hand,

And us’d them so that they commend him well.

Money he took, and them at large dismiss’d.

So he reports: and in each other charge

Committed to his keeping, play’d the part

Of barterer to the height: with him doth herd

The chief of Logodoro, Michel Zanche.

Sardinia is a theme, whereof their tongue

Is never weary. Out! alas! behold

That other, how he grins! More would I say,

But tremble lest he mean to maul me sore.”

Their captain then to Farfarello turning,

Who roll’d his moony eyes in act to strike,

Rebuk’d him thus: “Off! cursed bird! Avaunt!”—

“If ye desire to see or hear,” he thus

Quaking with dread resum’d, “or Tuscan spirits

Or Lombard, I will cause them to appear.

Meantime let these ill talons bate their fury,

So that no vengeance they may fear from them,

And I, remaining in this self-same place,

Will for myself but one, make sev’n appear,

When my shrill whistle shall be heard; for so

Our custom is to call each other up.”

Cagnazzo at that word deriding grinn’d,

Then wagg’d the head and spake: “Hear his device,

Mischievous as he is, to plunge him down.”

Whereto he thus, who fail’d not in rich store

Of nice-wove toils; “Mischief forsooth extreme,

Meant only to procure myself more woe!”

No longer Alichino then refrain’d,

But thus, the rest gainsaying, him bespake:

“If thou do cast thee down, I not on foot

Will chase thee, but above the pitch will beat

My plumes. Quit we the vantage ground, and let

The bank be as a shield, that we may see

If singly thou prevail against us all.”

Now, reader, of new sport expect to hear!

They each one turn’d his eyes to the other shore,

He first, who was the hardest to persuade.

The spirit of Navarre chose well his time,

Planted his feet on land, and at one leap

Escaping disappointed their resolve.

Them quick resentment stung, but him the most,

Who was the cause of failure; in pursuit

He therefore sped, exclaiming: “Thou art caught.”

But little it avail’d: terror outstripp’d

His following flight: the other plung’d beneath,

And he with upward pinion rais’d his breast:

E’en thus the water-fowl, when she perceives

The falcon near, dives instant down, while he

Enrag’d and spent retires. That mockery

In Calcabrina fury stirr’d, who flew

After him, with desire of strife inflam’d;

And, for the barterer had ’scap’d, so turn’d

His talons on his comrade. O’er the dyke

In grapple close they join’d; but the other prov’d

A goshawk able to rend well his foe;

And in the boiling lake both fell. The heat

Was umpire soon between them, but in vain

To lift themselves they strove, so fast were glued

Their pennons. Barbariccia, as the rest,

That chance lamenting, four in flight dispatch’d

From the other coast, with all their weapons arm’d.

They, to their post on each side speedily

Descending, stretch’d their hooks toward the fiends,

Who flounder’d, inly burning from their scars:

And we departing left them to that broil.

CANTO XXIII

In silence and in solitude we went,

One first, the other following his steps,

As minor friars journeying on their road.

The present fray had turn’d my thoughts to muse

Upon old Aesop’s fable, where he told

What fate unto the mouse and frog befell.

For language hath not sounds more like in sense,

Than are these chances, if the origin

And end of each be heedfully compar’d.

And as one thought bursts from another forth,

So afterward from that another sprang,

Which added doubly to my former fear.

For thus I reason’d: “These through us have been

So foil’d, with loss and mock’ry so complete,

As needs must sting them sore. If anger then

Be to their evil will conjoin’d, more fell

They shall pursue us, than the savage hound

Snatches the leveret, panting ’twixt his jaws.”

Already I perceiv’d my hair stand all

On end with terror, and look’d eager back.

“Teacher,” I thus began, “if speedily

Thyself and me thou hide not, much I dread

Those evil talons. Even now behind

They urge us: quick imagination works

So forcibly, that I already feel them.”

He answer’d: “Were I form’d of leaded glass,

I should not sooner draw unto myself

Thy outward image, than I now imprint

That from within. This moment came thy thoughts

Presented before mine, with similar act

And count’nance similar, so that from both

I one design have fram’d. If the right coast

Incline so much, that we may thence descend

Into the other chasm, we shall escape

Secure from this imagined pursuit.”

He had not spoke his purpose to the end,

When I from far beheld them with spread wings

Approach to take us. Suddenly my guide

Caught me, ev’n as a mother that from sleep

Is by the noise arous’d, and near her sees

The climbing fires, who snatches up her babe

And flies ne’er pausing, careful more of him

Than of herself, that but a single vest

Clings round her limbs. Down from the jutting beach

Supine he cast him, to that pendent rock,

Which closes on one part the other chasm.

Never ran water with such hurrying pace

Adown the tube to turn a landmill’s wheel,

When nearest it approaches to the spokes,

As then along that edge my master ran,

Carrying me in his bosom, as a child,

Not a companion. Scarcely had his feet

Reach’d to the lowest of the bed beneath,

When over us the steep they reach’d; but fear

In him was none; for that high Providence,

Which plac’d them ministers of the fifth foss,

Power of departing thence took from them all.

There in the depth we saw a painted tribe,

Who pac’d with tardy steps around, and wept,

Faint in appearance and o’ercome with toil.

Caps had they on, with hoods, that fell low down

Before their eyes, in fashion like to those

Worn by the monks in Cologne. Their outside

Was overlaid with gold, dazzling to view,

But leaden all within, and of such weight,

That Frederick’s compar’d to these were straw.

Oh, everlasting wearisome attire!

We yet once more with them together turn’d

To leftward, on their dismal moan intent.

But by the weight oppress’d, so slowly came

The fainting people, that our company

Was chang’d at every movement of the step.

Whence I my guide address’d: “See that thou find

Some spirit, whose name may by his deeds be known,

And to that end look round thee as thou go’st.”

Then one, who understood the Tuscan voice,

Cried after us aloud: “Hold in your feet,

Ye who so swiftly speed through the dusk air.

Perchance from me thou shalt obtain thy wish.”

Whereat my leader, turning, me bespake:

“Pause, and then onward at their pace proceed.”

I staid, and saw two Spirits in whose look

Impatient eagerness of mind was mark’d

To overtake me; but the load they bare

And narrow path retarded their approach.

Soon as arriv’d, they with an eye askance

Perus’d me, but spake not: then turning each

To other thus conferring said: “This one

Seems, by the action of his throat, alive.

And, be they dead, what privilege allows

They walk unmantled by the cumbrous stole?”

Then thus to me: “Tuscan, who visitest

The college of the mourning hypocrites,

Disdain not to instruct us who thou art.”

“By Arno’s pleasant stream,” I thus replied,

“In the great city I was bred and grew,

And wear the body I have ever worn.

but who are ye, from whom such mighty grief,

As now I witness, courseth down your cheeks?

What torment breaks forth in this bitter woe?”

“Our bonnets gleaming bright with orange hue,”

One of them answer’d, “are so leaden gross,

That with their weight they make the balances

To crack beneath them. Joyous friars we were,

Bologna’s natives, Catalano I,

He Loderingo nam’d, and by thy land

Together taken, as men used to take

A single and indifferent arbiter,

To reconcile their strifes. How there we sped,

Gardingo’s vicinage can best declare.”

“O friars!” I began, “your miseries—”

But there brake off, for one had caught my eye,

Fix’d to a cross with three stakes on the ground:

He, when he saw me, writh’d himself, throughout

Distorted, ruffling with deep sighs his beard.

And Catalano, who thereof was ’ware,

Thus spake: “That pierced spirit, whom intent

Thou view’st, was he who gave the Pharisees

Counsel, that it were fitting for one man

To suffer for the people. He doth lie

Transverse; nor any passes, but him first

Behoves make feeling trial how each weighs.

In straits like this along the foss are plac’d

The father of his consort, and the rest

Partakers in that council, seed of ill

And sorrow to the Jews.” I noted then,

How Virgil gaz’d with wonder upon him,

Thus abjectly extended on the cross

In banishment eternal. To the friar

He next his words address’d: “We pray ye tell,

If so be lawful, whether on our right

Lies any opening in the rock, whereby

We both may issue hence, without constraint

On the dark angels, that compell’d they come

To lead us from this depth.” He thus replied:

“Nearer than thou dost hope, there is a rock

From the next circle moving, which o’ersteps

Each vale of horror, save that here his cope

Is shatter’d. By the ruin ye may mount:

For on the side it slants, and most the height

Rises below.” With head bent down awhile

My leader stood, then spake: “He warn’d us ill,

Who yonder hangs the sinners on his hook.”

To whom the friar: “At Bologna erst

I many vices of the devil heard,

Among the rest was said, ‘He is a liar,

And the father of lies!’” When he had spoke,

My leader with large strides proceeded on,

Somewhat disturb’d with anger in his look.

I therefore left the spirits heavy laden,

And following, his beloved footsteps mark’d.

CANTO XXIV

In the year’s early nonage, when the sun

Tempers his tresses in Aquarius’ urn,

And now towards equal day the nights recede,

When as the rime upon the earth puts on

Her dazzling sister’s image, but not long

Her milder sway endures, then riseth up

The village hind, whom fails his wintry store,

And looking out beholds the plain around

All whiten’d, whence impatiently he smites

His thighs, and to his hut returning in,

There paces to and fro, wailing his lot,

As a discomfited and helpless man;

Then comes he forth again, and feels new hope

Spring in his bosom, finding e’en thus soon

The world hath chang’d its count’nance, grasps his crook,

And forth to pasture drives his little flock:

So me my guide dishearten’d when I saw

His troubled forehead, and so speedily

That ill was cur’d; for at the fallen bridge

Arriving, towards me with a look as sweet,

He turn’d him back, as that I first beheld

At the steep mountain’s foot. Regarding well

The ruin, and some counsel first maintain’d

With his own thought, he open’d wide his arm

And took me up. As one, who, while he works,

Computes his labour’s issue, that he seems

Still to foresee the effect, so lifting me

Up to the summit of one peak, he fix’d

His eye upon another. “Grapple that,”

Said he, “but first make proof, if it be such

As will sustain thee.” For one capp’d with lead

This were no journey. Scarcely he, though light,

And I, though onward push’d from crag to crag,

Could mount. And if the precinct of this coast

Were not less ample than the last, for him

I know not, but my strength had surely fail’d.

But Malebolge all toward the mouth

Inclining of the nethermost abyss,

The site of every valley hence requires,

That one side upward slope, the other fall.

At length the point of our descent we reach’d

From the last flag: soon as to that arriv’d,

So was the breath exhausted from my lungs,

I could no further, but did seat me there.

“Now needs thy best of man;” so spake my guide:

“For not on downy plumes, nor under shade

Of canopy reposing, fame is won,

Without which whosoe’er consumes his days

Leaveth such vestige of himself on earth,

As smoke in air or foam upon the wave.

Thou therefore rise: vanish thy weariness

By the mind’s effort, in each struggle form’d

To vanquish, if she suffer not the weight

Of her corporeal frame to crush her down.

A longer ladder yet remains to scale.

From these to have escap’d sufficeth not.

If well thou note me, profit by my words.”

I straightway rose, and show’d myself less spent

Than I in truth did feel me. “On,” I cried,

“For I am stout and fearless.” Up the rock

Our way we held, more rugged than before,

Narrower and steeper far to climb. From talk

I ceas’d not, as we journey’d, so to seem

Least faint; whereat a voice from the other foss

Did issue forth, for utt’rance suited ill.

Though on the arch that crosses there I stood,

What were the words I knew not, but who spake

Seem’d mov’d in anger. Down I stoop’d to look,

But my quick eye might reach not to the depth

For shrouding darkness; wherefore thus I spake:

“To the next circle, Teacher, bend thy steps,

And from the wall dismount we; for as hence

I hear and understand not, so I see

Beneath, and naught discern.”—“I answer not,”

Said he, “but by the deed. To fair request

Silent performance maketh best return.”

We from the bridge’s head descended, where

To the eighth mound it joins, and then the chasm

Opening to view, I saw a crowd within

Of serpents terrible, so strange of shape

And hideous, that remembrance in my veins

Yet shrinks the vital current. Of her sands

Let Lybia vaunt no more: if Jaculus,

Pareas and Chelyder be her brood,

Cenchris and Amphisboena, plagues so dire

Or in such numbers swarming ne’er she shew’d,

Not with all Ethiopia, and whate’er

Above the Erythraean sea is spawn’d.

Amid this dread exuberance of woe

Ran naked spirits wing’d with horrid fear,

Nor hope had they of crevice where to hide,

Or heliotrope to charm them out of view.

With serpents were their hands behind them bound,

Which through their reins infix’d the tail and head

Twisted in folds before. And lo! on one

Near to our side, darted an adder up,

And, where the neck is on the shoulders tied,

Transpierc’d him. Far more quickly than e’er pen

Wrote O or I, he kindled, burn’d, and chang’d

To ashes, all pour’d out upon the earth.

When there dissolv’d he lay, the dust again

Uproll’d spontaneous, and the self-same form

Instant resumed. So mighty sages tell,

The Arabian Phoenix, when five hundred years

Have well nigh circled, dies, and springs forthwith

Renascent. Blade nor herb throughout his life

He tastes, but tears of frankincense alone

And odorous amomum: swaths of nard

And myrrh his funeral shroud. As one that falls,

He knows not how, by force demoniac dragg’d

To earth, or through obstruction fettering up

In chains invisible the powers of man,

Who, risen from his trance, gazeth around,

Bewilder’d with the monstrous agony

He hath endur’d, and wildly staring sighs;

So stood aghast the sinner when he rose.

Oh! how severe God’s judgment, that deals out

Such blows in stormy vengeance! Who he was

My teacher next inquir’d, and thus in few

He answer’d: “Vanni Fucci am I call’d,

Not long since rained down from Tuscany

To this dire gullet. Me the beastial life

And not the human pleas’d, mule that I was,

Who in Pistoia found my worthy den.”

I then to Virgil: “Bid him stir not hence,

And ask what crime did thrust him hither: once

A man I knew him choleric and bloody.”

The sinner heard and feign’d not, but towards me

His mind directing and his face, wherein

Was dismal shame depictur’d, thus he spake:

“It grieves me more to have been caught by thee

In this sad plight, which thou beholdest, than

When I was taken from the other life.

I have no power permitted to deny

What thou inquirest.” I am doom’d thus low

To dwell, for that the sacristy by me

Was rifled of its goodly ornaments,

And with the guilt another falsely charged.

But that thou mayst not joy to see me thus,

So as thou e’er shalt ’scape this darksome realm

Open thine ears and hear what I forebode.

Reft of the Neri first Pistoia pines,

Then Florence changeth citizens and laws.

From Valdimagra, drawn by wrathful Mars,

A vapour rises, wrapt in turbid mists,

And sharp and eager driveth on the storm

With arrowy hurtling o’er Piceno’s field,

Whence suddenly the cloud shall burst, and strike

Each helpless Bianco prostrate to the ground.

This have I told, that grief may rend thy heart.”

CANTO XXV

When he had spoke, the sinner rais’d his hands

Pointed in mockery, and cried: “Take them, God!

I level them at thee!” From that day forth

The serpents were my friends; for round his neck

One of then rolling twisted, as it said,

“Be silent, tongue!” Another to his arms

Upgliding, tied them, riveting itself

So close, it took from them the power to move.

Pistoia! Ah Pistoia! why dost doubt

To turn thee into ashes, cumb’ring earth

No longer, since in evil act so far

Thou hast outdone thy seed? I did not mark,

Through all the gloomy circles of the abyss,

Spirit, that swell’d so proudly ’gainst his God,

Not him, who headlong fell from Thebes. He fled,

Nor utter’d more; and after him there came

A centaur full of fury, shouting, “Where

Where is the caitiff?” On Maremma’s marsh

Swarm not the serpent tribe, as on his haunch

They swarm’d, to where the human face begins.

Behind his head upon the shoulders lay,

With open wings, a dragon breathing fire

On whomsoe’er he met. To me my guide:

“Cacus is this, who underneath the rock

Of Aventine spread oft a lake of blood.

He, from his brethren parted, here must tread

A different journey, for his fraudful theft

Of the great herd, that near him stall’d; whence found

His felon deeds their end, beneath the mace

Of stout Alcides, that perchance laid on

A hundred blows, and not the tenth was felt.”

While yet he spake, the centaur sped away:

And under us three spirits came, of whom

Nor I nor he was ware, till they exclaim’d;

“Say who are ye?” We then brake off discourse,

Intent on these alone. I knew them not;

But, as it chanceth oft, befell, that one

Had need to name another. “Where,” said he,

“Doth Cianfa lurk?” I, for a sign my guide

Should stand attentive, plac’d against my lips

The finger lifted. If, O reader! now

Thou be not apt to credit what I tell,

No marvel; for myself do scarce allow

The witness of mine eyes. But as I looked

Toward them, lo! a serpent with six feet

Springs forth on one, and fastens full upon him:

His midmost grasp’d the belly, a forefoot

Seiz’d on each arm (while deep in either cheek

He flesh’d his fangs); the hinder on the thighs

Were spread, ’twixt which the tail inserted curl’d

Upon the reins behind. Ivy ne’er clasp’d

A dodder’d oak, as round the other’s limbs

The hideous monster intertwin’d his own.

Then, as they both had been of burning wax,

Each melted into other, mingling hues,

That which was either now was seen no more.

Thus up the shrinking paper, ere it burns,

A brown tint glides, not turning yet to black,

And the clean white expires. The other two

Look’d on exclaiming: “Ah, how dost thou change,

Agnello! See! Thou art nor double now,

“Nor only one.” The two heads now became

One, and two figures blended in one form

Appear’d, where both were lost. Of the four lengths

Two arms were made: the belly and the chest

The thighs and legs into such members chang’d,

As never eye hath seen. Of former shape

All trace was vanish’d. Two yet neither seem’d

That image miscreate, and so pass’d on

With tardy steps. As underneath the scourge

Of the fierce dog-star, that lays bare the fields,

Shifting from brake to brake, the lizard seems

A flash of lightning, if he thwart the road,

So toward th’ entrails of the other two

Approaching seem’d, an adder all on fire,

As the dark pepper-grain, livid and swart.

In that part, whence our life is nourish’d first,

One he transpierc’d; then down before him fell

Stretch’d out. The pierced spirit look’d on him

But spake not; yea stood motionless and yawn’d,

As if by sleep or fev’rous fit assail’d.

He ey’d the serpent, and the serpent him.

One from the wound, the other from the mouth

Breath’d a thick smoke, whose vap’ry columns join’d.

Lucan in mute attention now may hear,

Nor thy disastrous fate, Sabellus! tell,

Nor shine, Nasidius! Ovid now be mute.

What if in warbling fiction he record

Cadmus and Arethusa, to a snake

Him chang’d, and her into a fountain clear,

I envy not; for never face to face

Two natures thus transmuted did he sing,

Wherein both shapes were ready to assume

The other’s substance. They in mutual guise

So answer’d, that the serpent split his train

Divided to a fork, and the pierc’d spirit

Drew close his steps together, legs and thighs

Compacted, that no sign of juncture soon

Was visible: the tail disparted took

The figure which the spirit lost, its skin

Soft’ning, his indurated to a rind.

The shoulders next I mark’d, that ent’ring join’d

The monster’s arm-pits, whose two shorter feet

So lengthen’d, as the other’s dwindling shrunk.

The feet behind then twisting up became

That part that man conceals, which in the wretch

Was cleft in twain. While both the shadowy smoke

With a new colour veils, and generates

Th’ excrescent pile on one, peeling it off

From th’ other body, lo! upon his feet

One upright rose, and prone the other fell.

Not yet their glaring and malignant lamps

Were shifted, though each feature chang’d beneath.

Of him who stood erect, the mounting face

Retreated towards the temples, and what there

Superfluous matter came, shot out in ears

From the smooth cheeks, the rest, not backward dragg’d,

Of its excess did shape the nose; and swell’d

Into due size protuberant the lips.

He, on the earth who lay, meanwhile extends

His sharpen’d visage, and draws down the ears

Into the head, as doth the slug his horns.

His tongue continuous before and apt

For utt’rance, severs; and the other’s fork

Closing unites. That done the smoke was laid.

The soul, transform’d into the brute, glides off,

Hissing along the vale, and after him

The other talking sputters; but soon turn’d

His new-grown shoulders on him, and in few

Thus to another spake: “Along this path

Crawling, as I have done, speed Buoso now!”

So saw I fluctuate in successive change

Th’ unsteady ballast of the seventh hold:

And here if aught my tongue have swerv’d, events

So strange may be its warrant. O’er mine eyes

Confusion hung, and on my thoughts amaze.

