The Divine Comedy. Данте Алигьери

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