The Divine Comedy. Данте Алигьери

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