Yet ’scap’d they not so covertly, but well

I mark’d Sciancato: he alone it was

Of the three first that came, who chang’d not: thou,

The other’s fate, Gaville, still dost rue.

CANTO XXVI

Florence exult! for thou so mightily

Hast thriven, that o’er land and sea thy wings

Thou beatest, and thy name spreads over hell!

Among the plund’rers such the three I found

Thy citizens, whence shame to me thy son,

And no proud honour to thyself redounds.

But if our minds, when dreaming near the dawn,

Are of the truth presageful, thou ere long

Shalt feel what Prato, (not to say the rest)

Would fain might come upon thee; and that chance

Were in good time, if it befell thee now.

Would so it were, since it must needs befall!

For as time wears me, I shall grieve the more.

We from the depth departed; and my guide

Remounting scal’d the flinty steps, which late

We downward trac’d, and drew me up the steep.

Pursuing thus our solitary way

Among the crags and splinters of the rock,

Sped not our feet without the help of hands.

Then sorrow seiz’d me, which e’en now revives,

As my thought turns again to what I saw,

And, more than I am wont, I rein and curb

The powers of nature in me, lest they run

Where Virtue guides not; that if aught of good

My gentle star, or something better gave me,

I envy not myself the precious boon.

As in that season, when the sun least veils

His face that lightens all, what time the fly

Gives way to the shrill gnat, the peasant then

Upon some cliff reclin’d, beneath him sees

Fire-flies innumerous spangling o’er the vale,

Vineyard or tilth, where his day-labour lies:

With flames so numberless throughout its space

Shone the eighth chasm, apparent, when the depth

Was to my view expos’d. As he, whose wrongs

The bears aveng’d, at its departure saw

Elijah’s chariot, when the steeds erect

Rais’d their steep flight for heav’n; his eyes meanwhile,

Straining pursu’d them, till the flame alone

Upsoaring like a misty speck he kenn’d;

E’en thus along the gulf moves every flame,

A sinner so enfolded close in each,

That none exhibits token of the theft.

Upon the bridge I forward bent to look,

And grasp’d a flinty mass, or else had fall’n,

Though push’d not from the height. The guide, who mark’d

How I did gaze attentive, thus began:

“Within these ardours are the spirits, each

Swath’d in confining fire.”—“Master, thy word,”

I answer’d, “hath assur’d me; yet I deem’d

Already of the truth, already wish’d

To ask thee, who is in yon fire, that comes

So parted at the summit, as it seem’d

Ascending from that funeral pile, where lay

The Theban brothers?” He replied: “Within

Ulysses there and Diomede endure

Their penal tortures, thus to vengeance now

Together hasting, as erewhile to wrath.

These in the flame with ceaseless groans deplore

The ambush of the horse, that open’d wide

A portal for that goodly seed to pass,

Which sow’d imperial Rome; nor less the guile

Lament they, whence of her Achilles ’reft

Deidamia yet in death complains.

And there is rued the stratagem, that Troy

Of her Palladium spoil’d.”—“If they have power

Of utt’rance from within these sparks,” said I,

“O master! think my prayer a thousand fold

In repetition urg’d, that thou vouchsafe

To pause, till here the horned flame arrive.

See, how toward it with desire I bend.”

He thus: “Thy prayer is worthy of much praise,

And I accept it therefore: but do thou

Thy tongue refrain: to question them be mine,

For I divine thy wish: and they perchance,

For they were Greeks, might shun discourse with thee.”

When there the flame had come, where time and place

Seem’d fitting to my guide, he thus began:

“O ye, who dwell two spirits in one fire!

If living I of you did merit aught,

Whate’er the measure were of that desert,

When in the world my lofty strain I pour’d,

Move ye not on, till one of you unfold

In what clime death o’ertook him self-destroy’d.”

Of the old flame forthwith the greater horn

Began to roll, murmuring, as a fire

That labours with the wind, then to and fro

Wagging the top, as a tongue uttering sounds,

Threw out its voice, and spake: “When I escap’d

From Circe, who beyond a circling year

Had held me near Caieta, by her charms,

Ere thus Aeneas yet had nam’d the shore,

Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence

Of my old father, nor return of love,

That should have crown’d Penelope with joy,

Could overcome in me the zeal I had

T’ explore the world, and search the ways of life,

Man’s evil and his virtue. Forth I sail’d

Into the deep illimitable main,

With but one bark, and the small faithful band

That yet cleav’d to me. As Iberia far,

Far as Morocco either shore I saw,

And the Sardinian and each isle beside

Which round that ocean bathes. Tardy with age

Were I and my companions, when we came

To the strait pass, where Hercules ordain’d

The bound’ries not to be o’erstepp’d by man.

The walls of Seville to my right I left,

On the other hand already Ceuta past.

“O brothers!” I began, “who to the west

Through perils without number now have reach’d,

To this the short remaining watch, that yet

Our senses have to wake, refuse not proof

Of the unpeopled world, following the track

Of Phoebus. Call to mind from whence we sprang:

Ye were not form’d to live the life of brutes

But virtue to pursue and knowledge high.”

With these few words I sharpen’d for the voyage

The mind of my associates, that I then

Could scarcely have withheld them. To the dawn

Our poop we turn’d, and for the witless flight

Made our oars wings, still gaining on the left.

Each star of the other pole night now beheld,

And ours so low, that from the ocean-floor

It rose not. Five times re-illum’d, as oft

Vanish’d the light from underneath the moon

Since the deep way we enter’d, when from far

Appear’d a mountain dim, loftiest methought

Of all I e’er beheld. Joy seiz’d us straight,

But soon to mourning changed. From the new land

A whirlwind sprung, and at her foremost side

Did strike the vessel. Thrice it whirl’d her round

With all the waves, the fourth time lifted up

The poop, and sank the prow: so fate decreed:

And over us the booming billow clos’d.”

CANTO XXVII

Now upward rose the flame, and still’d its light

To speak no more, and now pass’d on with leave

From the mild poet gain’d, when following came

Another, from whose top a sound confus’d,

Forth issuing, drew our eyes that way to look.

As the Sicilian bull, that rightfully

His cries first echoed, who had shap’d its mould,

Did so rebellow, with the voice of him

Tormented, that the brazen monster seem’d

Pierc’d through with pain; thus while no way they found

Nor avenue immediate through the flame,

Into its language turn’d the dismal words:

But soon as they had won their passage forth,

Up from the point, which vibrating obey’d

Their motion at the tongue, these sounds we heard:

“O thou! to whom I now direct my voice!

That lately didst exclaim in Lombard phrase,

‘Depart thou, I solicit thee no more,’

Though somewhat tardy I perchance arrive

Let it not irk thee here to pause awhile,

And with me parley: lo! it irks not me

And yet I burn. If but e’en now thou fall

into this blind world, from that pleasant land

Of Latium, whence I draw my sum of guilt,

Tell me if those, who in Romagna dwell,

Have peace or war. For of the mountains there

Was I, betwixt Urbino and the height,

Whence Tyber first unlocks his mighty flood.”

Leaning I listen’d yet with heedful ear,

When, as he touch’d my side, the leader thus:

“Speak thou: he is a Latian.” My reply

Was ready, and I spake without delay:

“O spirit! who art hidden here below!

Never was thy Romagna without war

In her proud tyrants’ bosoms, nor is now:

But open war there left I none. The state,

Ravenna hath maintain’d this many a year,

Is steadfast. There Polenta’s eagle broods,

And in his broad circumference of plume

O’ershadows Cervia. The green talons grasp

The land, that stood erewhile the proof so long,

And pil’d in bloody heap the host of France.

“The old mastiff of Verruchio and the young,

That tore Montagna in their wrath, still make,

Where they are wont, an augre of their fangs.

“Lamone’s city and Santerno’s range

Under the lion of the snowy lair.

Inconstant partisan! that changeth sides,

Or ever summer yields to winter’s frost.

And she, whose flank is wash’d of Savio’s wave,

As ’twixt the level and the steep she lies,

Lives so ’twixt tyrant power and liberty.

“Now tell us, I entreat thee, who art thou?

Be not more hard than others. In the world,

So may thy name still rear its forehead high.”

Then roar’d awhile the fire, its sharpen’d point

On either side wav’d, and thus breath’d at last:

“If I did think, my answer were to one,

Who ever could return unto the world,

This flame should rest unshaken. But since ne’er,

If true be told me, any from this depth

Has found his upward way, I answer thee,

Nor fear lest infamy record the words.

“A man of arms at first, I cloth’d me then

In good Saint Francis’ girdle, hoping so

T’ have made amends. And certainly my hope

Had fail’d not, but that he, whom curses light on,

The high priest again seduc’d me into sin.

And how and wherefore listen while I tell.

Long as this spirit mov’d the bones and pulp

My mother gave me, less my deeds bespake

The nature of the lion than the fox.

All ways of winding subtlety I knew,

And with such art conducted, that the sound

Reach’d the world’s limit. Soon as to that part

Of life I found me come, when each behoves

To lower sails and gather in the lines;

That which before had pleased me then I rued,

And to repentance and confession turn’d;

Wretch that I was! and well it had bested me!

The chief of the new Pharisees meantime,

Waging his warfare near the Lateran,

Not with the Saracens or Jews (his foes

All Christians were, nor against Acre one

Had fought, nor traffic’d in the Soldan’s land),

He his great charge nor sacred ministry

In himself, rev’renc’d, nor in me that cord,

Which us’d to mark with leanness whom it girded.

As in Socrate, Constantine besought

To cure his leprosy Sylvester’s aid,

So me to cure the fever of his pride

This man besought: my counsel to that end

He ask’d: and I was silent: for his words

Seem’d drunken: but forthwith he thus resum’d:

“From thy heart banish fear: of all offence

I hitherto absolve thee. In return,

Teach me my purpose so to execute,

That Penestrino cumber earth no more.

Heav’n, as thou knowest, I have power to shut

And open: and the keys are therefore twain,

The which my predecessor meanly priz’d.”

Then, yielding to the forceful arguments,

Of silence as more perilous I deem’d,

And answer’d: “Father! since thou washest me

Clear of that guilt wherein I now must fall,

Large promise with performance scant, be sure,

Shall make thee triumph in thy lofty seat.”

“When I was number’d with the dead, then came

Saint Francis for me; but a cherub dark

He met, who cried: “‘Wrong me not; he is mine,

And must below to join the wretched crew,

For the deceitful counsel which he gave.

E’er since I watch’d him, hov’ring at his hair,

No power can the impenitent absolve;

Nor to repent and will at once consist,

By contradiction absolute forbid.”

Oh mis’ry! how I shook myself, when he

Seiz’d me, and cried, “Thou haply thought’st me not

A disputant in logic so exact.”

To Minos down he bore me, and the judge

Twin’d eight times round his callous back the tail,

Which biting with excess of rage, he spake:

‘This is a guilty soul, that in the fire

Must vanish.’ Hence perdition-doom’d I rove

A prey to rankling sorrow in this garb.”

When he had thus fulfill’d his words, the flame

In dolour parted, beating to and fro,

And writhing its sharp horn. We onward went,

I and my leader, up along the rock,

Far as another arch, that overhangs

The foss, wherein the penalty is paid

Of those, who load them with committed sin.

CANTO XXVIII

Who, e’en in words unfetter’d, might at full

Tell of the wounds and blood that now I saw,

Though he repeated oft the tale? No tongue

So vast a theme could equal, speech and thought

Both impotent alike. If in one band

Collected, stood the people all, who e’er

Pour’d on Apulia’s happy soil their blood,

Slain by the Trojans, and in that long war

When of the rings the measur’d booty made

A pile so high, as Rome’s historian writes

Who errs not, with the multitude, that felt

The grinding force of Guiscard’s Norman steel,

And those the rest, whose bones are gather’d yet

At Ceperano, there where treachery

Branded th’ Apulian name, or where beyond

Thy walls, O Tagliacozzo, without arms

The old Alardo conquer’d; and his limbs

One were to show transpierc’d, another his

Clean lopt away; a spectacle like this

Were but a thing of nought, to the hideous sight

Of the ninth chasm. A rundlet, that hath lost

Its middle or side stave, gapes not so wide,

As one I mark’d, torn from the chin throughout

Down to the hinder passage: ’twixt the legs

Dangling his entrails hung, the midriff lay

Open to view, and wretched ventricle,

That turns th’ englutted aliment to dross.

Whilst eagerly I fix on him my gaze,

He ey’d me, with his hands laid his breast bare,

And cried; “Now mark how I do rip me! lo!

“How is Mohammed mangled! before me

Walks Ali weeping, from the chin his face

Cleft to the forelock; and the others all

Whom here thou seest, while they liv’d, did sow

Scandal and schism, and therefore thus are rent.

A fiend is here behind, who with his sword

Hacks us thus cruelly, slivering again

Each of this ream, when we have compast round

The dismal way, for first our gashes close

Ere we repass before him. But say who

Art thou, that standest musing on the rock,

Haply so lingering to delay the pain

Sentenc’d upon thy crimes?”—“Him death not yet,”

My guide rejoin’d, “hath overta’en, nor sin

Conducts to torment; but, that he may make

Full trial of your state, I who am dead

Must through the depths of hell, from orb to orb,

Conduct him. Trust my words, for they are true.”

More than a hundred spirits, when that they heard,

Stood in the foss to mark me, through amazed,

Forgetful of their pangs. “Thou, who perchance

Shalt shortly view the sun, this warning thou

Bear to Dolcino: bid him, if he wish not

Here soon to follow me, that with good store

Of food he arm him, lest impris’ning snows

Yield him a victim to Novara’s power,

No easy conquest else.” With foot uprais’d

For stepping, spake Mohammed, on the ground

Then fix’d it to depart. Another shade,

Pierc’d in the throat, his nostrils mutilate

E’en from beneath the eyebrows, and one ear

Lopt off, who with the rest through wonder stood

Gazing, before the rest advanc’d, and bar’d

His wind-pipe, that without was all o’ersmear’d

With crimson stain. “O thou!” said ‘he, “whom sin

Condemns not, and whom erst (unless too near

Resemblance do deceive me) I aloft

Have seen on Latian ground, call thou to mind

Piero of Medicina, if again

Returning, thou behold’st the pleasant land

That from Vercelli slopes to Mercabo;

“And there instruct the twain, whom Fano boasts

Her worthiest sons, Guido and Angelo,

That if ’t is giv’n us here to scan aright

The future, they out of life’s tenement

Shall be cast forth, and whelm’d under the waves

Near to Cattolica, through perfidy

Of a fell tyrant. ’Twixt the Cyprian isle

And Balearic, ne’er hath Neptune seen

An injury so foul, by pirates done

Or Argive crew of old. That one-ey’d traitor

(Whose realm there is a spirit here were fain

His eye had still lack’d sight of) them shall bring

To conf’rence with him, then so shape his end,

That they shall need not ’gainst Focara’s wind

Offer up vow nor pray’r.” I answering thus:

“Declare, as thou dost wish that I above

May carry tidings of thee, who is he,

In whom that sight doth wake such sad remembrance?”

Forthwith he laid his hand on the cheek-bone

Of one, his fellow-spirit, and his jaws

Expanding, cried: “Lo! this is he I wot of;

He speaks not for himself: the outcast this

Who overwhelm’d the doubt in Caesar’s mind,

Affirming that delay to men prepar’d

Was ever harmful. “Oh how terrified

Methought was Curio, from whose throat was cut

The tongue, which spake that hardy word. Then one

Maim’d of each hand, uplifted in the gloom

The bleeding stumps, that they with gory spots

Sullied his face, and cried: ‘Remember thee

Of Mosca, too, I who, alas! exclaim’d,

“The deed once done there is an end,” that prov’d

A seed of sorrow to the Tuscan race.”

I added: “Ay, and death to thine own tribe.”

Whence heaping woe on woe he hurried off,

As one grief-stung to madness. But I there

Still linger’d to behold the troop, and saw

Things, such as I may fear without more proof

To tell of, but that conscience makes me firm,

The boon companion, who her strong breast-plate

Buckles on him, that feels no guilt within

And bids him on and fear not. Without doubt

I saw, and yet it seems to pass before me,

A headless trunk, that even as the rest

Of the sad flock pac’d onward. By the hair

It bore the sever’d member, lantern-wise

Pendent in hand, which look’d at us and said,

“Woe’s me!” The spirit lighted thus himself,

And two there were in one, and one in two.

How that may be he knows who ordereth so.

When at the bridge’s foot direct he stood,

His arm aloft he rear’d, thrusting the head

Full in our view, that nearer we might hear

The words, which thus it utter’d: “Now behold

This grievous torment, thou, who breathing go’st

To spy the dead; behold if any else

Be terrible as this. And that on earth

Thou mayst bear tidings of me, know that I

Am Bertrand, he of Born, who gave King John

The counsel mischievous. Father and son

I set at mutual war. For Absalom

And David more did not Ahitophel,

Spurring them on maliciously to strife.

For parting those so closely knit, my brain

Parted, alas! I carry from its source,

That in this trunk inhabits. Thus the law

Of retribution fiercely works in me.”

CANTO XXIX

So were mine eyes inebriate with view

Of the vast multitude, whom various wounds

Disfigur’d, that they long’d to stay and weep.

But Virgil rous’d me: “What yet gazest on?

Wherefore doth fasten yet thy sight below

Among the maim’d and miserable shades?

Thou hast not shewn in any chasm beside

This weakness. Know, if thou wouldst number them

That two and twenty miles the valley winds

Its circuit, and already is the moon

Beneath our feet: the time permitted now

Is short, and more not seen remains to see.”

“If thou,” I straight replied, “hadst weigh’d the cause

For which I look’d, thou hadst perchance excus’d

The tarrying still.” My leader part pursu’d

His way, the while I follow’d, answering him,

And adding thus: “Within that cave I deem,

Whereon so fixedly I held my ken,

There is a spirit dwells, one of my blood,

Wailing the crime that costs him now so dear.”

Then spake my master: “Let thy soul no more

Afflict itself for him. Direct elsewhere

Its thought, and leave him. At the bridge’s foot

I mark’d how he did point with menacing look

At thee, and heard him by the others nam’d

Geri of Bello. Thou so wholly then

Wert busied with his spirit, who once rul’d

The towers of Hautefort, that thou lookedst not

That way, ere he was gone.”—“O guide belov’d!

His violent death yet unaveng’d,” said I,

“By any, who are partners in his shame,

Made him contemptuous: therefore, as I think,

He pass’d me speechless by; and doing so

Hath made me more compassionate his fate.”

So we discours’d to where the rock first show’d

The other valley, had more light been there,

E’en to the lowest depth. Soon as we came

O’er the last cloister in the dismal rounds

Of Malebolge, and the brotherhood

Were to our view expos’d, then many a dart

Of sore lament assail’d me, headed all

With points of thrilling pity, that I clos’d

Both ears against the volley with mine hands.

As were the torment, if each lazar-house

Of Valdichiana, in the sultry time

’Twixt July and September, with the isle

Sardinia and Maremma’s pestilent fen,

Had heap’d their maladies all in one foss

Together; such was here the torment: dire

The stench, as issuing steams from fester’d limbs.

We on the utmost shore of the long rock

Descended still to leftward. Then my sight

Was livelier to explore the depth, wherein

The minister of the most mighty Lord,

All-searching Justice, dooms to punishment

The forgers noted on her dread record.

More rueful was it not methinks to see

The nation in Aegina droop, what time

Each living thing, e’en to the little worm,

All fell, so full of malice was the air

(And afterward, as bards of yore have told,

The ancient people were restor’d anew

From seed of emmets) than was here to see

The spirits, that languish’d through the murky vale

Up-pil’d on many a stack. Confus’d they lay,

One o’er the belly, o’er the shoulders one

Roll’d of another; sideling crawl’d a third

Along the dismal pathway. Step by step

We journey’d on, in silence looking round

And list’ning those diseas’d, who strove in vain

To lift their forms. Then two I mark’d, that sat

Propp’d ’gainst each other, as two brazen pans

Set to retain the heat. From head to foot,

A tetter bark’d them round. Nor saw I e’er

Groom currying so fast, for whom his lord

Impatient waited, or himself perchance

Tir’d with long watching, as of these each one

Plied quickly his keen nails, through furiousness

Of ne’er abated pruriency. The crust

Came drawn from underneath in flakes, like scales

Scrap’d from the bream or fish of broader mail.

“O thou, who with thy fingers rendest off

Thy coat of proof,” thus spake my guide to one,

“And sometimes makest tearing pincers of them,

Tell me if any born of Latian land

Be among these within: so may thy nails

Serve thee for everlasting to this toil.”

