The Divine Comedy. Данте Алигьери

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