The Divine Comedy. Данте Алигьери

our passage lay.

      “Of all that I have shown thee, since that gate

      We enter'd first, whose threshold is to none

      Denied, nought else so worthy of regard,

      As is this river, has thine eye discern'd,

      O'er which the flaming volley all is quench'd.”

      So spake my guide; and I him thence besought,

      That having giv'n me appetite to know,

      The food he too would give, that hunger crav'd.

      “In midst of ocean,” forthwith he began,

      “A desolate country lies, which Crete is nam'd,

      Under whose monarch in old times the world

      Liv'd pure and chaste. A mountain rises there,

      Call'd Ida, joyous once with leaves and streams,

      Deserted now like a forbidden thing.

      It was the spot which Rhea, Saturn's spouse,

      Chose for the secret cradle of her son;

      And better to conceal him, drown'd in shouts

      His infant cries. Within the mount, upright

      An ancient form there stands and huge, that turns

      His shoulders towards Damiata, and at Rome

      As in his mirror looks. Of finest gold

      His head is shap'd, pure silver are the breast

      And arms; thence to the middle is of brass.

      And downward all beneath well-temper'd steel,

      Save the right foot of potter's clay, on which

      Than on the other more erect he stands,

      Each part except the gold, is rent throughout;

      And from the fissure tears distil, which join'd

      Penetrate to that cave. They in their course

      Thus far precipitated down the rock

      Form Acheron, and Styx, and Phlegethon;

      Then by this straiten'd channel passing hence

      Beneath, e'en to the lowest depth of all,

      Form there Cocytus, of whose lake (thyself

      Shall see it) I here give thee no account.”

      Then I to him: “If from our world this sluice

      Be thus deriv'd; wherefore to us but now

      Appears it at this edge?” He straight replied:

      “The place, thou know'st, is round; and though great part

      Thou have already pass'd, still to the left

      Descending to the nethermost, not yet

      Hast thou the circuit made of the whole orb.

      Wherefore if aught of new to us appear,

      It needs not bring up wonder in thy looks.”

      Then I again inquir'd: “Where flow the streams

      Of Phlegethon and Lethe? for of one

      Thou tell'st not, and the other of that shower,

      Thou say'st, is form'd.” He answer thus return'd:

      “Doubtless thy questions all well pleas'd I hear.

      Yet the red seething wave might have resolv'd

      One thou proposest. Lethe thou shalt see,

      But not within this hollow, in the place,

      Whither to lave themselves the spirits go,

      Whose blame hath been by penitence remov'd.”

      He added: “Time is now we quit the wood.

      Look thou my steps pursue: the margins give

      Safe passage, unimpeded by the flames;

      For over them all vapour is extinct.”

      Canto XV

      One of the solid margins bears us now

      Envelop'd in the mist, that from the stream

      Arising, hovers o'er, and saves from fire

      Both piers and water. As the Flemings rear

      Their mound, 'twixt Ghent and Bruges, to chase back

      The ocean, fearing his tumultuous tide

      That drives toward them, or the Paduans theirs

      Along the Brenta, to defend their towns

      And castles, ere the genial warmth be felt

      On Chiarentana's top; such were the mounds,

      So fram'd, though not in height or bulk to these

      Made equal, by the master, whosoe'er

      He was, that rais'd them here. We from the wood

      Were not so far remov'd, that turning round

      I might not have discern'd it, when we met

      A troop of spirits, who came beside the pier.

      They each one ey'd us, as at eventide

      One eyes another under a new moon,

      And toward us sharpen'd their sight as keen,

      As an old tailor at his needle's eye.

      Thus narrowly explor'd by all the tribe,

      I was agniz'd of one, who by the skirt

      Caught me, and cried, “What wonder have we here!”

      And I, when he to me outstretch'd his arm,

      Intently fix'd my ken on his parch'd looks,

      That although smirch'd with fire, they hinder'd not

      But I remember'd him; and towards his face

      My hand inclining, answer'd: “Sir! Brunetto!

      “And art thou here?” He thus to me: “My son!

      Oh let it not displease thee, if Brunetto

      Latini but a little space with thee

      Turn back, and leave his fellows to proceed.”

      I thus to him replied: “Much as I can,

      I thereto pray thee; and if thou be willing,

      That I here seat me with thee, I consent;

      His leave, with whom I journey, first obtain'd.”

      “O son!” said he, “whoever of this throng

      One instant stops, lies then a hundred years,

      No fan to ventilate him, when the fire

      Smites sorest. Pass thou therefore on. I close

      Will at thy garments walk, and then rejoin

      My troop, who go mourning their endless doom.”

      I dar'd not from the path descend to tread

      On equal ground with him, but held my head

      Bent down, as one who walks in reverent guise.

      “What chance or destiny,” thus he began,

      “Ere the last day conducts thee here below?

      And who is this, that shows to thee the way?”

      “There up aloft,” I answer'd, “in the life

      Serene, I wander'd in a valley lost,

      Before mine age had to its fullness reach'd.

      But yester-morn I left it: then once more

      Into that vale returning,