“Both are of Latium,” weeping he replied,

“Whom tortur’d thus thou seest: but who art thou

That hast inquir’d of us?” To whom my guide:

“One that descend with this man, who yet lives,

From rock to rock, and show him hell’s abyss.”

Then started they asunder, and each turn’d

Trembling toward us, with the rest, whose ear

Those words redounding struck. To me my liege

Address’d him: “Speak to them whate’er thou list.”

And I therewith began: “So may no time

Filch your remembrance from the thoughts of men

In th’ upper world, but after many suns

Survive it, as ye tell me, who ye are,

And of what race ye come. Your punishment,

Unseemly and disgustful in its kind,

Deter you not from opening thus much to me.”

“Arezzo was my dwelling,” answer’d one,

“And me Albero of Sienna brought

To die by fire; but that, for which I died,

Leads me not here. True is in sport I told him,

That I had learn’d to wing my flight in air.

And he admiring much, as he was void

Of wisdom, will’d me to declare to him

The secret of mine art: and only hence,

Because I made him not a Daedalus,

Prevail’d on one suppos’d his sire to burn me.

But Minos to this chasm last of the ten,

For that I practis’d alchemy on earth,

Has doom’d me. Him no subterfuge eludes.”

Then to the bard I spake: “Was ever race

Light as Sienna’s? Sure not France herself

Can show a tribe so frivolous and vain.”

The other leprous spirit heard my words,

And thus return’d: “Be Stricca from this charge

Exempted, he who knew so temp’rately

To lay out fortune’s gifts; and Niccolo

Who first the spice’s costly luxury

Discover’d in that garden, where such seed

Roots deepest in the soil: and be that troop

Exempted, with whom Caccia of Asciano

Lavish’d his vineyards and wide-spreading woods,

And his rare wisdom Abbagliato show’d

A spectacle for all. That thou mayst know

Who seconds thee against the Siennese

Thus gladly, bend this way thy sharpen’d sight,

That well my face may answer to thy ken;

So shalt thou see I am Capocchio’s ghost,

Who forg’d transmuted metals by the power

Of alchemy; and if I scan thee right,

Thus needs must well remember how I aped

Creative nature by my subtle art.”

CANTO XXX

What time resentment burn’d in Juno’s breast

For Semele against the Theban blood,

As more than once in dire mischance was rued,

Such fatal frenzy seiz’d on Athamas,

That he his spouse beholding with a babe

Laden on either arm, “Spread out,” he cried,

“The meshes, that I take the lioness

And the young lions at the pass:” then forth

Stretch’d he his merciless talons, grasping one,

One helpless innocent, Learchus nam’d,

Whom swinging down he dash’d upon a rock,

And with her other burden self-destroy’d

The hapless mother plung’d: and when the pride

Of all-presuming Troy fell from its height,

By fortune overwhelm’d, and the old king

With his realm perish’d, then did Hecuba,

A wretch forlorn and captive, when she saw

Polyxena first slaughter’d, and her son,

Her Polydorus, on the wild sea-beach

Next met the mourner’s view, then reft of sense

Did she run barking even as a dog;

Such mighty power had grief to wrench her soul.

Bet ne’er the Furies or of Thebes or Troy

With such fell cruelty were seen, their goads

Infixing in the limbs of man or beast,

As now two pale and naked ghost I saw

That gnarling wildly scamper’d, like the swine

Excluded from his stye. One reach’d Capocchio,

And in the neck-joint sticking deep his fangs,

Dragg’d him, that o’er the solid pavement rubb’d

His belly stretch’d out prone. The other shape,

He of Arezzo, there left trembling, spake;

“That sprite of air is Schicchi; in like mood

Of random mischief vents he still his spite.”

To whom I answ’ring: “Oh! as thou dost hope,

The other may not flesh its jaws on thee,

Be patient to inform us, who it is,

Ere it speed hence.”—“That is the ancient soul

Of wretched Myrrha,” he replied, “who burn’d

With most unholy flame for her own sire,

“And a false shape assuming, so perform’d

The deed of sin; e’en as the other there,

That onward passes, dar’d to counterfeit

Donati’s features, to feign’d testament

The seal affixing, that himself might gain,

For his own share, the lady of the herd.”

When vanish’d the two furious shades, on whom

Mine eye was held, I turn’d it back to view

The other cursed spirits. One I saw

In fashion like a lute, had but the groin

Been sever’d, where it meets the forked part.

Swoln dropsy, disproportioning the limbs

With ill-converted moisture, that the paunch

Suits not the visage, open’d wide his lips

Gasping as in the hectic man for drought,

One towards the chin, the other upward curl’d.

“O ye, who in this world of misery,

Wherefore I know not, are exempt from pain,”

Thus he began, “attentively regard

Adamo’s woe. When living, full supply

Ne’er lack’d me of what most I coveted;

One drop of water now, alas! I crave.

The rills, that glitter down the grassy slopes

Of Casentino, making fresh and soft

The banks whereby they glide to Arno’s stream,

Stand ever in my view; and not in vain;

For more the pictur’d semblance dries me up,

Much more than the disease, which makes the flesh

Desert these shrivel’d cheeks. So from the place,

Where I transgress’d, stern justice urging me,

Takes means to quicken more my lab’ring sighs.

There is Romena, where I falsified

The metal with the Baptist’s form imprest,

For which on earth I left my body burnt.

But if I here might see the sorrowing soul

Of Guido, Alessandro, or their brother,

For Branda’s limpid spring I would not change

The welcome sight. One is e’en now within,

If truly the mad spirits tell, that round

Are wand’ring. But wherein besteads me that?

My limbs are fetter’d. Were I but so light,

That I each hundred years might move one inch,

I had set forth already on this path,

Seeking him out amidst the shapeless crew,

Although eleven miles it wind, not more

Than half of one across. They brought me down

Among this tribe; induc’d by them I stamp’d

The florens with three carats of alloy.”

“Who are that abject pair,” I next inquir’d,

“That closely bounding thee upon thy right

Lie smoking, like a band in winter steep’d

In the chill stream?”—“When to this gulf I dropt,”

He answer’d, “here I found them; since that hour

They have not turn’d, nor ever shall, I ween,

Till time hath run his course. One is that dame

The false accuser of the Hebrew youth;

Sinon the other, that false Greek from Troy.

Sharp fever drains the reeky moistness out,

In such a cloud upsteam’d.” When that he heard,

One, gall’d perchance to be so darkly nam’d,

With clench’d hand smote him on the braced paunch,

That like a drum resounded: but forthwith

Adamo smote him on the face, the blow

Returning with his arm, that seem’d as hard.

“Though my o’erweighty limbs have ta’en from me

The power to move,” said he, “I have an arm

At liberty for such employ.” To whom

Was answer’d: “When thou wentest to the fire,

Thou hadst it not so ready at command,

Then readier when it coin’d th’ impostor gold.”

And thus the dropsied: “Ay, now speak’st thou true.

But there thou gav’st not such true testimony,

When thou wast question’d of the truth, at Troy.”

“If I spake false, thou falsely stamp’dst the coin,”

Said Sinon; “I am here but for one fault,

And thou for more than any imp beside.”

“Remember,” he replied, “O perjur’d one,

The horse remember, that did teem with death,

And all the world be witness to thy guilt.”

“To thine,” return’d the Greek, “witness the thirst

Whence thy tongue cracks, witness the fluid mound,

Rear’d by thy belly up before thine eyes,

A mass corrupt.” To whom the coiner thus:

“Thy mouth gapes wide as ever to let pass

Its evil saying. Me if thirst assails,

Yet I am stuff’d with moisture. Thou art parch’d,

Pains rack thy head, no urging would’st thou need

To make thee lap Narcissus’ mirror up.”

I was all fix’d to listen, when my guide

Admonish’d: “Now beware: a little more,

And I do quarrel with thee.” I perceiv’d

How angrily he spake, and towards him turn’d

With shame so poignant, as remember’d yet

Confounds me. As a man that dreams of harm

Befall’n him, dreaming wishes it a dream,

And that which is, desires as if it were not,

Such then was I, who wanting power to speak

Wish’d to excuse myself, and all the while

Excus’d me, though unweeting that I did.

“More grievous fault than thine has been, less shame,”

My master cried, “might expiate. Therefore cast

All sorrow from thy soul; and if again

Chance bring thee, where like conference is held,

Think I am ever at thy side. To hear

Such wrangling is a joy for vulgar minds.”

CANTO XXXI

The very tongue, whose keen reproof before

Had wounded me, that either cheek was stain’d,

Now minister’d my cure. So have I heard,

Achilles and his father’s javelin caus’d

Pain first, and then the boon of health restor’d.

Turning our back upon the vale of woe,

W cross’d th’ encircled mound in silence. There

Was twilight dim, that far long the gloom

Mine eye advanc’d not: but I heard a horn

Sounded aloud. The peal it blew had made

The thunder feeble. Following its course

The adverse way, my strained eyes were bent

On that one spot. So terrible a blast

Orlando blew not, when that dismal rout

O’erthrew the host of Charlemagne, and quench’d

His saintly warfare. Thitherward not long

My head was rais’d, when many lofty towers

Methought I spied. “Master,” said I, “what land

Is this?” He answer’d straight: “Too long a space

Of intervening darkness has thine eye

To traverse: thou hast therefore widely err’d

In thy imagining. Thither arriv’d

Thou well shalt see, how distance can delude

The sense. A little therefore urge thee on.”

Then tenderly he caught me by the hand;

“Yet know,” said he, “ere farther we advance,

That it less strange may seem, these are not towers,

But giants. In the pit they stand immers’d,

Each from his navel downward, round the bank.”

As when a fog disperseth gradually,

Our vision traces what the mist involves

Condens’d in air; so piercing through the gross

And gloomy atmosphere, as more and more

We near’d toward the brink, mine error fled,

And fear came o’er me. As with circling round

Of turrets, Montereggion crowns his walls,

E’en thus the shore, encompassing th’ abyss,

Was turreted with giants, half their length

Uprearing, horrible, whom Jove from heav’n

Yet threatens, when his mutt’ring thunder rolls.

Of one already I descried the face,

Shoulders, and breast, and of the belly huge

Great part, and both arms down along his ribs.

All-teeming nature, when her plastic hand

Left framing of these monsters, did display

Past doubt her wisdom, taking from mad War

Such slaves to do his bidding; and if she

Repent her not of th’ elephant and whale,

Who ponders well confesses her therein

Wiser and more discreet; for when brute force

And evil will are back’d with subtlety,

Resistance none avails. His visage seem’d

In length and bulk, as doth the pine, that tops

Saint Peter’s Roman fane; and th’ other bones

Of like proportion, so that from above

The bank, which girdled him below, such height

Arose his stature, that three Friezelanders

Had striv’n in vain to reach but to his hair.

Full thirty ample palms was he expos’d

Downward from whence a man his garments loops.

“Raphel bai ameth sabi almi,”

So shouted his fierce lips, which sweeter hymns

Became not; and my guide address’d him thus:

“O senseless spirit! let thy horn for thee

Interpret: therewith vent thy rage, if rage

Or other passion wring thee. Search thy neck,

There shalt thou find the belt that binds it on.

Wild spirit! lo, upon thy mighty breast

Where hangs the baldrick!” Then to me he spake:

“He doth accuse himself. Nimrod is this,

Through whose ill counsel in the world no more

One tongue prevails. But pass we on, nor waste

Our words; for so each language is to him,

As his to others, understood by none.”

Then to the leftward turning sped we forth,

And at a sling’s throw found another shade

Far fiercer and more huge. I cannot say

What master hand had girt him; but he held

Behind the right arm fetter’d, and before

The other with a chain, that fasten’d him

From the neck down, and five times round his form

Apparent met the wreathed links. “This proud one

Would of his strength against almighty Jove

Make trial,” said my guide; “whence he is thus

Requited: Ephialtes him they call.

“Great was his prowess, when the giants brought

Fear on the gods: those arms, which then he piled,

Now moves he never.” Forthwith I return’d:

“Fain would I, if ’t were possible, mine eyes

Of Briareus immeasurable gain’d

Experience next.” He answer’d: “Thou shalt see

Not far from hence Antaeus, who both speaks

And is unfetter’d, who shall place us there

Where guilt is at its depth. Far onward stands

Whom thou wouldst fain behold, in chains, and made

Like to this spirit, save that in his looks

More fell he seems.” By violent earthquake rock’d

Ne’er shook a tow’r, so reeling to its base,

As Ephialtes. More than ever then

I dreaded death, nor than the terror more

Had needed, if I had not seen the cords

That held him fast. We, straightway journeying on,

Came to Antaeus, who five ells complete

Without the head, forth issued from the cave.

“O thou, who in the fortunate vale, that made

Great Scipio heir of glory, when his sword

Drove back the troop of Hannibal in flight,

Who thence of old didst carry for thy spoil

An hundred lions; and if thou hadst fought

In the high conflict on thy brethren’s side,

Seems as men yet believ’d, that through thine arm

The sons of earth had conquer’d, now vouchsafe

To place us down beneath, where numbing cold

Locks up Cocytus. Force not that we crave

Or Tityus’ help or Typhon’s. Here is one

Can give what in this realm ye covet. Stoop

Therefore, nor scornfully distort thy lip.

He in the upper world can yet bestow

Renown on thee, for he doth live, and looks

For life yet longer, if before the time

Grace call him not unto herself.” Thus spake

The teacher. He in haste forth stretch’d his hands,

And caught my guide. Alcides whilom felt

That grapple straighten’d score. Soon as my guide

Had felt it, he bespake me thus: “This way

That I may clasp thee;” then so caught me up,

That we were both one burden. As appears

The tower of Carisenda, from beneath

Where it doth lean, if chance a passing cloud

So sail across, that opposite it hangs,

Such then Antaeus seem’d, as at mine ease

I mark’d him stooping. I were fain at times

T’ have pass’d another way. Yet in th’ abyss,

That Lucifer with Judas low ingulfs,

lightly he plac’d us; nor there leaning stay’d,

But rose as in a bark the stately mast.

CANTO XXXII

Could I command rough rhimes and hoarse, to suit

That hole of sorrow, o’er which ev’ry rock

His firm abutment rears, then might the vein

Of fancy rise full springing: but not mine

Such measures, and with falt’ring awe I touch

The mighty theme; for to describe the depth

Of all the universe, is no emprize

To jest with, and demands a tongue not us’d

To infant babbling. But let them assist

My song, the tuneful maidens, by whose aid

Amphion wall’d in Thebes, so with the truth

My speech shall best accord. Oh ill-starr’d folk,

Beyond all others wretched! who abide

In such a mansion, as scarce thought finds words

To speak of, better had ye here on earth

Been flocks or mountain goats. As down we stood

In the dark pit beneath the giants’ feet,

But lower far than they, and I did gaze

Still on the lofty battlement, a voice

Bespoke me thus: “Look how thou walkest. Take

Good heed, thy soles do tread not on the heads

Of thy poor brethren.” Thereupon I turn’d,

And saw before and underneath my feet

A lake, whose frozen surface liker seem’d

To glass than water. Not so thick a veil

In winter e’er hath Austrian Danube spread

O’er his still course, nor Tanais far remote

Under the chilling sky. Roll’d o’er that mass

Had Tabernich or Pietrapana fall’n,

Not e’en its rim had creak’d. As peeps the frog

Croaking above the wave, what time in dreams

The village gleaner oft pursues her toil,

So, to where modest shame appears, thus low

Blue pinch’d and shrin’d in ice the spirits stood,

Moving their teeth in shrill note like the stork.

His face each downward held; their mouth the cold,

Their eyes express’d the dolour of their heart.

A space I look’d around, then at my feet

Saw two so strictly join’d, that of their head

The very hairs were mingled. “Tell me ye,

Whose bosoms thus together press,” said I,

“Who are ye?” At that sound their necks they bent,

And when their looks were lifted up to me,

Straightway their eyes, before all moist within,

Distill’d upon their lips, and the frost bound

The tears betwixt those orbs and held them there.

Plank unto plank hath never cramp clos’d up

So stoutly. Whence like two enraged goats

They clash’d together; them such fury seiz’d.

And one, from whom the cold both ears had reft,

Exclaim’d, still looking downward: “Why on us

Dost speculate so long? If thou wouldst know

Who are these two, the valley, whence his wave

Bisenzio slopes, did for its master own

Their sire Alberto, and next him themselves.

They from one body issued; and throughout

Caina thou mayst search, nor find a shade

More worthy in congealment to be fix’d,

Not him, whose breast and shadow Arthur’s land

At that one blow dissever’d, not Focaccia,

No not this spirit, whose o’erjutting head

Obstructs my onward view: he bore the name

Of Mascheroni: Tuscan if thou be,

Well knowest who he was: and to cut short

All further question, in my form behold

What once was Camiccione. I await

Carlino here my kinsman, whose deep guilt

Shall wash out mine.” A thousand visages

Then mark’d I, which the keen and eager cold

Had shap’d into a doggish grin; whence creeps

A shiv’ring horror o’er me, at the thought

Of those frore shallows. While we journey’d on

Toward the middle, at whose point unites

All heavy substance, and I trembling went

Through that eternal chillness, I know not

If will it were or destiny, or chance,

But, passing ’midst the heads, my foot did strike

With violent blow against the face of one.

“Wherefore dost bruise me?” weeping, he exclaim’d,

“Unless thy errand be some fresh revenge

For Montaperto, wherefore troublest me?”

I thus: “Instructor, now await me here,

That I through him may rid me of my doubt.

Thenceforth what haste thou wilt.” The teacher paus’d,

And to that shade I spake, who bitterly

Still curs’d me in his wrath. “What art thou, speak,

That railest thus on others?” He replied:

“Now who art thou, that smiting others’ cheeks

Through Antenora roamest, with such force

As were past suff’rance, wert thou living still?”

“And I am living, to thy joy perchance,”

Was my reply, “if fame be dear to thee,

That with the rest I may thy name enrol.”

“The contrary of what I covet most,”

Said he, “thou tender’st: hence; nor vex me more.

Ill knowest thou to flatter in this vale.”

Then seizing on his hinder scalp, I cried:

“Name thee, or not a hair shall tarry here.”

“Rend all away,” he answer’d, “yet for that

I will not tell nor show thee who I am,

Though at my head thou pluck a thousand times.”

Now I had grasp’d his tresses, and stript off

More than one tuft, he barking, with his eyes

Drawn in and downward, when another cried,

“What ails thee, Bocca? Sound not loud enough

Thy chatt’ring teeth, but thou must bark outright?

“What devil wrings thee?”—“Now,” said I, “be dumb,

Accursed traitor! to thy shame of thee

True tidings will I bear.”—“Off,” he replied,

“Tell what thou list; but as thou escape from hence

To speak of him whose tongue hath been so glib,

Forget not: here he wails the Frenchman’s gold.

‘Him of Duera,’ thou canst say, ‘I mark’d,

Where the starv’d sinners pine.’ If thou be ask’d

What other shade was with them, at thy side

Is Beccaria, whose red gorge distain’d

The biting axe of Florence. Farther on,

If I misdeem not, Soldanieri bides,

With Ganellon, and Tribaldello, him

Who op’d Faenza when the people slept.”

We now had left him, passing on our way,

When I beheld two spirits by the ice

Pent in one hollow, that the head of one

Was cowl unto the other; and as bread

Is raven’d up through hunger, th’ uppermost

Did so apply his fangs to th’ other’s brain,

Where the spine joins it. Not more furiously

On Menalippus’ temples Tydeus gnaw’d,

Than on that skull and on its garbage he.

“O thou who show’st so beastly sign of hate

’Gainst him thou prey’st on, let me hear,” said I

“The cause, on such condition, that if right

Warrant thy grievance, knowing who ye are,

And what the colour of his sinning was,

I may repay thee in the world above,

If that wherewith I speak be moist so long.”

CANTO XXXIII

His jaws uplifting from their fell repast,

That sinner wip’d them on the hairs o’ th’ head,

Which he behind had mangled, then began:

“Thy will obeying, I call up afresh

Sorrow past cure, which but to think of wrings

My heart, or ere I tell on’t. But if words,

That I may utter, shall prove seed to bear

Fruit of eternal infamy to him,

The traitor whom I gnaw at, thou at once

Shalt see me speak and weep. Who thou mayst be

I know not, nor how here below art come:

But Florentine thou seemest of a truth,

When I do hear thee. Know I was on earth

Count Ugolino, and th’ Archbishop he

Ruggieri. Why I neighbour him so close,

Now list. That through effect of his ill thoughts

In him my trust reposing, I was ta’en

And after murder’d, need is not I tell.

