The Divine Comedy

Canto XI

Upon the utmost verge of a high bank,By craggy rocks environ'd round, we came,Where woes beneath more cruel yet were stow'd:And here to shun the horrible excessOf fetid exhalation, upward castFrom the profound abyss, behind the lidOf a great monument we stood retir'd,Whereon this scroll I mark'd: “I have in chargePope Anastasius, whom Photinus drewFrom the right path. – Ere our descent behoovesWe make delay, that somewhat first the sense,To the dire breath accustom'd, afterwardRegard it not.” My master thus; to whomAnswering I spake: “Some compensation findThat the time past not wholly lost.” He then:“Lo! how my thoughts e'en to thy wishes tend!My son! within these rocks,” he thus began,“Are three close circles in gradation plac'd,As these which now thou leav'st. Each one is fullOf spirits accurs'd; but that the sight aloneHereafter may suffice thee, listen howAnd for what cause in durance they abide.“Of all malicious act abhorr'd in heaven,The end is injury; and all such endEither by force or fraud works other's woeBut fraud, because of man peculiar evil,To God is more displeasing; and beneathThe fraudulent are therefore doom'd to' endureSeverer pang. The violent occupyAll the first circle; and because to forceThree persons are obnoxious, in three roundsEach within other sep'rate is it fram'd.To God, his neighbour, and himself, by manForce may be offer'd; to himself I sayAnd his possessions, as thou soon shalt hearAt full. Death, violent death, and painful woundsUpon his neighbour he inflicts; and wastesBy devastation, pillage, and the flames,His substance. Slayers, and each one that smitesIn malice, plund'rers, and all robbers, henceThe torment undergo of the first roundIn different herds. Man can do violenceTo himself and his own blessings: and for thisHe in the second round must aye deploreWith unavailing penitence his crime,Whoe'er deprives himself of life and light,In reckless lavishment his talent wastes,And sorrows there where he should dwell in joy.To God may force be offer'd, in the heartDenying and blaspheming his high power,And nature with her kindly law contemning.And thence the inmost round marks with its sealSodom and Cahors, and all such as speakContemptuously of the Godhead in their hearts.“Fraud, that in every conscience leaves a sting,May be by man employ'd on one, whose trustHe wins, or on another who withholdsStrict confidence. Seems as the latter wayBroke but the bond of love which Nature makes.Whence in the second circle have their nestDissimulation, witchcraft, flatteries,Theft, falsehood, simony, all who seduceTo lust, or set their honesty at pawn,With such vile scum as these. The other wayForgets both Nature's general love, and thatWhich thereto added afterwards gives birthTo special faith. Whence in the lesser circle,Point of the universe, dread seat of Dis,The traitor is eternally consum'd.”I thus: “Instructor, clearly thy discourseProceeds, distinguishing the hideous chasmAnd its inhabitants with skill exact.But tell me this: they of the dull, fat pool,Whom the rain beats, or whom the tempest drives,Or who with tongues so fierce conflicting meet,Wherefore within the city fire-illum'dAre not these punish'd, if God's wrath be on them?And if it be not, wherefore in such guiseAre they condemned?” He answer thus return'd:“Wherefore in dotage wanders thus thy mind,Not so accustom'd? or what other thoughtsPossess it? Dwell not in thy memoryThe words, wherein thy ethic page describesThree dispositions adverse to Heav'n's will,Incont'nence, malice, and mad brutishness,And how incontinence the least offendsGod, and least guilt incurs? If well thou noteThis judgment, and remember who they are,Without these walls to vain repentance doom'd,Thou shalt discern why they apart are plac'dFrom these fell spirits, and less wreakful poursJustice divine on them its vengeance down.”“O Sun! who healest all imperfect sight,Thou so content'st me, when thou solv'st my doubt,That ignorance not less than knowledge charms.Yet somewhat turn thee back,” I in these wordsContinu'd, “where thou saidst, that usuryOffends celestial Goodness; and this knotPerplex'd unravel.” He thus made reply:“Philosophy, to an attentive ear,Clearly points out, not in one part alone,How imitative nature takes her courseFrom the celestial mind and from its art:And where her laws the Stagyrite unfolds,Not many leaves scann'd o'er, observing wellThou shalt discover, that your art on herObsequious follows, as the learner treadsIn his instructor's step, so that your artDeserves the name of second in descentFrom God. These two, if thou recall to mindCreation's holy book, from the beginningWere the right source of life and excellenceTo human kind. But in another pathThe usurer walks; and Nature in herselfAnd in her follower thus he sets at nought,Placing elsewhere his hope. But follow nowMy steps on forward journey bent; for nowThe Pisces play with undulating glanceAlong the horizon, and the Wain lies allO'er the north-west; and onward there a spaceIs our steep passage down the rocky height.”

