The Divine Comedy. Dante Alighieri

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