What therefore thou canst not have heard, that is,

How cruel was the murder, shalt thou hear,

And know if he have wrong’d me. A small grate

Within that mew, which for my sake the name

Of famine bears, where others yet must pine,

Already through its opening sev’ral moons

Had shown me, when I slept the evil sleep,

That from the future tore the curtain off.

This one, methought, as master of the sport,

Rode forth to chase the gaunt wolf and his whelps

Unto the mountain, which forbids the sight

Of Lucca to the Pisan. With lean brachs

Inquisitive and keen, before him rang’d

Lanfranchi with Sismondi and Gualandi.

After short course the father and the sons

Seem’d tir’d and lagging, and methought I saw

The sharp tusks gore their sides. When I awoke

Before the dawn, amid their sleep I heard

My sons (for they were with me) weep and ask

For bread. Right cruel art thou, if no pang

Thou feel at thinking what my heart foretold;

And if not now, why use thy tears to flow?

Now had they waken’d; and the hour drew near

When they were wont to bring us food; the mind

Of each misgave him through his dream, and I

Heard, at its outlet underneath lock’d up

The horrible tower: whence uttering not a word

I look’d upon the visage of my sons.

I wept not: so all stone I felt within.

They wept: and one, my little Anslem, cried:

‘Thou lookest so! Father what ails thee?’ Yet

I shed no tear, nor answer’d all that day

Nor the next night, until another sun

Came out upon the world. When a faint beam

Had to our doleful prison made its way,

And in four countenances I descry’d

The image of my own, on either hand

Through agony I bit, and they who thought

I did it through desire of feeding, rose

O’ th’ sudden, and cried, ‘Father, we should grieve

Far less, if thou wouldst eat of us: thou gav’st

These weeds of miserable flesh we wear,

And do thou strip them off from us again.’

Then, not to make them sadder, I kept down

My spirit in stillness. That day and the next

We all were silent. Ah, obdurate earth!

Why open’dst not upon us? When we came

To the fourth day, then Geddo at my feet

Outstretch’d did fling him, crying, ‘Hast no help

For me, my father!’ There he died, and e’en

Plainly as thou seest me, saw I the three

Fall one by one ’twixt the fifth day and sixth:

Whence I betook me now grown blind to grope

Over them all, and for three days aloud

Call’d on them who were dead. Then fasting got

The mastery of grief.” Thus having spoke,

Once more upon the wretched skull his teeth

He fasten’d, like a mastiff’s ’gainst the bone

Firm and unyielding. Oh thou Pisa! shame

Of all the people, who their dwelling make

In that fair region, where th’ Italian voice

Is heard, since that thy neighbours are so slack

To punish, from their deep foundations rise

Capraia and Gorgona, and dam up

The mouth of Arno, that each soul in thee

May perish in the waters! What if fame

Reported that thy castles were betray’d

By Ugolino, yet no right hadst thou

To stretch his children on the rack. For them,

Brigata, Ugaccione, and the pair

Of gentle ones, of whom my song hath told,

Their tender years, thou modern Thebes! did make

Uncapable of guilt. Onward we pass’d,

Where others skarf’d in rugged folds of ice

Not on their feet were turn’d, but each revers’d.

There very weeping suffers not to weep;

For at their eyes grief seeking passage finds

Impediment, and rolling inward turns

For increase of sharp anguish: the first tears

Hang cluster’d, and like crystal vizors show,

Under the socket brimming all the cup.

Now though the cold had from my face dislodg’d

Each feeling, as ’t were callous, yet me seem’d

Some breath of wind I felt. “Whence cometh this,”

Said I, “my master? Is not here below

All vapour quench’d?”—“‘Thou shalt be speedily,”

He answer’d, “where thine eye shall tell thee whence

The cause descrying of this airy shower.”

Then cried out one in the chill crust who mourn’d:

“O souls so cruel! that the farthest post

Hath been assign’d you, from this face remove

The harden’d veil, that I may vent the grief

Impregnate at my heart, some little space

Ere it congeal again!” I thus replied:

“Say who thou wast, if thou wouldst have mine aid;

And if I extricate thee not, far down

As to the lowest ice may I descend!”

“The friar Alberigo,” answered he,

“Am I, who from the evil garden pluck’d

Its fruitage, and am here repaid, the date

More luscious for my fig.”—“Hah!” I exclaim’d,

“Art thou too dead!”—“How in the world aloft

It fareth with my body,” answer’d he,

“I am right ignorant. Such privilege

Hath Ptolomea, that ofttimes the soul

Drops hither, ere by Atropos divorc’d.

And that thou mayst wipe out more willingly

The glazed tear-drops that o’erlay mine eyes,

Know that the soul, that moment she betrays,

As I did, yields her body to a fiend

Who after moves and governs it at will,

Till all its time be rounded; headlong she

Falls to this cistern. And perchance above

Doth yet appear the body of a ghost,

Who here behind me winters. Him thou know’st,

If thou but newly art arriv’d below.

The years are many that have pass’d away,

Since to this fastness Branca Doria came.”

“Now,” answer’d I, “methinks thou mockest me,

For Branca Doria never yet hath died,

But doth all natural functions of a man,

Eats, drinks, and sleeps, and putteth raiment on.”

He thus: “Not yet unto that upper foss

By th’ evil talons guarded, where the pitch

Tenacious boils, had Michael Zanche reach’d,

When this one left a demon in his stead

In his own body, and of one his kin,

Who with him treachery wrought. But now put forth

Thy hand, and ope mine eyes.” I op’d them not.

Ill manners were best courtesy to him.

Ah Genoese! men perverse in every way,

With every foulness stain’d, why from the earth

Are ye not cancel’d? Such an one of yours

I with Romagna’s darkest spirit found,

As for his doings even now in soul

Is in Cocytus plung’d, and yet doth seem

In body still alive upon the earth.

CANTO XXXIV

“The banners of Hell’s Monarch do come forth

Towards us; therefore look,” so spake my guide,

“If thou discern him.” As, when breathes a cloud

Heavy and dense, or when the shades of night

Fall on our hemisphere, seems view’d from far

A windmill, which the blast stirs briskly round,

Such was the fabric then methought I saw,

To shield me from the wind, forthwith I drew

Behind my guide: no covert else was there.

Now came I (and with fear I bid my strain

Record the marvel) where the souls were all

Whelm’d underneath, transparent, as through glass

Pellucid the frail stem. Some prone were laid,

Others stood upright, this upon the soles,

That on his head, a third with face to feet

Arch’d like a bow. When to the point we came,

Whereat my guide was pleas’d that I should see

The creature eminent in beauty once,

He from before me stepp’d and made me pause.

“Lo!” he exclaim’d, “lo Dis! and lo the place,

Where thou hast need to arm thy heart with strength.”

How frozen and how faint I then became,

Ask me not, reader! for I write it not,

Since words would fail to tell thee of my state.

I was not dead nor living. Think thyself

If quick conception work in thee at all,

How I did feel. That emperor, who sways

The realm of sorrow, at mid breast from th’ ice

Stood forth; and I in stature am more like

A giant, than the giants are in his arms.

Mark now how great that whole must be, which suits

With such a part. If he were beautiful

As he is hideous now, and yet did dare

To scowl upon his Maker, well from him

May all our mis’ry flow. Oh what a sight!

How passing strange it seem’d, when I did spy

Upon his head three faces: one in front

Of hue vermilion, th’ other two with this

Midway each shoulder join’d and at the crest;

The right ’twixt wan and yellow seem’d: the left

To look on, such as come from whence old Nile

Stoops to the lowlands. Under each shot forth

Two mighty wings, enormous as became

A bird so vast. Sails never such I saw

Outstretch’d on the wide sea. No plumes had they,

But were in texture like a bat, and these

He flapp’d i’ th’ air, that from him issued still

Three winds, wherewith Cocytus to its depth

Was frozen. At six eyes he wept: the tears

Adown three chins distill’d with bloody foam.

At every mouth his teeth a sinner champ’d

Bruis’d as with pond’rous engine, so that three

Were in this guise tormented. But far more

Than from that gnawing, was the foremost pang’d

By the fierce rending, whence ofttimes the back

Was stript of all its skin. “That upper spirit,

Who hath worse punishment,” so spake my guide,

“Is Judas, he that hath his head within

And plies the feet without. Of th’ other two,

Whose heads are under, from the murky jaw

Who hangs, is Brutus: lo! how he doth writhe

And speaks not! Th’ other Cassius, that appears

So large of limb. But night now re-ascends,

And it is time for parting. All is seen.”

I clipp’d him round the neck, for so he bade;

And noting time and place, he, when the wings

Enough were op’d, caught fast the shaggy sides,

And down from pile to pile descending stepp’d

Between the thick fell and the jagged ice.

Soon as he reach’d the point, whereat the thigh

Upon the swelling of the haunches turns,

My leader there with pain and struggling hard

Turn’d round his head, where his feet stood before,

And grappled at the fell, as one who mounts,

That into hell methought we turn’d again.

“Expect that by such stairs as these,” thus spake

The teacher, panting like a man forespent,

“We must depart from evil so extreme.”

Then at a rocky opening issued forth,

And plac’d me on a brink to sit, next join’d

With wary step my side. I rais’d mine eyes,

Believing that I Lucifer should see

Where he was lately left, but saw him now

With legs held upward. Let the grosser sort,

Who see not what the point was I had pass’d,

Bethink them if sore toil oppress’d me then.

“Arise,” my master cried, “upon thy feet.

The way is long, and much uncouth the road;

And now within one hour and half of noon

The sun returns.” It was no palace-hall

Lofty and luminous wherein we stood,

But natural dungeon where ill footing was

And scant supply of light. “Ere from th’ abyss

I sep’rate,” thus when risen I began,

“My guide! vouchsafe few words to set me free

From error’s thralldom. Where is now the ice?

How standeth he in posture thus revers’d?

And how from eve to morn in space so brief

Hath the sun made his transit?” He in few

Thus answering spake: “Thou deemest thou art still

On th’ other side the centre, where I grasp’d

Th’ abhorred worm, that boreth through the world.

Thou wast on th’ other side, so long as I

Descended; when I turn’d, thou didst o’erpass

That point, to which from ev’ry part is dragg’d

All heavy substance. Thou art now arriv’d

Under the hemisphere opposed to that,

Which the great continent doth overspread,

And underneath whose canopy expir’d

The Man, that was born sinless, and so liv’d.

Thy feet are planted on the smallest sphere,

Whose other aspect is Judecca. Morn

Here rises, when there evening sets: and he,

Whose shaggy pile was scal’d, yet standeth fix’d,

As at the first. On this part he fell down

From heav’n; and th’ earth, here prominent before,

Through fear of him did veil her with the sea,

And to our hemisphere retir’d. Perchance

To shun him was the vacant space left here

By what of firm land on this side appears,

That sprang aloof.” There is a place beneath,

From Belzebub as distant, as extends

The vaulted tomb, discover’d not by sight,

But by the sound of brooklet, that descends

This way along the hollow of a rock,

Which, as it winds with no precipitous course,

The wave hath eaten. By that hidden way

My guide and I did enter, to return

To the fair world: and heedless of repose

We climbed, he first, I following his steps,

Till on our view the beautiful lights of heav’n

Dawn’d through a circular opening in the cave:

Thus issuing we again beheld the stars.

PURGATORY

CANTO I

O’er better waves to speed her rapid course

The light bark of my genius lifts the sail,

Well pleas’d to leave so cruel sea behind;

And of that second region will I sing,

In which the human spirit from sinful blot

Is purg’d, and for ascent to Heaven prepares.

Here, O ye hallow’d Nine! for in your train

I follow, here the deadened strain revive;

Nor let Calliope refuse to sound

A somewhat higher song, of that loud tone,

Which when the wretched birds of chattering note

Had heard, they of forgiveness lost all hope.

Sweet hue of eastern sapphire, that was spread

O’er the serene aspect of the pure air,

High up as the first circle, to mine eyes

Unwonted joy renew’d, soon as I ’scap’d

Forth from the atmosphere of deadly gloom,

That had mine eyes and bosom fill’d with grief.

The radiant planet, that to love invites,

Made all the orient laugh, and veil’d beneath

The Pisces’ light, that in his escort came.

To the right hand I turn’d, and fix’d my mind

On the’ other pole attentive, where I saw

Four stars ne’er seen before save by the ken

Of our first parents. Heaven of their rays

Seem’d joyous. O thou northern site, bereft

Indeed, and widow’d, since of these depriv’d!

As from this view I had desisted, straight

Turning a little tow’rds the other pole,

There from whence now the wain had disappear’d,

I saw an old man standing by my side

Alone, so worthy of rev’rence in his look,

That ne’er from son to father more was ow’d.

Low down his beard and mix’d with hoary white

Descended, like his locks, which parting fell

Upon his breast in double fold. The beams

Of those four luminaries on his face

So brightly shone, and with such radiance clear

Deck’d it, that I beheld him as the sun.

“Say who are ye, that stemming the blind stream,

Forth from th’ eternal prison-house have fled?”

He spoke and moved those venerable plumes.

“Who hath conducted, or with lantern sure

Lights you emerging from the depth of night,

That makes the infernal valley ever black?

Are the firm statutes of the dread abyss

Broken, or in high heaven new laws ordain’d,

That thus, condemn’d, ye to my caves approach?”

My guide, then laying hold on me, by words

And intimations given with hand and head,

Made my bent knees and eye submissive pay

Due reverence; then thus to him replied.

“Not of myself I come; a Dame from heaven

Descending, had besought me in my charge

To bring. But since thy will implies, that more

Our true condition I unfold at large,

Mine is not to deny thee thy request.

This mortal ne’er hath seen the farthest gloom.

But erring by his folly had approach’d

So near, that little space was left to turn.

Then, as before I told, I was dispatch’d

To work his rescue, and no way remain’d

Save this which I have ta’en. I have display’d

Before him all the regions of the bad;

And purpose now those spirits to display,

That under thy command are purg’d from sin.

How I have brought him would be long to say.

From high descends the virtue, by whose aid

I to thy sight and hearing him have led.

Now may our coming please thee. In the search

Of liberty he journeys: that how dear

They know, who for her sake have life refus’d.

Thou knowest, to whom death for her was sweet

In Utica, where thou didst leave those weeds,

That in the last great day will shine so bright.

For us the’ eternal edicts are unmov’d:

He breathes, and I am free of Minos’ power,

Abiding in that circle where the eyes

Of thy chaste Marcia beam, who still in look

Prays thee, O hallow’d spirit! to own her shine.

Then by her love we’ implore thee, let us pass

Through thy sev’n regions; for which best thanks

I for thy favour will to her return,

If mention there below thou not disdain.”

“Marcia so pleasing in my sight was found,”

He then to him rejoin’d, “while I was there,

That all she ask’d me I was fain to grant.

Now that beyond the’ accursed stream she dwells,

She may no longer move me, by that law,

Which was ordain’d me, when I issued thence.

Not so, if Dame from heaven, as thou sayst,

Moves and directs thee; then no flattery needs.

Enough for me that in her name thou ask.

Go therefore now: and with a slender reed

See that thou duly gird him, and his face

Lave, till all sordid stain thou wipe from thence.

For not with eye, by any cloud obscur’d,

Would it be seemly before him to come,

Who stands the foremost minister in heaven.

This islet all around, there far beneath,

Where the wave beats it, on the oozy bed

Produces store of reeds. No other plant,

Cover’d with leaves, or harden’d in its stalk,

There lives, not bending to the water’s sway.

After, this way return not; but the sun

Will show you, that now rises, where to take

The mountain in its easiest ascent.”

He disappear’d; and I myself uprais’d

Speechless, and to my guide retiring close,

Toward him turn’d mine eyes. He thus began;

“My son! observant thou my steps pursue.

We must retreat to rearward, for that way

The champain to its low extreme declines.”

The dawn had chas’d the matin hour of prime,

Which deaf before it, so that from afar

I spy’d the trembling of the ocean stream.

We travers’d the deserted plain, as one

Who, wander’d from his track, thinks every step

Trodden in vain till he regain the path.

When we had come, where yet the tender dew

Strove with the sun, and in a place, where fresh

The wind breath’d o’er it, while it slowly dried;

Both hands extended on the watery grass

My master plac’d, in graceful act and kind.

Whence I of his intent before appriz’d,

Stretch’d out to him my cheeks suffus’d with tears.

There to my visage he anew restor’d

That hue, which the dun shades of hell conceal’d.

Then on the solitary shore arriv’d,

That never sailing on its waters saw

Man, that could after measure back his course,

He girt me in such manner as had pleas’d

Him who instructed, and O, strange to tell!

As he selected every humble plant,

Wherever one was pluck’d, another there

Resembling, straightway in its place arose.

CANTO II

Now had the sun to that horizon reach’d,

That covers, with the most exalted point

Of its meridian circle, Salem’s walls,

And night, that opposite to him her orb

Sounds, from the stream of Ganges issued forth,

Holding the scales, that from her hands are dropp’d

When she reigns highest: so that where I was,

Aurora’s white and vermeil-tinctur’d cheek

To orange turn’d as she in age increas’d.

Meanwhile we linger’d by the water’s brink,

Like men, who, musing on their road, in thought

Journey, while motionless the body rests.

When lo! as near upon the hour of dawn,

Through the thick vapours Mars with fiery beam

Glares down in west, over the ocean floor;

So seem’d, what once again I hope to view,

A light so swiftly coming through the sea,

No winged course might equal its career.

From which when for a space I had withdrawn

Thine eyes, to make inquiry of my guide,

Again I look’d and saw it grown in size

And brightness: thou on either side appear’d

Something, but what I knew not of bright hue,

And by degrees from underneath it came

Another. My preceptor silent yet

Stood, while the brightness, that we first discern’d,

Open’d the form of wings: then when he knew

The pilot, cried aloud, “Down, down; bend low

Thy knees; behold God’s angel: fold thy hands:

Now shalt thou see true Ministers indeed.”

Lo how all human means he sets at naught!

So that nor oar he needs, nor other sail

Except his wings, between such distant shores.

Lo how straight up to heaven he holds them rear’d,

Winnowing the air with those eternal plumes,

That not like mortal hairs fall off or change!”

As more and more toward us came, more bright

Appear’d the bird of God, nor could the eye

Endure his splendor near: I mine bent down.

He drove ashore in a small bark so swift

And light, that in its course no wave it drank.

The heav’nly steersman at the prow was seen,

Visibly written blessed in his looks.

Within a hundred spirits and more there sat.

“In Exitu Israel de Aegypto;”

All with one voice together sang, with what

In the remainder of that hymn is writ.

Then soon as with the sign of holy cross

He bless’d them, they at once leap’d out on land,

The swiftly as he came return’d. The crew,

There left, appear’d astounded with the place,

Gazing around as one who sees new sights.

From every side the sun darted his beams,

And with his arrowy radiance from mid heav’n

Had chas’d the Capricorn, when that strange tribe

Lifting their eyes towards us: “If ye know,

Declare what path will Lead us to the mount.”

Them Virgil answer’d. “Ye suppose perchance

Us well acquainted with this place: but here,

We, as yourselves, are strangers. Not long erst

We came, before you but a little space,

By other road so rough and hard, that now

The’ ascent will seem to us as play.” The spirits,

Who from my breathing had perceiv’d I liv’d,

Grew pale with wonder. As the multitude

Flock round a herald, sent with olive branch,

To hear what news he brings, and in their haste

Tread one another down, e’en so at sight

Of me those happy spirits were fix’d, each one

Forgetful of its errand, to depart,

Where cleans’d from sin, it might be made all fair.

Then one I saw darting before the rest

With such fond ardour to embrace me, I

To do the like was mov’d. O shadows vain

Except in outward semblance! thrice my hands

I clasp’d behind it, they as oft return’d

Empty into my breast again. Surprise

I needs must think was painted in my looks,

For that the shadow smil’d and backward drew.

To follow it I hasten’d, but with voice

Of sweetness it enjoin’d me to desist.

Then who it was I knew, and pray’d of it,

To talk with me, it would a little pause.

It answered: “Thee as in my mortal frame

I lov’d, so loos’d forth it I love thee still,

And therefore pause; but why walkest thou here?”

“Not without purpose once more to return,

Thou find’st me, my Casella, where I am

Journeying this way;” I said, “but how of thee

Hath so much time been lost?” He answer’d straight:

“No outrage hath been done to me, if he

Who when and whom he chooses takes, me oft

This passage hath denied, since of just will

His will he makes. These three months past indeed,

He, whose chose to enter, with free leave

Hath taken; whence I wand’ring by the shore

Where Tyber’s wave grows salt, of him gain’d kind

Admittance, at that river’s mouth, tow’rd which

His wings are pointed, for there always throng

All such as not to Archeron descend.”

