The Divine Comedy. Данте Алигьери

makes head, Benacus then no more

      They call the name, but Mincius, till at last

      Reaching Governo into Po he falls.

      Not far his course hath run, when a wide flat

      It finds, which overstretchmg as a marsh

      It covers, pestilent in summer oft.

      Hence journeying, the savage maiden saw

      'Midst of the fen a territory waste

      And naked of inhabitants. To shun

      All human converse, here she with her slaves

      Plying her arts remain'd, and liv'd, and left

      Her body tenantless. Thenceforth the tribes,

      Who round were scatter'd, gath'ring to that place

      Assembled; for its strength was great, enclos'd

      On all parts by the fen. On those dead bones

      They rear'd themselves a city, for her sake,

      Calling it Mantua, who first chose the spot,

      Nor ask'd another omen for the name,

      Wherein more numerous the people dwelt,

      Ere Casalodi's madness by deceit

      Was wrong'd of Pinamonte. If thou hear

      Henceforth another origin assign'd

      Of that my country, I forewarn thee now,

      That falsehood none beguile thee of the truth.”

      I answer'd: “Teacher, I conclude thy words

      So certain, that all else shall be to me

      As embers lacking life. But now of these,

      Who here proceed, instruct me, if thou see

      Any that merit more especial note.

      For thereon is my mind alone intent.”

      He straight replied: “That spirit, from whose cheek

      The beard sweeps o'er his shoulders brown, what time

      Graecia was emptied of her males, that scarce

      The cradles were supplied, the seer was he

      In Aulis, who with Calchas gave the sign

      When first to cut the cable. Him they nam'd

      Eurypilus: so sings my tragic strain,

      In which majestic measure well thou know'st,

      Who know'st it all. That other, round the loins

      So slender of his shape, was Michael Scot,

      Practis'd in ev'ry slight of magic wile.

      “Guido Bonatti see: Asdente mark,

      Who now were willing, he had tended still

      The thread and cordwain; and too late repents.

      “See next the wretches, who the needle left,

      The shuttle and the spindle, and became

      Diviners: baneful witcheries they wrought

      With images and herbs. But onward now:

      For now doth Cain with fork of thorns confine

      On either hemisphere, touching the wave

      Beneath the towers of Seville. Yesternight

      The moon was round. Thou mayst remember well:

      For she good service did thee in the gloom

      Of the deep wood.” This said, both onward mov'd.

      Canto XXI

      Thus we from bridge to bridge, with other talk,

      The which my drama cares not to rehearse,

      Pass'd on; and to the summit reaching, stood

      To view another gap, within the round

      Of Malebolge, other bootless pangs.

      Marvelous darkness shadow'd o'er the place.

      In the Venetians' arsenal as boils

      Through wintry months tenacious pitch, to smear

      Their unsound vessels; for th' inclement time

      Sea-faring men restrains, and in that while

      His bark one builds anew, another stops

      The ribs of his, that hath made many a voyage;

      One hammers at the prow, one at the poop;

      This shapeth oars, that other cables twirls,

      The mizen one repairs and main-sail rent

      So not by force of fire but art divine

      Boil'd here a glutinous thick mass, that round

      Lim'd all the shore beneath. I that beheld,

      But therein nought distinguish'd, save the surge,

      Rais'd by the boiling, in one mighty swell

      Heave, and by turns subsiding and fall. While there

      I fix'd my ken below, “Mark! mark!” my guide

      Exclaiming, drew me towards him from the place,

      Wherein I stood. I turn'd myself as one,

      Impatient to behold that which beheld

      He needs must shun, whom sudden fear unmans,

      That he his flight delays not for the view.

      Behind me I discern'd a devil black,

      That running, up advanc'd along the rock.

      Ah! what fierce cruelty his look bespake!

      In act how bitter did he seem, with wings

      Buoyant outstretch'd and feet of nimblest tread!

      His shoulder proudly eminent and sharp

      Was with a sinner charg'd; by either haunch

      He held him, the foot's sinew griping fast.

      “Ye of our bridge!” he cried, “keen-talon'd fiends!

      Lo! one of Santa Zita's elders! Him

      Whelm ye beneath, while I return for more.

      That land hath store of such. All men are there,

      Except Bonturo, barterers: of 'no'

      For lucre there an 'aye' is quickly made.”

      Him dashing down, o'er the rough rock he turn'd,

      Nor ever after thief a mastiff loos'd

      Sped with like eager haste. That other sank

      And forthwith writhing to the surface rose.

      But those dark demons, shrouded by the bridge,

      Cried “Here the hallow'd visage saves not: here

      Is other swimming than in Serchio's wave.

      Wherefore if thou desire we rend thee not,

      Take heed thou mount not o'er the pitch.” This said,

      They grappled him with more than hundred hooks,

      And shouted: “Cover'd thou must sport thee here;

      So, if thou canst, in secret mayst thou filch.”

      E'en thus the cook bestirs him, with his grooms,

      To thrust the flesh into the caldron down

      With flesh-hooks, that it float not on the top.

      Me then my guide bespake: “Lest they descry,

      That thou art here, behind a craggy rock

      Bend low and screen thee; and whate'er of force

      Be offer'd me, or insult,