The Divine Comedy. Dante Alighieri

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,