Then I: “If new laws have not quite destroy’d

Memory and use of that sweet song of love,

That while all my cares had power to ’swage;

Please thee with it a little to console

My spirit, that incumber’d with its frame,

Travelling so far, of pain is overcome.”

“Love that discourses in my thoughts.” He then

Began in such soft accents, that within

The sweetness thrills me yet. My gentle guide

And all who came with him, so well were pleas’d,

That seem’d naught else might in their thoughts have room.

Fast fix’d in mute attention to his notes

We stood, when lo! that old man venerable

Exclaiming, “How is this, ye tardy spirits?

What negligence detains you loit’ring here?

Run to the mountain to cast off those scales,

That from your eyes the sight of God conceal.”

As a wild flock of pigeons, to their food

Collected, blade or tares, without their pride

Accustom’d, and in still and quiet sort,

If aught alarm them, suddenly desert

Their meal, assail’d by more important care;

So I that new-come troop beheld, the song

Deserting, hasten to the mountain’s side,

As one who goes yet where he tends knows not.

Nor with less hurried step did we depart.

CANTO III

Them sudden flight had scatter’d over the plain,

Turn’d tow’rds the mountain, whither reason’s voice

Drives us; I to my faithful company

Adhering, left it not. For how of him

Depriv’d, might I have sped, or who beside

Would o’er the mountainous tract have led my steps

He with the bitter pang of self-remorse

Seem’d smitten. O clear conscience and upright

How doth a little fling wound thee sore!

Soon as his feet desisted (slack’ning pace),

From haste, that mars all decency of act,

My mind, that in itself before was wrapt,

Its thoughts expanded, as with joy restor’d:

And full against the steep ascent I set

My face, where highest to heav’n its top o’erflows.

The sun, that flar’d behind, with ruddy beam

Before my form was broken; for in me

His rays resistance met. I turn’d aside

With fear of being left, when I beheld

Only before myself the ground obscur’d.

When thus my solace, turning him around,

Bespake me kindly: “Why distrustest thou?

Believ’st not I am with thee, thy sure guide?

It now is evening there, where buried lies

The body, in which I cast a shade, remov’d

To Naples from Brundusium’s wall. Nor thou

Marvel, if before me no shadow fall,

More than that in the sky element

One ray obstructs not other. To endure

Torments of heat and cold extreme, like frames

That virtue hath dispos’d, which how it works

Wills not to us should be reveal’d. Insane

Who hopes, our reason may that space explore,

Which holds three persons in one substance knit.

Seek not the wherefore, race of human kind;

Could ye have seen the whole, no need had been

For Mary to bring forth. Moreover ye

Have seen such men desiring fruitlessly;

To whose desires repose would have been giv’n,

That now but serve them for eternal grief.

I speak of Plato, and the Stagyrite,

And others many more.” And then he bent

Downwards his forehead, and in troubled mood

Broke off his speech. Meanwhile we had arriv’d

Far as the mountain’s foot, and there the rock

Found of so steep ascent, that nimblest steps

To climb it had been vain. The most remote

Most wild untrodden path, in all the tract

’Twixt Lerice and Turbia were to this

A ladder easy’ and open of access.

“Who knows on which hand now the steep declines?”

My master said and paus’d, “so that he may

Ascend, who journeys without aid of wine?”

And while with looks directed to the ground

The meaning of the pathway he explor’d,

And I gaz’d upward round the stony height,

Of spirits, that toward us mov’d their steps,

Yet moving seem’d not, they so slow approach’d.

I thus my guide address’d: “Upraise thine eyes,

Lo that way some, of whom thou may’st obtain

Counsel, if of thyself thou find’st it not!”

Straightway he look’d, and with free speech replied:

“Let us tend thither: they but softly come.

And thou be firm in hope, my son belov’d.”

Now was that people distant far in space

A thousand paces behind ours, as much

As at a throw the nervous arm could fling,

When all drew backward on the messy crags

Of the steep bank, and firmly stood unmov’d

As one who walks in doubt might stand to look.

“O spirits perfect! O already chosen!”

Virgil to them began, “by that blest peace,

Which, as I deem, is for you all prepar’d,

Instruct us where the mountain low declines,

So that attempt to mount it be not vain.

For who knows most, him loss of time most grieves.”

As sheep, that step from forth their fold, by one,

Or pairs, or three at once; meanwhile the rest

Stand fearfully, bending the eye and nose

To ground, and what the foremost does, that do

The others, gath’ring round her, if she stops,

Simple and quiet, nor the cause discern;

So saw I moving to advance the first,

Who of that fortunate crew were at the head,

Of modest mien and graceful in their gait.

When they before me had beheld the light

From my right side fall broken on the ground,

So that the shadow reach’d the cave, they stopp’d

And somewhat back retir’d: the same did all,

Who follow’d, though unweeting of the cause.

“Unask’d of you, yet freely I confess,

This is a human body which ye see.

That the sun’s light is broken on the ground,

Marvel not: but believe, that not without

Virtue deriv’d from Heaven, we to climb

Over this wall aspire.” So them bespake

My master; and that virtuous tribe rejoin’d;

“Turn, and before you there the entrance lies,”

Making a signal to us with bent hands.

Then of them one began. “Whoe’er thou art,

Who journey’st thus this way, thy visage turn,

Think if me elsewhere thou hast ever seen.”

I tow’rds him turn’d, and with fix’d eye beheld.

Comely, and fair, and gentle of aspect,

He seem’d, but on one brow a gash was mark’d.

When humbly I disclaim’d to have beheld

Him ever: “Now behold!” he said, and show’d

High on his breast a wound: then smiling spake.

“I am Manfredi, grandson to the Queen

Costanza: whence I pray thee, when return’d,

To my fair daughter go, the parent glad

Of Aragonia and Sicilia’s pride;

And of the truth inform her, if of me

Aught else be told. When by two mortal blows

My frame was shatter’d, I betook myself

Weeping to him, who of free will forgives.

My sins were horrible; but so wide arms

Hath goodness infinite, that it receives

All who turn to it. Had this text divine

Been of Cosenza’s shepherd better scann’d,

Who then by Clement on my hunt was set,

Yet at the bridge’s head my bones had lain,

Near Benevento, by the heavy mole

Protected; but the rain now drenches them,

And the wind drives, out of the kingdom’s bounds,

Far as the stream of Verde, where, with lights

Extinguish’d, he remov’d them from their bed.

Yet by their curse we are not so destroy’d,

But that the eternal love may turn, while hope

Retains her verdant blossoms. True it is,

That such one as in contumacy dies

Against the holy church, though he repent,

Must wander thirty-fold for all the time

In his presumption past; if such decree

Be not by prayers of good men shorter made

Look therefore if thou canst advance my bliss;

Revealing to my good Costanza, how

Thou hast beheld me, and beside the terms

Laid on me of that interdict; for here

By means of those below much profit comes.”

CANTO IV

When by sensations of delight or pain,

That any of our faculties hath seiz’d,

Entire the soul collects herself, it seems

She is intent upon that power alone,

And thus the error is disprov’d which holds

The soul not singly lighted in the breast.

And therefore when as aught is heard or seen,

That firmly keeps the soul toward it turn’d,

Time passes, and a man perceives it not.

For that, whereby he hearken, is one power,

Another that, which the whole spirit hash;

This is as it were bound, while that is free.

This found I true by proof, hearing that spirit

And wond’ring; for full fifty steps aloft

The sun had measur’d unobserv’d of me,

When we arriv’d where all with one accord

The spirits shouted, “Here is what ye ask.”

A larger aperture ofttimes is stopp’d

With forked stake of thorn by villager,

When the ripe grape imbrowns, than was the path,

By which my guide, and I behind him close,

Ascended solitary, when that troop

Departing left us. On Sanleo’s road

Who journeys, or to Noli low descends,

Or mounts Bismantua’s height, must use his feet;

But here a man had need to fly, I mean

With the swift wing and plumes of high desire,

Conducted by his aid, who gave me hope,

And with light furnish’d to direct my way.

We through the broken rock ascended, close

Pent on each side, while underneath the ground

Ask’d help of hands and feet. When we arriv’d

Near on the highest ridge of the steep bank,

Where the plain level open’d I exclaim’d,

“O master! say which way can we proceed?”

He answer’d, “Let no step of thine recede.

Behind me gain the mountain, till to us

Some practis’d guide appear.” That eminence

Was lofty that no eye might reach its point,

And the side proudly rising, more than line

From the mid quadrant to the centre drawn.

I wearied thus began: “Parent belov’d!

Turn, and behold how I remain alone,

If thou stay not.”—“My son!” He straight reply’d,

“Thus far put forth thy strength;” and to a track

Pointed, that, on this side projecting, round

Circles the hill. His words so spurr’d me on,

That I behind him clamb’ring, forc’d myself,

Till my feet press’d the circuit plain beneath.

There both together seated, turn’d we round

To eastward, whence was our ascent: and oft

Many beside have with delight look’d back.

First on the nether shores I turn’d my eyes,

Then rais’d them to the sun, and wond’ring mark’d

That from the left it smote us. Soon perceiv’d

That Poet sage now at the car of light

Amaz’d I stood, where ’twixt us and the north

Its course it enter’d. Whence he thus to me:

“Were Leda’s offspring now in company

Of that broad mirror, that high up and low

Imparts his light beneath, thou might’st behold

The ruddy zodiac nearer to the bears

Wheel, if its ancient course it not forsook.

How that may be if thou would’st think; within

Pond’ring, imagine Sion with this mount

Plac’d on the earth, so that to both be one

Horizon, and two hemispheres apart,

Where lies the path that Phaeton ill knew

To guide his erring chariot: thou wilt see

How of necessity by this on one

He passes, while by that on the’ other side,

If with clear view shine intellect attend.”

“Of truth, kind teacher!” I exclaim’d, “so clear

Aught saw I never, as I now discern

Where seem’d my ken to fail, that the mid orb

Of the supernal motion (which in terms

Of art is called the Equator, and remains

Ever between the sun and winter) for the cause

Thou hast assign’d, from hence toward the north

Departs, when those who in the Hebrew land

Inhabit, see it tow’rds the warmer part.

But if it please thee, I would gladly know,

How far we have to journey: for the hill

Mounts higher, than this sight of mine can mount.”

He thus to me: “Such is this steep ascent,

That it is ever difficult at first,

But, more a man proceeds, less evil grows.

When pleasant it shall seem to thee, so much

That upward going shall be easy to thee.

As in a vessel to go down the tide,

Then of this path thou wilt have reach’d the end.

There hope to rest thee from thy toil. No more

I answer, and thus far for certain know.”

As he his words had spoken, near to us

A voice there sounded: “Yet ye first perchance

May to repose you by constraint be led.”

At sound thereof each turn’d, and on the left

A huge stone we beheld, of which nor I

Nor he before was ware. Thither we drew,

find there were some, who in the shady place

Behind the rock were standing, as a man

Thru’ idleness might stand. Among them one,

Who seem’d to me much wearied, sat him down,

And with his arms did fold his knees about,

Holding his face between them downward bent.

“Sweet Sir!” I cry’d, “behold that man, who shows

Himself more idle, than if laziness

Were sister to him.” Straight he turn’d to us,

And, o’er the thigh lifting his face, observ’d,

Then in these accents spake: “Up then, proceed

Thou valiant one.” Straight who it was I knew;

Nor could the pain I felt (for want of breath

Still somewhat urg’d me) hinder my approach.

And when I came to him, he scarce his head

Uplifted, saying “Well hast thou discern’d,

How from the left the sun his chariot leads.”

His lazy acts and broken words my lips

To laughter somewhat mov’d; when I began:

“Belacqua, now for thee I grieve no more.

But tell, why thou art seated upright there?

Waitest thou escort to conduct thee hence?

Or blame I only shine accustom’d ways?”

Then he: “My brother, of what use to mount,

When to my suffering would not let me pass

The bird of God, who at the portal sits?

Behooves so long that heav’n first bear me round

Without its limits, as in life it bore,

Because I to the end repentant Sighs

Delay’d, if prayer do not aid me first,

That riseth up from heart which lives in grace.

What other kind avails, not heard in heaven?”

Before me now the Poet up the mount

Ascending, cried: “Haste thee, for see the sun

Has touch’d the point meridian, and the night

Now covers with her foot Marocco’s shore.”

CANTO V

Now had I left those spirits, and pursued

The steps of my Conductor, when beheld

Pointing the finger at me one exclaim’d:

“See how it seems as if the light not shone

From the left hand of him beneath, and he,

As living, seems to be led on.” Mine eyes

I at that sound reverting, saw them gaze

Through wonder first at me, and then at me

And the light broken underneath, by turns.

“Why are thy thoughts thus riveted?” my guide

Exclaim’d, “that thou hast slack’d thy pace? or how

Imports it thee, what thing is whisper’d here?

Come after me, and to their babblings leave

The crowd. Be as a tower, that, firmly set,

Shakes not its top for any blast that blows!

He, in whose bosom thought on thought shoots out,

Still of his aim is wide, in that the one

Sicklies and wastes to nought the other’s strength.”

What other could I answer save “I come?”

I said it, somewhat with that colour ting’d

Which ofttimes pardon meriteth for man.

Meanwhile traverse along the hill there came,

A little way before us, some who sang

The “Miserere” in responsive Strains.

When they perceiv’d that through my body I

Gave way not for the rays to pass, their song

Straight to a long and hoarse exclaim they chang’d;

And two of them, in guise of messengers,

Ran on to meet us, and inquiring ask’d:

“Of your condition we would gladly learn.”

To them my guide. “Ye may return, and bear

Tidings to them who sent you, that his frame

Is real flesh. If, as I deem, to view

His shade they paus’d, enough is answer’d them.

Him let them honour, they may prize him well.”

Ne’er saw I fiery vapours with such speed

Cut through the serene air at fall of night,

Nor August’s clouds athwart the setting sun,

That upward these did not in shorter space

Return; and, there arriving, with the rest

Wheel back on us, as with loose rein a troop.

“Many,” exclaim’d the bard, “are these, who throng

Around us: to petition thee they come.

Go therefore on, and listen as thou go’st.”

“O spirit! who go’st on to blessedness

With the same limbs, that clad thee at thy birth.”

Shouting they came, “a little rest thy step.

Look if thou any one amongst our tribe

Hast e’er beheld, that tidings of him there

Thou mayst report. Ah, wherefore go’st thou on?

Ah wherefore tarriest thou not? We all

By violence died, and to our latest hour

Were sinners, but then warn’d by light from heav’n,

So that, repenting and forgiving, we

Did issue out of life at peace with God,

Who with desire to see him fills our heart.”

Then I: “The visages of all I scan

Yet none of ye remember. But if aught,

That I can do, may please you, gentle spirits!

Speak; and I will perform it, by that peace,

Which on the steps of guide so excellent

Following from world to world intent I seek.”

In answer he began: “None here distrusts

Thy kindness, though not promis’d with an oath;

So as the will fail not for want of power.

Whence I, who sole before the others speak,

Entreat thee, if thou ever see that land,

Which lies between Romagna and the realm

Of Charles, that of thy courtesy thou pray

Those who inhabit Fano, that for me

Their adorations duly be put up,

By which I may purge off my grievous sins.

From thence I came. But the deep passages,

Whence issued out the blood wherein I dwelt,

Upon my bosom in Antenor’s land

Were made, where to be more secure I thought.

The author of the deed was Este’s prince,

Who, more than right could warrant, with his wrath

Pursued me. Had I towards Mira fled,

When overta’en at Oriaco, still

Might I have breath’d. But to the marsh I sped,

And in the mire and rushes tangled there

Fell, and beheld my life-blood float the plain.”

Then said another: “Ah! so may the wish,

That takes thee o’er the mountain, be fulfill’d,

As thou shalt graciously give aid to mine.

Of Montefeltro I; Buonconte I:

Giovanna nor none else have care for me,

Sorrowing with these I therefore go.” I thus:

“From Campaldino’s field what force or chance

Drew thee, that ne’er thy sepulture was known?”

“Oh!” answer’d he, “at Casentino’s foot

A stream there courseth, nam’d Archiano, sprung

In Apennine above the Hermit’s seat.

E’en where its name is cancel’d, there came I,

Pierc’d in the heart, fleeing away on foot,

And bloodying the plain. Here sight and speech

Fail’d me, and finishing with Mary’s name

I fell, and tenantless my flesh remain’d.

I will report the truth; which thou again

Tell to the living. Me God’s angel took,

Whilst he of hell exclaim’d: “O thou from heav’n!

Say wherefore hast thou robb’d me? Thou of him

Th’ eternal portion bear’st with thee away

For one poor tear that he deprives me of.

But of the other, other rule I make.”

“Thou knowest how in the atmosphere collects

That vapour dank, returning into water,

Soon as it mounts where cold condenses it.

That evil will, which in his intellect

Still follows evil, came, and rais’d the wind

And smoky mist, by virtue of the power

Given by his nature. Thence the valley, soon

As day was spent, he cover’d o’er with cloud

From Pratomagno to the mountain range,

And stretch’d the sky above, so that the air

Impregnate chang’d to water. Fell the rain,

And to the fosses came all that the land

Contain’d not; and, as mightiest streams are wont,

To the great river with such headlong sweep

Rush’d, that nought stay’d its course. My stiffen’d frame

Laid at his mouth the fell Archiano found,

And dash’d it into Arno, from my breast

Loos’ning the cross, that of myself I made

When overcome with pain. He hurl’d me on,

Along the banks and bottom of his course;

Then in his muddy spoils encircling wrapt.”

“Ah! when thou to the world shalt be return’d,

And rested after thy long road,” so spake

Next the third spirit; “then remember me.

I once was Pia. Sienna gave me life,

Maremma took it from me. That he knows,

Who me with jewell’d ring had first espous’d.”

CANTO VI

When from their game of dice men separate,

He, who hath lost, remains in sadness fix’d,

Revolving in his mind, what luckless throws

He cast: but meanwhile all the company

Go with the other; one before him runs,

And one behind his mantle twitches, one

Fast by his side bids him remember him.

He stops not; and each one, to whom his hand

Is stretch’d, well knows he bids him stand aside;

And thus he from the press defends himself.

E’en such was I in that close-crowding throng;

And turning so my face around to all,

And promising, I ’scap’d from it with pains.

Here of Arezzo him I saw, who fell

By Ghino’s cruel arm; and him beside,

Who in his chase was swallow’d by the stream.

Here Frederic Novello, with his hand

Stretch’d forth, entreated; and of Pisa he,

Who put the good Marzuco to such proof

Of constancy. Count Orso I beheld;

And from its frame a soul dismiss’d for spite

And envy, as it said, but for no crime:

I speak of Peter de la Brosse; and here,

While she yet lives, that Lady of Brabant

Let her beware; lest for so false a deed

She herd with worse than these. When I was freed

From all those spirits, who pray’d for others’ prayers

To hasten on their state of blessedness;

Straight I began: “O thou, my luminary!

It seems expressly in thy text denied,

That heaven’s supreme decree can never bend

To supplication; yet with this design

Do these entreat. Can then their hope be vain,

Or is thy saying not to me reveal’d?”

He thus to me: “Both what I write is plain,

And these deceiv’d not in their hope, if well

Thy mind consider, that the sacred height

Of judgment doth not stoop, because love’s flame

In a short moment all fulfils, which he

Who sojourns here, in right should satisfy.

Besides, when I this point concluded thus,

By praying no defect could be supplied;

Because the pray’r had none access to God.

Yet in this deep suspicion rest thou not

Contented unless she assure thee so,

Who betwixt truth and mind infuses light.

I know not if thou take me right; I mean

Beatrice. Her thou shalt behold above,

Upon this mountain’s crown, fair seat of joy.”

Then I: “Sir! let us mend our speed; for now

I tire not as before; and lo! the hill

Stretches its shadow far.” He answer’d thus:

“Our progress with this day shall be as much

As we may now dispatch; but otherwise

Than thou supposest is the truth. For there

Thou canst not be, ere thou once more behold

Him back returning, who behind the steep

Is now so hidden, that as erst his beam

Thou dost not break. But lo! a spirit there

Stands solitary, and toward us looks:

It will instruct us in the speediest way.”

We soon approach’d it. O thou Lombard spirit!

How didst thou stand, in high abstracted mood,

Scarce moving with slow dignity thine eyes!

It spoke not aught, but let us onward pass,

Eyeing us as a lion on his watch.

But Virgil with entreaty mild advanc’d,

Requesting it to show the best ascent.

