The Divine Comedy. Dante Alighieri

onward, when the water's sound

      Was now so near at hand, that we had scarce

      Heard one another's speech for the loud din.

      E'en as the river, that holds on its course

      Unmingled, from the mount of Vesulo,

      On the left side of Apennine, toward

      The east, which Acquacheta higher up

      They call, ere it descend into the vale,

      At Forli by that name no longer known,

      Rebellows o'er Saint Benedict, roll'd on

      From the Alpine summit down a precipice,

      Where space enough to lodge a thousand spreads;

      Thus downward from a craggy steep we found,

      That this dark wave resounded, roaring loud,

      So that the ear its clamour soon had stunn'd.

      I had a cord that brac'd my girdle round,

      Wherewith I erst had thought fast bound to take

      The painted leopard. This when I had all

      Unloosen'd from me (so my master bade)

      I gather'd up, and stretch'd it forth to him.

      Then to the right he turn'd, and from the brink

      Standing few paces distant, cast it down

      Into the deep abyss. "And somewhat strange,"

      Thus to myself I spake, "signal so strange

      Betokens, which my guide with earnest eye

      Thus follows." Ah! what caution must men use

      With those who look not at the deed alone,

      But spy into the thoughts with subtle skill!

      "Quickly shall come," he said, "what I expect,

      Thine eye discover quickly, that whereof

      Thy thought is dreaming." Ever to that truth,

      Which but the semblance of a falsehood wears,

      A man, if possible, should bar his lip;

      Since, although blameless, he incurs reproach.

      But silence here were vain; and by these notes

      Which now I sing, reader! I swear to thee,

      So may they favour find to latest times!

      That through the gross and murky air I spied

      A shape come swimming up, that might have quell'd

      The stoutest heart with wonder, in such guise

      As one returns, who hath been down to loose

      An anchor grappled fast against some rock,

      Or to aught else that in the salt wave lies,

      Who upward springing close draws in his feet.

      CANTO XVII

      "LO! the fell monster with the deadly sting!

      Who passes mountains, breaks through fenced walls

      And firm embattled spears, and with his filth

      Taints all the world!" Thus me my guide address'd,

      And beckon'd him, that he should come to shore,

      Near to the stony causeway's utmost edge.

      Forthwith that image vile of fraud appear'd,

      His head and upper part expos'd on land,

      But laid not on the shore his bestial train.

      His face the semblance of a just man's wore,

      So kind and gracious was its outward cheer;

      The rest was serpent all: two shaggy claws

      Reach'd to the armpits, and the back and breast,

      And either side, were painted o'er with nodes

      And orbits. Colours variegated more

      Nor Turks nor Tartars e'er on cloth of state

      With interchangeable embroidery wove,

      Nor spread Arachne o'er her curious loom.

      As ofttimes a light skiff, moor'd to the shore,

      Stands part in water, part upon the land;

      Or, as where dwells the greedy German boor,

      The beaver settles watching for his prey;

      So on the rim, that fenc'd the sand with rock,

      Sat perch'd the fiend of evil. In the void

      Glancing, his tail upturn'd its venomous fork,

      With sting like scorpion's arm'd. Then thus my guide:

      "Now need our way must turn few steps apart,

      Far as to that ill beast, who couches there."

      Thereat toward the right our downward course

      We shap'd, and, better to escape the flame

      And burning marle, ten paces on the verge

      Proceeded. Soon as we to him arrive,

      A little further on mine eye beholds

      A tribe of spirits, seated on the sand

      Near the wide chasm. Forthwith my master spake:

      "That to the full thy knowledge may extend

      Of all this round contains, go now, and mark

      The mien these wear: but hold not long discourse.

      Till thou returnest, I with him meantime

      Will parley, that to us he may vouchsafe

      The aid of his strong shoulders." Thus alone

      Yet forward on the extremity I pac'd

      Of that seventh circle, where the mournful tribe

      Were seated. At the eyes forth gush'd their pangs.

      Against the vapours and the torrid soil

      Alternately their shifting hands they plied.

      Thus use the dogs in summer still to ply

      Their jaws and feet by turns, when bitten sore

      By gnats, or flies, or gadflies swarming round.

      Noting the visages of some, who lay

      Beneath the pelting of that dolorous fire,

      One of them all I knew not; but perceiv'd,

      That pendent from his neck each bore a pouch

      With colours and with emblems various mark'd,

      On which it seem'd as if their eye did feed.

      And when amongst them looking round I came,

      A yellow purse I saw with azure wrought,

      That wore a lion's countenance and port.

      Then still my sight pursuing its career,

      Another I beheld, than blood more red.

      A goose display of whiter wing than curd.

      And one, who bore a fat and azure swine

      Pictur'd on his white scrip, addressed me thus:

      "What dost thou in this deep? Go now and know,

      Since yet thou livest, that my neighbour here