It answer to his question none return’d,

But of our country and our kind of life

Demanded. When my courteous guide began,

“Mantua,” the solitary shadow quick

Rose towards us from the place in which it stood,

And cry’d, “Mantuan! I am thy countryman

Sordello.” Each the other then embrac’d.

Ah slavish Italy! thou inn of grief,

Vessel without a pilot in loud storm,

Lady no longer of fair provinces,

But brothel-house impure! this gentle spirit,

Ev’n from the Pleasant sound of his dear land

Was prompt to greet a fellow citizen

With such glad cheer; while now thy living ones

In thee abide not without war; and one

Malicious gnaws another, ay of those

Whom the same wall and the same moat contains,

Seek, wretched one! around thy sea-coasts wide;

Then homeward to thy bosom turn, and mark

If any part of the sweet peace enjoy.

What boots it, that thy reins Justinian’s hand

Befitted, if thy saddle be unpress’d?

Nought doth he now but aggravate thy shame.

Ah people! thou obedient still shouldst live,

And in the saddle let thy Caesar sit,

If well thou marked’st that which God commands.

Look how that beast to felness hath relaps’d

From having lost correction of the spur,

Since to the bridle thou hast set thine hand,

O German Albert! who abandon’st her,

That is grown savage and unmanageable,

When thou should’st clasp her flanks with forked heels.

Just judgment from the stars fall on thy blood!

And be it strange and manifest to all!

Such as may strike thy successor with dread!

For that thy sire and thou have suffer’d thus,

Through greediness of yonder realms detain’d,

The garden of the empire to run waste.

Come see the Capulets and Montagues,

The Philippeschi and Monaldi! man

Who car’st for nought! those sunk in grief, and these

With dire suspicion rack’d. Come, cruel one!

Come and behold the’ oppression of the nobles,

And mark their injuries: and thou mayst see.

What safety Santafiore can supply.

Come and behold thy Rome, who calls on thee,

Desolate widow! day and night with moans:

“My Caesar, why dost thou desert my side?”

Come and behold what love among thy people:

And if no pity touches thee for us,

Come and blush for thine own report. For me,

If it be lawful, O Almighty Power,

Who wast in earth for our sakes crucified!

Are thy just eyes turn’d elsewhere? or is this

A preparation in the wond’rous depth

Of thy sage counsel made, for some good end,

Entirely from our reach of thought cut off?

So are the’ Italian cities all o’erthrong’d

With tyrants, and a great Marcellus made

Of every petty factious villager.

My Florence! thou mayst well remain unmov’d

At this digression, which affects not thee:

Thanks to thy people, who so wisely speed.

Many have justice in their heart, that long

Waiteth for counsel to direct the bow,

Or ere it dart unto its aim: but shine

Have it on their lip’s edge. Many refuse

To bear the common burdens: readier thine

Answer uneall’d, and cry, “Behold I stoop!”

Make thyself glad, for thou hast reason now,

Thou wealthy! thou at peace! thou wisdom-fraught!

Facts best witness if I speak the truth.

Athens and Lacedaemon, who of old

Enacted laws, for civil arts renown’d,

Made little progress in improving life

Tow’rds thee, who usest such nice subtlety,

That to the middle of November scarce

Reaches the thread thou in October weav’st.

How many times, within thy memory,

Customs, and laws, and coins, and offices

Have been by thee renew’d, and people chang’d!

If thou remember’st well and can’st see clear,

Thou wilt perceive thyself like a sick wretch,

Who finds no rest upon her down, but oft

Shifting her side, short respite seeks from pain.

CANTO VII

After their courteous greetings joyfully

Sev’n times exchang’d, Sordello backward drew

Exclaiming, “Who are ye?” “Before this mount

By spirits worthy of ascent to God

Was sought, my bones had by Octavius’ care

Been buried. I am Virgil, for no sin

Depriv’d of heav’n, except for lack of faith.”

So answer’d him in few my gentle guide.

As one, who aught before him suddenly

Beholding, whence his wonder riseth, cries

“It is yet is not,” wav’ring in belief;

Such he appear’d; then downward bent his eyes,

And drawing near with reverential step,

Caught him, where of mean estate might clasp

His lord. “Glory of Latium!” he exclaim’d,

“In whom our tongue its utmost power display’d!

Boast of my honor’d birth-place! what desert

Of mine, what favour rather undeserv’d,

Shows thee to me? If I to hear that voice

Am worthy, say if from below thou com’st

And from what cloister’s pale?”—“Through every orb

Of that sad region,” he reply’d, “thus far

Am I arriv’d, by heav’nly influence led

And with such aid I come. There is a place

There underneath, not made by torments sad,

But by dun shades alone; where mourning’s voice

Sounds not of anguish sharp, but breathes in sighs.”

There I with little innocents abide,

Who by death’s fangs were bitten, ere exempt

From human taint. There I with those abide,

Who the three holy virtues put not on,

But understood the rest, and without blame

Follow’d them all. But if thou know’st and canst,

Direct us, how we soonest may arrive,

Where Purgatory its true beginning takes.”

He answer’d thus: “We have no certain place

Assign’d us: upwards I may go or round,

Far as I can, I join thee for thy guide.

But thou beholdest now how day declines:

And upwards to proceed by night, our power

Excels: therefore it may be well to choose

A place of pleasant sojourn. To the right

Some spirits sit apart retir’d. If thou

Consentest, I to these will lead thy steps:

And thou wilt know them, not without delight.”

“How chances this?” was answer’d; “who so wish’d

To ascend by night, would he be thence debarr’d

By other, or through his own weakness fail?”

The good Sordello then, along the ground

Trailing his finger, spoke: “Only this line

Thou shalt not overpass, soon as the sun

Hath disappear’d; not that aught else impedes

Thy going upwards, save the shades of night.

These with the wont of power perplex the will.

With them thou haply mightst return beneath,

Or to and fro around the mountain’s side

Wander, while day is in the horizon shut.”

My master straight, as wond’ring at his speech,

Exclaim’d: “Then lead us quickly, where thou sayst,

That, while we stay, we may enjoy delight.”

A little space we were remov’d from thence,

When I perceiv’d the mountain hollow’d out.

Ev’n as large valleys hollow’d out on earth,

“That way,” the’ escorting spirit cried, “we go,

Where in a bosom the high bank recedes:

And thou await renewal of the day.”

Betwixt the steep and plain a crooked path

Led us traverse into the ridge’s side,

Where more than half the sloping edge expires.

Refulgent gold, and silver thrice refin’d,

And scarlet grain and ceruse, Indian wood

Of lucid dye serene, fresh emeralds

But newly broken, by the herbs and flowers

Plac’d in that fair recess, in color all

Had been surpass’d, as great surpasses less.

Nor nature only there lavish’d her hues,

But of the sweetness of a thousand smells

A rare and undistinguish’d fragrance made.

“Salve Regina,” on the grass and flowers

Here chanting I beheld those spirits sit

Who not beyond the valley could be seen.

“Before the west’ring sun sink to his bed,”

Began the Mantuan, who our steps had turn’d,

“’Mid those desires not that I lead ye on.

For from this eminence ye shall discern

Better the acts and visages of all,

Than in the nether vale among them mix’d.

He, who sits high above the rest, and seems

To have neglected that he should have done,

And to the others’ song moves not his lip,

The Emperor Rodolph call, who might have heal’d

The wounds whereof fair Italy hath died,

So that by others she revives but slowly,

He, who with kindly visage comforts him,

Sway’d in that country, where the water springs,

That Moldaw’s river to the Elbe, and Elbe

Rolls to the ocean: Ottocar his name:

Who in his swaddling clothes was of more worth

Than Winceslaus his son, a bearded man,

Pamper’d with rank luxuriousness and ease.

And that one with the nose depress, who close

In counsel seems with him of gentle look,

Flying expir’d, with’ring the lily’s flower.

Look there how he doth knock against his breast!

The other ye behold, who for his cheek

Makes of one hand a couch, with frequent sighs.

They are the father and the father-in-law

Of Gallia’s bane: his vicious life they know

And foul; thence comes the grief that rends them thus.

“He, so robust of limb, who measure keeps

In song, with him of feature prominent,

With ev’ry virtue bore his girdle brac’d.

And if that stripling who behinds him sits,

King after him had liv’d, his virtue then

From vessel to like vessel had been pour’d;

Which may not of the other heirs be said.

By James and Frederick his realms are held;

Neither the better heritage obtains.

Rarely into the branches of the tree

Doth human worth mount up; and so ordains

He who bestows it, that as his free gift

It may be call’d. To Charles my words apply

No less than to his brother in the song;

Which Pouille and Provence now with grief confess.

So much that plant degenerates from its seed,

As more than Beatrice and Margaret

Costanza still boasts of her valorous spouse.

“Behold the king of simple life and plain,

Harry of England, sitting there alone:

He through his branches better issue spreads.

“That one, who on the ground beneath the rest

Sits lowest, yet his gaze directs aloft,

Us William, that brave Marquis, for whose cause

The deed of Alexandria and his war

Makes Conferrat and Canavese weep.”

CANTO VIII

Now was the hour that wakens fond desire

In men at sea, and melts their thoughtful heart,

Who in the morn have bid sweet friends farewell,

And pilgrim newly on his road with love

Thrills, if he hear the vesper bell from far,

That seems to mourn for the expiring day:

When I, no longer taking heed to hear

Began, with wonder, from those spirits to mark

One risen from its seat, which with its hand

Audience implor’d. Both palms it join’d and rais’d,

Fixing its steadfast gaze towards the east,

As telling God, “I care for naught beside.”

“Te Lucis Ante,” so devoutly then

Came from its lip, and in so soft a strain,

That all my sense in ravishment was lost.

And the rest after, softly and devout,

Follow’d through all the hymn, with upward gaze

Directed to the bright supernal wheels.

Here, reader! for the truth makes thine eyes keen:

For of so subtle texture is this veil,

That thou with ease mayst pass it through unmark’d.

I saw that gentle band silently next

Look up, as if in expectation held,

Pale and in lowly guise; and from on high

I saw forth issuing descend beneath

Two angels with two flame-illumin’d swords,

Broken and mutilated at their points.

Green as the tender leaves but newly born,

Their vesture was, the which by wings as green

Beaten, they drew behind them, fann’d in air.

A little over us one took his stand,

The other lighted on the’ Opposing hill,

So that the troop were in the midst contain’d.

Well I descried the whiteness on their heads;

But in their visages the dazzled eye

Was lost, as faculty that by too much

Is overpower’d. “From Mary’s bosom both

Are come,” exclaim’d Sordello, “as a guard

Over the vale, ganst him, who hither tends,

The serpent.” Whence, not knowing by which path

He came, I turn’d me round, and closely press’d,

All frozen, to my leader’s trusted side.

Sordello paus’d not: “To the valley now

(For it is time) let us descend; and hold

Converse with those great shadows: haply much

Their sight may please ye.” Only three steps down

Methinks I measur’d, ere I was beneath,

And noted one who look’d as with desire

To know me. Time was now that air arrow dim;

Yet not so dim, that ’twixt his eyes and mine

It clear’d not up what was conceal’d before.

Mutually tow’rds each other we advanc’d.

Nino, thou courteous judge! what joy I felt,

When I perceiv’d thou wert not with the bad!

No salutation kind on either part

Was left unsaid. He then inquir’d: “How long

Since thou arrived’st at the mountain’s foot,

Over the distant waves?”—“O!” answer’d I,

“Through the sad seats of woe this morn I came,

And still in my first life, thus journeying on,

The other strive to gain.” Soon as they heard

My words, he and Sordello backward drew,

As suddenly amaz’d. To Virgil one,

The other to a spirit turn’d, who near

Was seated, crying: “Conrad! up with speed:

Come, see what of his grace high God hath will’d.”

Then turning round to me: “By that rare mark

Of honour which thou ow’st to him, who hides

So deeply his first cause, it hath no ford,

When thou shalt be beyond the vast of waves.

Tell my Giovanna, that for me she call

There, where reply to innocence is made.

Her mother, I believe, loves me no more;

Since she has chang’d the white and wimpled folds,

Which she is doom’d once more with grief to wish.

By her it easily may be perceiv’d,

How long in women lasts the flame of love,

If sight and touch do not relume it oft.

For her so fair a burial will not make

The viper which calls Milan to the field,

As had been made by shrill Gallura’s bird.”

He spoke, and in his visage took the stamp

Of that right seal, which with due temperature

Glows in the bosom. My insatiate eyes

Meanwhile to heav’n had travel’d, even there

Where the bright stars are slowest, as a wheel

Nearest the axle; when my guide inquir’d:

“What there aloft, my son, has caught thy gaze?”

I answer’d: “The three torches, with which here

The pole is all on fire.” He then to me:

“The four resplendent stars, thou saw’st this morn

Are there beneath, and these ris’n in their stead.”

While yet he spoke. Sordello to himself

Drew him, and cry’d: “Lo there our enemy!”

And with his hand pointed that way to look.

Along the side, where barrier none arose

Around the little vale, a serpent lay,

Such haply as gave Eve the bitter food.

Between the grass and flowers, the evil snake

Came on, reverting oft his lifted head;

And, as a beast that smoothes its polish’d coat,

Licking his hack. I saw not, nor can tell,

How those celestial falcons from their seat

Mov’d, but in motion each one well descried,

Hearing the air cut by their verdant plumes.

The serpent fled; and to their stations back

The angels up return’d with equal flight.

The Spirit (who to Nino, when he call’d,

Had come), from viewing me with fixed ken,

Through all that conflict, loosen’d not his sight.

“So may the lamp, which leads thee up on high,

Find, in thy destin’d lot, of wax so much,

As may suffice thee to the enamel’s height.”

It thus began: “If any certain news

Of Valdimagra and the neighbour part

Thou know’st, tell me, who once was mighty there

They call’d me Conrad Malaspina, not

That old one, but from him I sprang. The love

I bore my people is now here refin’d.”

“In your dominions,” I answer’d, “ne’er was I.

But through all Europe where do those men dwell,

To whom their glory is not manifest?

The fame, that honours your illustrious house,

Proclaims the nobles and proclaims the land;

So that he knows it who was never there.

I swear to you, so may my upward route

Prosper! your honour’d nation not impairs

The value of her coffer and her sword.

Nature and use give her such privilege,

That while the world is twisted from his course

By a bad head, she only walks aright,

And has the evil way in scorn.” He then:

“Now pass thee on: sev’n times the tired sun

Revisits not the couch, which with four feet

The forked Aries covers, ere that kind

Opinion shall be nail’d into thy brain

With stronger nails than other’s speech can drive,

If the sure course of judgment be not stay’d.”

CANTO IX

Now the fair consort of Tithonus old,

Arisen from her mate’s beloved arms,

Look’d palely o’er the eastern cliff: her brow,

Lucent with jewels, glitter’d, set in sign

Of that chill animal, who with his train

Smites fearful nations: and where then we were,

Two steps of her ascent the night had past,

And now the third was closing up its wing,

When I, who had so much of Adam with me,

Sank down upon the grass, o’ercome with sleep,

There where all five were seated. In that hour,

When near the dawn the swallow her sad lay,

Rememb’ring haply ancient grief, renews,

And with our minds more wand’rers from the flesh,

And less by thought restrain’d are, as ’t were, full

Of holy divination in their dreams,

Then in a vision did I seem to view

A golden-feather’d eagle in the sky,

With open wings, and hov’ring for descent,

And I was in that place, methought, from whence

Young Ganymede, from his associates ’reft,

Was snatch’d aloft to the high consistory.

“Perhaps,” thought I within me, “here alone

He strikes his quarry, and elsewhere disdains

To pounce upon the prey.” Therewith, it seem’d,

A little wheeling in his airy tour

Terrible as the lightning rush’d he down,

And snatch’d me upward even to the fire.

There both, I thought, the eagle and myself

Did burn; and so intense th’ imagin’d flames,

That needs my sleep was broken off. As erst

Achilles shook himself, and round him roll’d

His waken’d eyeballs wond’ring where he was,

Whenas his mother had from Chiron fled

To Scyros, with him sleeping in her arms;

E’en thus I shook me, soon as from my face

The slumber parted, turning deadly pale,

Like one ice-struck with dread. Solo at my side

My comfort stood: and the bright sun was now

More than two hours aloft: and to the sea

My looks were turn’d. “Fear not,” my master cried,

“Assur’d we are at happy point. Thy strength

Shrink not, but rise dilated. Thou art come

To Purgatory now. Lo! there the cliff

That circling bounds it! Lo! the entrance there,

Where it doth seem disparted! Ere the dawn

Usher’d the daylight, when thy wearied soul

Slept in thee, o’er the flowery vale beneath

A lady came, and thus bespake me: I

Am Lucia. Suffer me to take this man,

Who slumbers. Easier so his way shall speed.”

Sordello and the other gentle shapes

Tarrying, she bare thee up: and, as day shone,

This summit reach’d: and I pursued her steps.

Here did she place thee. First her lovely eyes

That open entrance show’d me; then at once

She vanish’d with thy sleep.” Like one, whose doubts

Are chas’d by certainty, and terror turn’d

To comfort on discovery of the truth,

Such was the change in me: and as my guide

Beheld me fearless, up along the cliff

He mov’d, and I behind him, towards the height.

Reader! thou markest how my theme doth rise,

Nor wonder therefore, if more artfully

I prop the structure! Nearer now we drew,

Arriv’d’ whence in that part, where first a breach

As of a wall appear’d, I could descry

A portal, and three steps beneath, that led

For inlet there, of different colour each,

And one who watch’d, but spake not yet a word.

As more and more mine eye did stretch its view,

I mark’d him seated on the highest step,

In visage such, as past my power to bear.

Grasp’d in his hand a naked sword, glanc’d back

The rays so toward me, that I oft in vain

My sight directed. “Speak from whence ye stand:”

He cried: “What would ye? Where is your escort?

Take heed your coming upward harm ye not.”

“A heavenly dame, not skilless of these things,”

Replied the’ instructor, “told us, even now,

‘Pass that way: here the gate is.”—“And may she

Befriending prosper your ascent,” resum’d

The courteous keeper of the gate: “Come then

Before our steps.” We straightway thither came.

The lowest stair was marble white so smooth

And polish’d, that therein my mirror’d form

Distinct I saw. The next of hue more dark

Than sablest grain, a rough and singed block,

Crack’d lengthwise and across. The third, that lay

Massy above, seem’d porphyry, that flam’d

Red as the life-blood spouting from a vein.

On this God’s angel either foot sustain’d,

Upon the threshold seated, which appear’d

A rock of diamond. Up the trinal steps

My leader cheerily drew me. “Ask,” said he,

“With humble heart, that he unbar the bolt.”

Piously at his holy feet devolv’d

I cast me, praying him for pity’s sake

That he would open to me: but first fell

Thrice on my bosom prostrate. Seven times

The letter, that denotes the inward stain,

He on my forehead with the blunted point

Of his drawn sword inscrib’d. And “Look,” he cried,

“When enter’d, that thou wash these scars away.”

Ashes, or earth ta’en dry out of the ground,

Were of one colour with the robe he wore.

From underneath that vestment forth he drew

Two keys of metal twain: the one was gold,

Its fellow silver. With the pallid first,

And next the burnish’d, he so ply’d the gate,

As to content me well. “Whenever one

Faileth of these, that in the keyhole straight

It turn not, to this alley then expect

Access in vain.” Such were the words he spake.

“One is more precious: but the other needs

Skill and sagacity, large share of each,

Ere its good task to disengage the knot

Be worthily perform’d. From Peter these

I hold, of him instructed, that I err

Rather in opening than in keeping fast;

So but the suppliant at my feet implore.”

Then of that hallow’d gate he thrust the door,

Exclaiming, “Enter, but this warning hear:

He forth again departs who looks behind.”

As in the hinges of that sacred ward

The swivels turn’d, sonorous metal strong,

Harsh was the grating; nor so surlily

Roar’d the Tarpeian, when by force bereft

Of good Metellus, thenceforth from his loss

To leanness doom’d. Attentively I turn’d,

List’ning the thunder, that first issued forth;

And “We praise thee, O God,” methought I heard

In accents blended with sweet melody.

The strains came o’er mine ear, e’en as the sound

Of choral voices, that in solemn chant

With organ mingle, and, now high and clear,

Come swelling, now float indistinct away.

CANTO X

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

Behooves 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 wat’ry 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 measur’d thrice the stature of a man:

And, distant as mine eye could wing its flight,

To leftward now and now to right dispatch’d,

That cornice equal in extent appear’d.

Not yet our feet had on that summit mov’d,

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 sham’d. The angel who came down to earth

With tidings of the peace so many years

Wept for in vain, that op’d the heavenly gates

From their long interdict before us seem’d,

In a sweet act, so sculptur’d to the life,

He look’d no silent image. One had sworn

He had said, “Hail!” for she was imag’d there,

By whom the key did open to God’s love,

And in her act as sensibly impress

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 belov’d,

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 mov’d me, stood,

Another story graven on the rock.

I passed athwart the bard, and drew me near,

That it might stand more aptly for my view.

There in the self-same marble were engrav’d

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,

Sweet Israel’s 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 hack of Michol whitely shone,

I mov’d me. There was storied on the rock

The’ exalted glory of the Roman prince,

Whose mighty worth mov’d Gregory to earn

His mighty conquest, Trajan th’ Emperor.

A widow at his bridle stood, attir’d

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.”

He, whose ken nothing new surveys, produc’d

That visible speaking, new to us and strange

The like not found on earth. Fondly I gaz’d

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 lov’d allurement, were not slow to turn.

Reader! I would not that amaz’d thou miss

Of thy good purpose, hearing how just God

Decrees our debts be cancel’d. Ponder not

The form of suff’ring. 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 courb’d to earth, beneath their heavy teems

Of torment stoop they, that mine eye at first

Struggled as thine. But look intently thither,

An disentangle with thy lab’ring 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, imp’d with angel plumes

That to heaven’s justice unobstructed soars?

Why buoy ye up aloft your unfleg’d souls?

Abortive then and shapeless ye remain,

Like the untimely embryon of a worm!

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 contract; but it appear’d

As he, who show’d most patience in his look,

Wailing exclaim’d: “I can endure no more.”

CANTO XI

“O thou Almighty Father, who dost make

The heavens thy dwelling, not in bounds confin’d,

But that with love intenser there thou view’st

Thy primal effluence, hallow’d be thy name:

Join each created being to extol

Thy might, for worthy humblest thanks and praise

Is thy blest Spirit. May thy kingdom’s peace

Come unto us; for we, unless it come,

With all our striving thither tend in vain.

As of their will the angels unto thee

Tender meet sacrifice, circling thy throne

With loud hosannas, so of theirs be done

By saintly men on earth. Grant us this day

Our daily manna, without which he roams

Through this rough desert retrograde, who most

Toils to advance his steps. As we to each

Pardon the evil done us, pardon thou

Benign, and of our merit take no count.

’Gainst the old adversary prove thou not

Our virtue easily subdu’d; but free

From his incitements and defeat his wiles.

This last petition, dearest Lord! is made

Not for ourselves, since that were needless now,

But for their sakes who after us remain.”

Thus for themselves and us good speed imploring,

Those spirits went beneath a weight like that

We sometimes feel in dreams, all, sore beset,

But with unequal anguish, wearied all,

Round the first circuit, purging as they go,

The world’s gross darkness off: In our behalf

If there vows still be offer’d, what can here

For them be vow’d and done by such, whose wills

Have root of goodness in them? Well beseems

That we should help them wash away the stains

They carried hence, that so made pure and light,

They may spring upward to the starry spheres.

“Ah! so may mercy-temper’d justice rid

Your burdens speedily, that ye have power

To stretch your wing, which e’en to your desire

Shall lift you, as ye show us on which hand

Toward the ladder leads the shortest way.

And if there be more passages than one,

Instruct us of that easiest to ascend;

For this man who comes with me, and bears yet

The charge of fleshly raiment Adam left him,

Despite his better will but slowly mounts.”

From whom the answer came unto these words,

Which my guide spake, appear’d not; but ’twas said.

“Along the bank to rightward come with us,

And ye shall find a pass that mocks not toil

Of living man to climb: and were it not

That I am hinder’d by the rock, wherewith

This arrogant neck is tam’d, whence needs I stoop

My visage to the ground, him, who yet lives,

Whose name thou speak’st not him I fain would view.

To mark if e’er I knew him? and to crave

His pity for the fardel that I bear.

I was of Latiun, of a Tuscan horn

A mighty one: Aldobranlesco’s name

My sire’s, I know not if ye e’er have heard.

My old blood and forefathers’ gallant deeds

Made me so haughty, that I clean forgot

The common mother, and to such excess,

Wax’d in my scorn of all men, that I fell,

Fell therefore; by what fate Sienna’s sons,

Each child in Campagnatico, can tell.

I am Omberto; not me only pride

Hath injur’d, but my kindred all involv’d

In mischief with her. Here my lot ordains

Under this weight to groan, till I appease

God’s angry justice, since I did it not

Amongst the living, here amongst the dead.”

List’ning I bent my visage down: and one

(Not he who spake) twisted beneath the weight

That urg’d him, saw me, knew me straight, and call’d,

Holding his eyes With difficulty fix’d

Intent upon me, stooping as I went

Companion of their way. “O!” I exclaim’d,

“Art thou not Oderigi, art not thou

Agobbio’s glory, glory of that art

Which they of Paris call the limmer’s skill?”

“Brother!” said he, “with tints that gayer smile,

Bolognian Franco’s pencil lines the leaves.

His all the honour now; mine borrow’d light.

In truth I had not been thus courteous to him,

The whilst I liv’d, through eagerness of zeal

For that pre-eminence my heart was bent on.

Here of such pride the forfeiture is paid.

Nor were I even here; if, able still

To sin, I had not turn’d me unto God.

O powers of man! how vain your glory, nipp’d

E’en in its height of verdure, if an age

Less bright succeed not! Cimabue thought

To lord it over painting’s field; and now

The cry is Giotto’s, and his name eclips’d.

Thus hath one Guido from the other snatch’d

The letter’d prize: and he perhaps is born,

Who shall drive either from their nest. The noise

Of worldly fame is but a blast of wind,

That blows from divers points, and shifts its name

Shifting the point it blows from. Shalt thou more

Live in the mouths of mankind, if thy flesh

Part shrivel’d from thee, than if thou hadst died,

Before the coral and the pap were left,

Or ere some thousand years have passed? and that

Is, to eternity compar’d, a space,

Briefer than is the twinkling of an eye

To the heaven’s slowest orb. He there who treads

So leisurely before me, far and wide

Through Tuscany resounded once; and now

Is in Sienna scarce with whispers nam’d:

There was he sov’reign, when destruction caught

The madd’ning rage of Florence, in that day

Proud as she now is loathsome. Your renown

Is as the herb, whose hue doth come and go,

And his might withers it, by whom it sprang

Crude from the lap of earth.” I thus to him:

“True are thy sayings: to my heart they breathe

The kindly spirit of meekness, and allay

What tumours rankle there. But who is he

Of whom thou spak’st but now?”—“This,” he replied,

“Is Provenzano. He is here, because

He reach’d, with grasp presumptuous, at the sway

Of all Sienna. Thus he still hath gone,

Thus goeth never-resting, since he died.

Such is th’ acquittance render’d back of him,

Who, beyond measure, dar’d on earth.” I then:

“If soul that to the verge of life delays

Repentance, linger in that lower space,

Nor hither mount, unless good prayers befriend,

How chanc’d admittance was vouchsaf’d to him?”

“When at his glory’s topmost height,” said he,

“Respect of dignity all cast aside,

Freely He fix’d him on Sienna’s plain,

A suitor to redeem his suff’ring friend,

Who languish’d in the prison-house of Charles,

Nor for his sake refus’d through every vein

To tremble. More I will not say; and dark,

I know, my words are, but thy neighbours soon

Shall help thee to a comment on the text.

This is the work, that from these limits freed him.”

CANTO XII

With equal pace as oxen in the yoke,

I with that laden spirit journey’d on

Long as the mild instructor suffer’d me;

But when he bade me quit him, and proceed

(For “here,” said he, “behooves with sail and oars

Each man, as best he may, push on his bark”),

Upright, as one dispos’d for speed, I rais’d

My body, still in thought submissive bow’d.

I now my leader’s track not loth pursued;

And each had shown how light we far’d along

When thus he warn’d me: “Bend thine eyesight down:

For thou to ease the way shall find it good

To ruminate the bed beneath thy feet.”

As in memorial of the buried, drawn

Upon earth-level tombs, the sculptur’d form

Of what was once, appears (at sight whereof

Tears often stream forth by remembrance wak’d,

Whose sacred stings the piteous only feel),

So saw I there, but with more curious skill

Of portraiture o’erwrought, whate’er of space

From forth the mountain stretches. On one part

Him I beheld, above all creatures erst

Created noblest, light’ning fall from heaven:

On th’ other side with bolt celestial pierc’d

Briareus: cumb’ring earth he lay through dint

Of mortal ice-stroke. The Thymbraean god

With Mars, I saw, and Pallas, round their sire,

Arm’d still, and gazing on the giant’s limbs

Strewn o’er th’ ethereal field. Nimrod I saw:

At foot of the stupendous work he stood,

As if bewilder’d, looking on the crowd

Leagued in his proud attempt on Sennaar’s plain.

O Niobe! in what a trance of woe

Thee I beheld, upon that highway drawn,

Sev’n sons on either side thee slain! O Saul!

How ghastly didst thou look! on thine own sword

Expiring in Gilboa, from that hour

Ne’er visited with rain from heav’n or dew!

O fond Arachne! thee I also saw

Half spider now in anguish crawling up

Th’ unfinish’d web thou weaved’st to thy bane!

O Rehoboam! here thy shape doth seem

Louring no more defiance! but fear-smote

With none to chase him in his chariot whirl’d.

Was shown beside upon the solid floor

How dear Alcmaeon forc’d his mother rate

That ornament in evil hour receiv’d:

How in the temple on Sennacherib fell

His sons, and how a corpse they left him there.

Was shown the scath and cruel mangling made

By Tomyris on Cyrus, when she cried:

“Blood thou didst thirst for, take thy fill of blood!”

Was shown how routed in the battle fled

Th’ Assyrians, Holofernes slain, and e’en

The relics of the carnage. Troy I mark’d

In ashes and in caverns. Oh! how fall’n,

How abject, Ilion, was thy semblance there!

What master of the pencil or the style

Had trac’d the shades and lines, that might have made

The subtlest workman wonder? Dead the dead,

The living seem’d alive; with clearer view

His eye beheld not who beheld the truth,

Than mine what I did tread on, while I went

Low bending. Now swell out; and with stiff necks

Pass on, ye sons of Eve! veil not your looks,

Lest they descry the evil of your path!

I noted not (so busied was my thought)

How much we now had circled of the mount,

And of his course yet more the sun had spent,

When he, who with still wakeful caution went,

Admonish’d: “Raise thou up thy head: for know

Time is not now for slow suspense. Behold

That way an angel hasting towards us! Lo

Where duly the sixth handmaid doth return

From service on the day. Wear thou in look

And gesture seemly grace of reverent awe,

That gladly he may forward us aloft.

Consider that this day ne’er dawns again.”

Time’s loss he had so often warn’d me ’gainst,

I could not miss the scope at which he aim’d.

The goodly shape approach’d us, snowy white

In vesture, and with visage casting streams

Of tremulous lustre like the matin star.

His arms he open’d, then his wings; and spake:

“Onward: the steps, behold! are near; and now

Th’ ascent is without difficulty gain’d.”

A scanty few are they, who when they hear

Such tidings, hasten. O ye race of men

Though born to soar, why suffer ye a wind

So slight to baffle ye? He led us on

Where the rock parted; here against my front

Did beat his wings, then promis’d I should fare

In safety on my way. As to ascend

That steep, upon whose brow the chapel stands

(O’er Rubaconte, looking lordly down

On the well-guided city,) up the right

Th’ impetuous rise is broken by the steps

Carv’d in that old and simple age, when still

The registry and label rested safe;

Thus is th’ acclivity reliev’d, which here

Precipitous from the other circuit falls:

But on each hand the tall cliff presses close.

As ent’ring there we turn’d, voices, in strain

Ineffable, sang: “Blessed are the poor

In spirit.” Ah how far unlike to these

The straits of hell; here songs to usher us,

There shrieks of woe! We climb the holy stairs:

And lighter to myself by far I seem’d

Than on the plain before, whence thus I spake:

“Say, master, of what heavy thing have I

Been lighten’d, that scarce aught the sense of toil

Affects me journeying?” He in few replied:

“When sin’s broad characters, that yet remain

Upon thy temples, though well nigh effac’d,

Shall be, as one is, all clean razed out,

Then shall thy feet by heartiness of will

Be so o’ercome, they not alone shall feel

No sense of labour, but delight much more

Shall wait them urg’d along their upward way.”

Then like to one, upon whose head is plac’d

Somewhat he deems not of but from the becks

Of others as they pass him by; his hand

Lends therefore help to’ assure him, searches, finds,

And well performs such office as the eye

Wants power to execute: so stretching forth

The fingers of my right hand, did I find

Six only of the letters, which his sword

Who bare the keys had trac’d upon my brow.

The leader, as he mark’d mine action, smil’d.

CANTO XIII

We reach’d the summit of the scale, and stood

Upon the second buttress of that mount

Which healeth him who climbs. A cornice there,

Like to the former, girdles round the hill;

Save that its arch with sweep less ample bends.

Shadow nor image there is seen; all smooth

The rampart and the path, reflecting nought

But the rock’s sullen hue. “If here we wait

For some to question,” said the bard, “I fear

Our choice may haply meet too long delay.”

Then fixedly upon the sun his eyes

He fastn’d, made his right the central point

From whence to move, and turn’d the left aside.

“O pleasant light, my confidence and hope,

Conduct us thou,” he cried, “on this new way,

Where now I venture, leading to the bourn

We seek. The universal world to thee

Owes warmth and lustre. If no other cause

Forbid, thy beams should ever be our guide.”

Far, as is measur’d for a mile on earth,

In brief space had we journey’d; such prompt will

Impell’d; and towards us flying, now were heard

Spirits invisible, who courteously

Unto love’s table bade the welcome guest.

The voice, that first? flew by, call’d forth aloud,

“They have no wine;” so on behind us past,

Those sounds reiterating, nor yet lost

In the faint distance, when another came

Crying, “I am Orestes,” and alike

Wing’d its fleet way. “Oh father!” I exclaim’d,

“What tongues are these?” and as I question’d, lo!

A third exclaiming, “Love ye those have wrong’d you.”

“This circuit,” said my teacher, “knots the scourge

For envy, and the cords are therefore drawn

By charity’s correcting hand. The curb

Is of a harsher sound, as thou shalt hear

(If I deem rightly), ere thou reach the pass,

Where pardon sets them free. But fix thine eyes

Intently through the air, and thou shalt see

A multitude before thee seated, each

Along the shelving grot.” Then more than erst

I op’d my eyes, before me view’d, and saw

Shadows with garments dark as was the rock;

And when we pass’d a little forth, I heard

A crying, “Blessed Mary! pray for us,

Michael and Peter! all ye saintly host!”

I do not think there walks on earth this day

Man so remorseless, that he hath not yearn’d

With pity at the sight that next I saw.

Mine eyes a load of sorrow teemed, when now

I stood so near them, that their semblances

Came clearly to my view. Of sackcloth vile

Their cov’ring seem’d; and on his shoulder one

Did stay another, leaning, and all lean’d

Against the cliff. E’en thus the blind and poor,

Near the confessionals, to crave an alms,

Stand, each his head upon his fellow’s sunk,

So most to stir compassion, not by sound

Of words alone, but that, which moves not less,

The sight of mis’ry. And as never beam

Of noonday visiteth the eyeless man,

E’en so was heav’n a niggard unto these

Of his fair light; for, through the orbs of all,

A thread of wire, impiercing, knits them up,

As for the taming of a haggard hawk.

It were a wrong, methought, to pass and look

On others, yet myself the while unseen.

To my sage counsel therefore did I turn.

He knew the meaning of the mute appeal,

Nor waited for my questioning, but said:

“Speak; and be brief, be subtle in thy words.”

On that part of the cornice, whence no rim

Engarlands its steep fall, did Virgil come;

On the’ other side me were the spirits, their cheeks

Bathing devout with penitential tears,

That through the dread impalement forc’d a way.

I turn’d me to them, and “O shades!” said I,

“Assur’d that to your eyes unveil’d shall shine

The lofty light, sole object of your wish,

So may heaven’s grace clear whatsoe’er of foam

Floats turbid on the conscience, that thenceforth

The stream of mind roll limpid from its source,

As ye declare (for so shall ye impart

A boon I dearly prize) if any soul

Of Latium dwell among ye; and perchance

That soul may profit, if I learn so much.”

“My brother, we are each one citizens

Of one true city. Any thou wouldst say,

Who lived a stranger in Italia’s land.”

So heard I answering, as appeal’d, a voice

That onward came some space from whence I stood.

A spirit I noted, in whose look was mark’d

Expectance. Ask ye how? The chin was rais’d

As in one reft of sight. “Spirit,” said I,

“Who for thy rise are tutoring (if thou be

That which didst answer to me,) or by place

Or name, disclose thyself, that I may know thee.”

“I was,” it answer’d, “of Sienna: here

I cleanse away with these the evil life,

Soliciting with tears that He, who is,

Vouchsafe him to us. Though Sapia nam’d

In sapience I excell’d not, gladder far

Of others’ hurt, than of the good befell me.

That thou mayst own I now deceive thee not,

Hear, if my folly were not as I speak it.

When now my years slop’d waning down the arch,

It so bechanc’d, my fellow citizens

Near Colle met their enemies in the field,

And I pray’d God to grant what He had will’d.

There were they vanquish’d, and betook themselves

Unto the bitter passages of flight.

I mark’d the hunt, and waxing out of bounds

In gladness, lifted up my shameless brow,

And like the merlin cheated by a gleam,

Cried, “It is over. Heav’n! I fear thee not.”

Upon my verge of life I wish’d for peace

With God; nor repentance had supplied

What I did lack of duty, were it not

The hermit Piero, touch’d with charity,

In his devout orisons thought on me.

“But who art thou that question’st of our state,

Who go’st to my belief, with lids unclos’d,

And breathest in thy talk?”—“Mine eyes,” said I,

“May yet be here ta’en from me; but not long;

For they have not offended grievously

With envious glances. But the woe beneath

Urges my soul with more exceeding dread.

That nether load already weighs me down.”

She thus: “Who then amongst us here aloft

Hath brought thee, if thou weenest to return?

“He,” answer’d I, “who standeth mute beside me.

I live: of me ask therefore, chosen spirit,

If thou desire I yonder yet should move

For thee my mortal feet.”—“Oh!” she replied,

“This is so strange a thing, it is great sign

That God doth love thee. Therefore with thy prayer

Sometime assist me: and by that I crave,

Which most thou covetest, that if thy feet

E’er tread on Tuscan soil, thou save my fame

Amongst my kindred. Them shalt thou behold

With that vain multitude, who set their hope

On Telamone’s haven, there to fail

Confounded, more shall when the fancied stream

They sought of Dian call’d: but they who lead

Their navies, more than ruin’d hopes shall mourn.”

CANTO XIV

“Say who is he around our mountain winds,

Or ever death has prun’d his wing for flight,

That opes his eyes and covers them at will?”

“I know not who he is, but know thus much

He comes not singly. Do thou ask of him,

For thou art nearer to him, and take heed

Accost him gently, so that he may speak.”

Thus on the right two Spirits bending each

Toward the other, talk’d of me, then both

Addressing me, their faces backward lean’d,

And thus the one began: “O soul, who yet

Pent in the body, tendest towards the sky!

For charity, we pray thee’ comfort us,

Recounting whence thou com’st, and who thou art:

For thou dost make us at the favour shown thee

Marvel, as at a thing that ne’er hath been.”

“There stretches through the midst of Tuscany,”

I straight began: “a brooklet, whose well-head

Springs up in Falterona, with his race

Not satisfied, when he some hundred miles

Hath measur’d. From his banks bring, I this frame.

To tell you who I am were words misspent:

For yet my name scarce sounds on rumour’s lip.”

“If well I do incorp’rate with my thought

The meaning of thy speech,” said he, who first

Addrest me, “thou dost speak of Arno’s wave.”

To whom the other: “Why hath he conceal’d

The title of that river, as a man

Doth of some horrible thing?” The spirit, who

Thereof was question’d, did acquit him thus:

“I know not: but ’tis fitting well the name

Should perish of that vale; for from the source

Where teems so plenteously the Alpine steep

Maim’d of Pelorus, (that doth scarcely pass

Beyond that limit,) even to the point

Whereunto ocean is restor’d, what heaven

Drains from th’ exhaustless store for all earth’s streams,

Throughout the space is virtue worried down,

As ’twere a snake, by all, for mortal foe,

Or through disastrous influence on the place,

Or else distortion of misguided wills,

That custom goads to evil: whence in those,

The dwellers in that miserable vale,

Nature is so transform’d, it seems as they

Had shar’d of Circe’s feeding. ’Midst brute swine,

Worthier of acorns than of other food

Created for man’s use, he shapeth first

His obscure way; then, sloping onward, finds

Curs, snarlers more in spite than power, from whom

He turns with scorn aside: still journeying down,

By how much more the curst and luckless foss

Swells out to largeness, e’en so much it finds

Dogs turning into wolves. Descending still

Through yet more hollow eddies, next he meets

A race of foxes, so replete with craft,

They do not fear that skill can master it.

Nor will I cease because my words are heard

By other ears than thine. It shall be well

For this man, if he keep in memory

What from no erring Spirit I reveal.

Lo! I behold thy grandson, that becomes

A hunter of those wolves, upon the shore

Of the fierce stream, and cows them all with dread:

Their flesh yet living sets he up to sale,

Then like an aged beast to slaughter dooms.

Many of life he reaves, himself of worth

And goodly estimation. Smear’d with gore

Mark how he issues from the rueful wood,

Leaving such havoc, that in thousand years

It spreads not to prime lustihood again.”

As one, who tidings hears of woe to come,

Changes his looks perturb’d, from whate’er part

The peril grasp him, so beheld I change

That spirit, who had turn’d to listen, struck

With sadness, soon as he had caught the word.

His visage and the other’s speech did raise

Desire in me to know the names of both,

whereof with meek entreaty I inquir’d.

The shade, who late addrest me, thus resum’d:

“Thy wish imports that I vouchsafe to do

For thy sake what thou wilt not do for mine.

But since God’s will is that so largely shine

His grace in thee, I will be liberal too.

Guido of Duca know then that I am.

Envy so parch’d my blood, that had I seen

A fellow man made joyous, thou hadst mark’d

A livid paleness overspread my cheek.

Such harvest reap I of the seed I sow’d.

O man, why place thy heart where there doth need

Exclusion of participants in good?

This is Rinieri’s spirit, this the boast

And honour of the house of Calboli,

Where of his worth no heritage remains.

Nor his the only blood, that hath been stript

(’twixt Po, the mount, the Reno, and the shore,)

Of all that truth or fancy asks for bliss;

But in those limits such a growth has sprung

Of rank and venom’d roots, as long would mock

Slow culture’s toil. Where is good Lizio? where

Manardi, Traversalo, and Carpigna?

O bastard slips of old Romagna’s line!

When in Bologna the low artisan,

And in Faenza yon Bernardin sprouts,

A gentle cyon from ignoble stem.

Wonder not, Tuscan, if thou see me weep,

When I recall to mind those once lov’d names,

Guido of Prata, and of Azzo him

That dwelt with you; Tignoso and his troop,

With Traversaro’s house and Anastagio’s,

(Each race disherited) and beside these,

The ladies and the knights, the toils and ease,

That witch’d us into love and courtesy;

Where now such malice reigns in recreant hearts.

O Brettinoro! wherefore tarriest still,

Since forth of thee thy family hath gone,

And many, hating evil, join’d their steps?

Well doeth he, that bids his lineage cease,

Bagnacavallo; Castracaro ill,

And Conio worse, who care to propagate

A race of Counties from such blood as theirs.

Well shall ye also do, Pagani, then

When from amongst you tries your demon child.

Not so, howe’er, that henceforth there remain

True proof of what ye were. O Hugolin!

Thou sprung of Fantolini’s line! thy name

Is safe, since none is look’d for after thee

To cloud its lustre, warping from thy stock.

But, Tuscan, go thy ways; for now I take

Far more delight in weeping than in words.

Such pity for your sakes hath wrung my heart.”

We knew those gentle spirits at parting heard

Our steps. Their silence therefore of our way

Assur’d us. Soon as we had quitted them,

Advancing onward, lo! a voice that seem’d

Like vollied light’ning, when it rives the air,

Met us, and shouted, “Whosoever finds

Will slay me,” then fled from us, as the bolt

Lanc’d sudden from a downward-rushing cloud.

When it had giv’n short truce unto our hearing,

Behold the other with a crash as loud

As the quick-following thunder: “Mark in me

Aglauros turn’d to rock.” I at the sound

Retreating drew more closely to my guide.

Now in mute stillness rested all the air:

And thus he spake: “There was the galling bit.

But your old enemy so baits his hook,

He drags you eager to him. Hence nor curb

Avails you, nor reclaiming call. Heav’n calls

And round about you wheeling courts your gaze

With everlasting beauties. Yet your eye

Turns with fond doting still upon the earth.

Therefore He smites you who discerneth all.”

CANTO XV

As much as ’twixt the third hour’s close and dawn,

Appeareth of heav’n’s sphere, that ever whirls

As restless as an infant in his play,

So much appear’d remaining to the sun

Of his slope journey towards the western goal.

Evening was there, and here the noon of night;

and full upon our forehead smote the beams.

For round the mountain, circling, so our path

Had led us, that toward the sun-set now

Direct we journey’d: when I felt a weight

Of more exceeding splendour, than before,

Press on my front. The cause unknown, amaze

Possess’d me, and both hands against my brow

Lifting, I interpos’d them, as a screen,

That of its gorgeous superflux of light

Clipp’d the diminish’d orb. As when the ray,

Striking On water or the surface clear

Of mirror, leaps unto the opposite part,

Ascending at a glance, e’en as it fell,

(And so much differs from the stone, that falls)

Through equal space, as practice skill hath shown;

Thus with refracted light before me seemed

The ground there smitten; whence in sudden haste

My sight recoil’d. “What is this, sire belov’d!

’Gainst which I strive to shield the sight in vain?”

Cried I, “and which towards us moving seems?”

“Marvel not, if the family of heav’n,”

He answer’d, “yet with dazzling radiance dim

Thy sense it is a messenger who comes,

Inviting man’s ascent. Such sights ere long,

Not grievous, shall impart to thee delight,

As thy perception is by nature wrought

Up to their pitch.” The blessed angel, soon

As we had reach’d him, hail’d us with glad voice:

“Here enter on a ladder far less steep

Than ye have yet encounter’d.” We forthwith

Ascending, heard behind us chanted sweet,

“Blessed the merciful,” and “happy thou!

That conquer’st.” Lonely each, my guide and I

Pursued our upward way; and as we went,

Some profit from his words I hop’d to win,

And thus of him inquiring, fram’d my speech:

“What meant Romagna’s spirit, when he spake

Of bliss exclusive with no partner shar’d?”

He straight replied: “No wonder, since he knows,

What sorrow waits on his own worst defect,

If he chide others, that they less may mourn.

Because ye point your wishes at a mark,

Where, by communion of possessors, part

Is lessen’d, envy bloweth up the sighs of men.

No fear of that might touch ye, if the love

Of higher sphere exalted your desire.

For there, by how much more they call it ours,

So much propriety of each in good

Increases more, and heighten’d charity

Wraps that fair cloister in a brighter flame.”

“Now lack I satisfaction more,” said I,

“Than if thou hadst been silent at the first,

And doubt more gathers on my lab’ring thought.

How can it chance, that good distributed,

The many, that possess it, makes more rich,

Than if ’t were shar’d by few?” He answering thus:

“Thy mind, reverting still to things of earth,

Strikes darkness from true light. The highest good

Unlimited, ineffable, doth so speed

To love, as beam to lucid body darts,

Giving as much of ardour as it finds.

The sempiternal effluence streams abroad

Spreading, wherever charity extends.

So that the more aspirants to that bliss

Are multiplied, more good is there to love,

And more is lov’d; as mirrors, that reflect,

Each unto other, propagated light.

If these my words avail not to allay

Thy thirsting, Beatrice thou shalt see,

Who of this want, and of all else thou hast,

Shall rid thee to the full. Provide but thou

That from thy temples may be soon eras’d,

E’en as the two already, those five scars,

That when they pain thee worst, then kindliest heal,”

“Thou,” I had said, “content’st me,” when I saw

The other round was gain’d, and wond’ring eyes

Did keep me mute. There suddenly I seem’d

By an ecstatic vision wrapt away;

And in a temple saw, methought, a crowd

Of many persons; and at th’ entrance stood

A dame, whose sweet demeanour did express

A mother’s love, who said, “Child! why hast thou

Dealt with us thus? Behold thy sire and I

Sorrowing have sought thee;” and so held her peace,

And straight the vision fled. A female next

Appear’d before me, down whose visage cours’d

Those waters, that grief forces out from one

By deep resentment stung, who seem’d to say:

“If thou, Pisistratus, be lord indeed

Over this city, nam’d with such debate

Of adverse gods, and whence each science sparkles,

Avenge thee of those arms, whose bold embrace

Hath clasp’d our daughter; “and to fuel, meseem’d,

Benign and meek, with visage undisturb’d,

Her sovran spake: “How shall we those requite,

Who wish us evil, if we thus condemn

The man that loves us?” After that I saw

A multitude, in fury burning, slay

With stones a stripling youth, and shout amain

“Destroy, destroy!” and him I saw, who bow’d

Heavy with death unto the ground, yet made

His eyes, unfolded upward, gates to heav’n,

Praying forgiveness of th’ Almighty Sire,

Amidst that cruel conflict, on his foes,

With looks, that With compassion to their aim.

Soon as my spirit, from her airy flight

Returning, sought again the things, whose truth

Depends not on her shaping, I observ’d

How she had rov’d to no unreal scenes

Meanwhile the leader, who might see I mov’d,

As one, who struggles to shake off his sleep,

Exclaim’d: “What ails thee, that thou canst not hold

Thy footing firm, but more than half a league

Hast travel’d with clos’d eyes and tott’ring gait,

Like to a man by wine or sleep o’ercharg’d?”

“Beloved father! so thou deign,” said I,

“To listen, I will tell thee what appear’d

Before me, when so fail’d my sinking steps.”

He thus: “Not if thy Countenance were mask’d

With hundred vizards, could a thought of thine

How small soe’er, elude me. What thou saw’st

Was shown, that freely thou mightst ope thy heart

To the waters of peace, that flow diffus’d

From their eternal fountain. I not ask’d,

What ails thee? for such cause as he doth, who

Looks only with that eye which sees no more,

When spiritless the body lies; but ask’d,

To give fresh vigour to thy foot. Such goads

The slow and loit’ring need; that they be found

Not wanting, when their hour of watch returns.”

So on we journey’d through the evening sky

Gazing intent, far onward, as our eyes

With level view could stretch against the bright

Vespertine ray: and lo! by slow degrees

Gath’ring, a fog made tow’rds us, dark as night.

There was no room for ’scaping; and that mist

Bereft us, both of sight and the pure air.

CANTO XVI

Hell’s dunnest gloom, or night unlustrous, dark,

Of every planes ’reft, and pall’d in clouds,

Did never spread before the sight a veil

In thickness like that fog, nor to the sense

So palpable and gross. Ent’ring its shade,

Mine eye endured not with unclosed lids;

Which marking, near me drew the faithful guide,

Offering me his shoulder for a stay.

As the blind man behind his leader walks,

Lest he should err, or stumble unawares

On what might harm him, or perhaps destroy,

I journey’d through that bitter air and foul,

Still list’ning to my escort’s warning voice,

“Look that from me thou part not.” Straight I heard

Voices, and each one seem’d to pray for peace,

And for compassion, to the Lamb of God

That taketh sins away. Their prelude still

Was “Agnus Dei,” and through all the choir,

One voice, one measure ran, that perfect seem’d

The concord of their song. “Are these I hear

Spirits, O master?” I exclaim’d; and he:

“Thou aim’st aright: these loose the bonds of wrath.”

“Now who art thou, that through our smoke dost cleave?

And speak’st of us, as thou thyself e’en yet

Dividest time by calends?” So one voice

Bespake me; whence my master said: “Reply;

And ask, if upward hence the passage lead.”

“O being! who dost make thee pure, to stand

Beautiful once more in thy Maker’s sight!

Along with me: and thou shalt hear and wonder.”

Thus I, whereto the spirit answering spake:

“Long as ’t is lawful for me, shall my steps

Follow on thine; and since the cloudy smoke

Forbids the seeing, hearing in its stead

Shall keep us join’d.” I then forthwith began

“Yet in my mortal swathing, I ascend

To higher regions, and am hither come

Through the fearful agony of hell.

And, if so largely God hath doled his grace,

That, clean beside all modern precedent,

He wills me to behold his kingly state,

From me conceal not who thou wast, ere death

Had loos’d thee; but instruct me: and instruct

If rightly to the pass I tend; thy words

The way directing as a safe escort.”

“I was of Lombardy, and Marco call’d:

Not inexperienc’d of the world, that worth

I still affected, from which all have turn’d

The nerveless bow aside. Thy course tends right

Unto the summit:” and, replying thus,

He added, “I beseech thee pray for me,

When thou shalt come aloft.” And I to him:

“Accept my faith for pledge I will perform

What thou requirest. Yet one doubt remains,

That wrings me sorely, if I solve it not,

Singly before it urg’d me, doubled now

By thine opinion, when I couple that

With one elsewhere declar’d, each strength’ning other.

The world indeed is even so forlorn

Of all good as thou speak’st it and so swarms

With every evil. Yet, beseech thee, point

The cause out to me, that myself may see,

And unto others show it: for in heaven

One places it, and one on earth below.”

Then heaving forth a deep and audible sigh,

“Brother!” he thus began, “the world is blind;

And thou in truth com’st from it. Ye, who live,

Do so each cause refer to heav’n above,

E’en as its motion of necessity

Drew with it all that moves. If this were so,

Free choice in you were none; nor justice would

There should be joy for virtue, woe for ill.

Your movements have their primal bent from heaven;

Not all; yet said I all; what then ensues?

Light have ye still to follow evil or good,

And of the will free power, which, if it stand

Firm and unwearied in Heav’n’s first assay,

Conquers at last, so it be cherish’d well,

Triumphant over all. To mightier force,

To better nature subject, ye abide

Free, not constrain’d by that, which forms in you

The reasoning mind uninfluenc’d of the stars.

If then the present race of mankind err,

Seek in yourselves the cause, and find it there.

Herein thou shalt confess me no false spy.

“Forth from his plastic hand, who charm’d beholds

Her image ere she yet exist, the soul

Comes like a babe, that wantons sportively

Weeping and laughing in its wayward moods,

As artless and as ignorant of aught,

Save that her Maker being one who dwells

With gladness ever, willingly she turns

To whate’er yields her joy. Of some slight good

The flavour soon she tastes; and, snar’d by that,

With fondness she pursues it, if no guide

Recall, no rein direct her wand’ring course.

Hence it behov’d, the law should be a curb;

A sovereign hence behov’d, whose piercing view

Might mark at least the fortress and main tower

Of the true city. Laws indeed there are:

But who is he observes them? None; not he,

Who goes before, the shepherd of the flock,

Who chews the cud but doth not cleave the hoof.

Therefore the multitude, who see their guide

Strike at the very good they covet most,

Feed there and look no further. Thus the cause

Is not corrupted nature in yourselves,

But ill-conducting, that hath turn’d the world

To evil. Rome, that turn’d it unto good,

Was wont to boast two suns, whose several beams

Cast light on either way, the world’s and God’s.

One since hath quench’d the other; and the sword

Is grafted on the crook; and so conjoin’d

Each must perforce decline to worse, unaw’d

By fear of other. If thou doubt me, mark

The blade: each herb is judg’d of by its seed.

That land, through which Adice and the Po

Their waters roll, was once the residence

Of courtesy and velour, ere the day,

That frown’d on Frederick; now secure may pass

Those limits, whosoe’er hath left, for shame,

To talk with good men, or come near their haunts.

Three aged ones are still found there, in whom

The old time chides the new: these deem it long

Ere God restore them to a better world:

The good Gherardo, of Palazzo he

Conrad, and Guido of Castello, nam’d

In Gallic phrase more fitly the plain Lombard.

On this at last conclude. The church of Rome,

Mixing two governments that ill assort,

Hath miss’d her footing, fall’n into the mire,

And there herself and burden much defil’d.”

“O Marco!” I replied, shine arguments

Convince me: and the cause I now discern

Why of the heritage no portion came

To Levi’s offspring. But resolve me this

Who that Gherardo is, that as thou sayst

Is left a sample of the perish’d race,

And for rebuke to this untoward age?”

“Either thy words,” said he, “deceive; or else

Are meant to try me; that thou, speaking Tuscan,

Appear’st not to have heard of good Gherado;

The sole addition that, by which I know him;

Unless I borrow’d from his daughter Gaia

Another name to grace him. God be with you.

I bear you company no more. Behold

The dawn with white ray glimm’ring through the mist.

I must away—the angel comes—ere he

Appear.” He said, and would not hear me more.

CANTO XVII

Call to remembrance, reader, if thou e’er

Hast, on a mountain top, been ta’en by cloud,

Through which thou saw’st no better, than the mole

Doth through opacous membrane; then, whene’er

The wat’ry vapours dense began to melt

Into thin air, how faintly the sun’s sphere

Seem’d wading through them; so thy nimble thought

May image, how at first I re-beheld

The sun, that bedward now his couch o’erhung.

Thus with my leader’s feet still equaling pace

From forth that cloud I came, when now expir’d

The parting beams from off the nether shores.

O quick and forgetive power! that sometimes dost

So rob us of ourselves, we take no mark

Though round about us thousand trumpets clang!

What moves thee, if the senses stir not? Light

Kindled in heav’n, spontaneous, self-inform’d,

Or likelier gliding down with swift illapse

By will divine. Portray’d before me came

The traces of her dire impiety,

Whose form was chang’d into the bird, that most

Delights itself in song: and here my mind

Was inwardly so wrapt, it gave no place

To aught that ask’d admittance from without.

Next shower’d into my fantasy a shape

As of one crucified, whose visage spake

Fell rancour, malice deep, wherein he died;

And round him Ahasuerus the great king,

Esther his bride, and Mordecai the just,

Blameless in word and deed. As of itself

That unsubstantial coinage of the brain

Burst, like a bubble, Which the water fails

That fed it; in my vision straight uprose

A damsel weeping loud, and cried, “O queen!

O mother! wherefore has intemperate ire

Driv’n thee to loath thy being? Not to lose

Lavinia, desp’rate thou hast slain thyself.

Now hast thou lost me. I am she, whose tears

Mourn, ere I fall, a mother’s timeless end.”

E’en as a sleep breaks off, if suddenly

New radiance strike upon the closed lids,

The broken slumber quivering ere it dies;

Thus from before me sunk that imagery

Vanishing, soon as on my face there struck

The light, outshining far our earthly beam.

As round I turn’d me to survey what place

I had arriv’d at, “Here ye mount,” exclaim’d

A voice, that other purpose left me none,

Save will so eager to behold who spake,

I could not choose but gaze. As ’fore the sun,

That weighs our vision down, and veils his form

In light transcendent, thus my virtue fail’d

Unequal. “This is Spirit from above,

Who marshals us our upward way, unsought;

And in his own light shrouds him. As a man

Doth for himself, so now is done for us.

For whoso waits imploring, yet sees need

Of his prompt aidance, sets himself prepar’d

For blunt denial, ere the suit be made.

Refuse we not to lend a ready foot

At such inviting: haste we to ascend,

Before it darken: for we may not then,

Till morn again return.” So spake my guide;

And to one ladder both address’d our steps;

And the first stair approaching, I perceiv’d

Near me as ’twere the waving of a wing,

That fann’d my face and whisper’d: “Blessed they

The peacemakers: they know not evil wrath.”

Now to such height above our heads were rais’d

The last beams, follow’d close by hooded night,

That many a star on all sides through the gloom

Shone out. “Why partest from me, O my strength?”

So with myself I commun’d; for I felt

My o’ertoil’d sinews slacken. We had reach’d

The summit, and were fix’d like to a bark

Arriv’d at land. And waiting a short space,

If aught should meet mine ear in that new round,

Then to my guide I turn’d, and said: “Lov’d sire!

Declare what guilt is on this circle purg’d.

If our feet rest, no need thy speech should pause.”

He thus to me: “The love of good, whate’er

Wanted of just proportion, here fulfils.

Here plies afresh the oar, that loiter’d ill.

But that thou mayst yet clearlier understand,

Give ear unto my words, and thou shalt cull

Some fruit may please thee well, from this delay.

“Creator, nor created being, ne’er,

My son,” he thus began, “was without love,

Or natural, or the free spirit’s growth.

Thou hast not that to learn. The natural still

Is without error; but the other swerves,

If on ill object bent, or through excess

Of vigour, or defect. While e’er it seeks

The primal blessings, or with measure due

Th’ inferior, no delight, that flows from it,

Partakes of ill. But let it warp to evil,

Or with more ardour than behooves, or less.

Pursue the good, the thing created then