Canto XII

The place where to descend the precipiceWe came, was rough as Alp, and on its vergeSuch object lay, as every eye would shun.As is that ruin, which Adice's streamOn this side Trento struck, should'ring the wave,Or loos'd by earthquake or for lack of prop;For from the mountain's summit, whence it mov'dTo the low level, so the headlong rockIs shiver'd, that some passage it might giveTo him who from above would pass; e'en suchInto the chasm was that descent: and thereAt point of the disparted ridge lay stretch'dThe infamy of Crete, detested broodOf the feign'd heifer: and at sight of usIt gnaw'd itself, as one with rage distract.To him my guide exclaim'd: “Perchance thou deem'stThe King of Athens here, who, in the worldAbove, thy death contriv'd. Monster! avaunt!He comes not tutor'd by thy sister's art,But to behold your torments is he come.”Like to a bull, that with impetuous springDarts, at the moment when the fatal blowHath struck him, but unable to proceedPlunges on either side; so saw I plungeThe Minotaur; whereat the sage exclaim'd:“Run to the passage! while he storms, 't is wellThat thou descend.” Thus down our road we tookThrough those dilapidated crags, that oftMov'd underneath my feet, to weight like theirsUnus'd. I pond'ring went, and thus he spake:“Perhaps thy thoughts are of this ruin'd steep,Guarded by the brute violence, which IHave vanquish'd now. Know then, that when I erstHither descended to the nether hell,This rock was not yet fallen. But past doubt(If well I mark) not long ere He arrived,Who carried off from Dis the mighty spoilOf the highest circle, then through all its boundsSuch trembling seiz'd the deep concave and foul,I thought the universe was thrill'd with love,Whereby, there are who deem, the world hath oftBeen into chaos turn'd: and in that point,Here, and elsewhere, that old rock toppled down.But fix thine eyes beneath: the river of bloodApproaches, in the which all those are steep'd,Who have by violence injur'd.” O blind lust!O foolish wrath! who so dost goad us onIn the brief life, and in the eternal thenThus miserably o'erwhelm us. I beheldAn ample foss, that in a bow was bent,As circling all the plain; for so my guideHad told. Between it and the rampart's baseOn trail ran Centaurs, with keen arrows arm'd,As to the chase they on the earth were wont.At seeing us descend they each one stood;And issuing from the troop, three sped with bowsAnd missile weapons chosen first; of whomOne cried from far: “Say to what pain ye comeCondemn'd, who down this steep have journied? SpeakFrom whence ye stand, or else the bow I draw.”To whom my guide: “Our answer shall be madeTo Chiron, there, when nearer him we come.Ill was thy mind, thus ever quick and rash.”Then me he touch'd, and spake: “Nessus is this,Who for the fair Deianira died,And wrought himself revenge for his own fate.He in the midst, that on his breast looks down,Is the great Chiron who Achilles nurs'd;That other Pholus, prone to wrath.” AroundThe foss these go by thousands, aiming shaftsAt whatsoever spirit dares emergeFrom out the blood, more than his guilt allows.We to those beasts, that rapid strode along,Drew near, when Chiron took an arrow forth,And with the notch push'd back his shaggy beardTo the cheek-bone, then his great mouth to viewExposing, to his fellows thus exclaim'd:“Are ye aware, that he who comes behindMoves what he touches? The feet of the deadAre not so wont.” My trusty guide, who nowStood near his breast, where the two natures join,Thus made reply: “He is indeed alive,And solitary so must needs by meBe shown the gloomy vale, thereto induc'dBy strict necessity, not by delight.She left her joyful harpings in the sky,Who this new office to my care consign'd.He is no robber, no dark spirit I.But by that virtue, which empowers my stepTo treat so wild a path, grant us, I pray,One of thy band, whom we may trust secure,Who to the ford may lead us, and conveyAcross, him mounted on his back; for heIs not a spirit that may walk the air.”Then on his right breast turning, Chiron thusTo Nessus spake: “Return, and be their guide.And if ye chance to cross another troop,Command them keep aloof.” Onward we mov'd,The faithful escort by our side, alongThe border of the crimson-seething flood,Whence from those steep'd within loud shrieks arose.Some there I mark'd, as high as to their browImmers'd, of whom the mighty Centaur thus:“These are the souls of tyrants, who were givenTo blood and rapine. Here they wail aloudTheir merciless wrongs. Here Alexander dwells,And Dionysius fell, who many a yearOf woe wrought for fair Sicily. That browWhereon the hair so jetty clust'ring hangs,Is Azzolino; that with flaxen locksObizzo' of Este, in the world destroy'dBy his foul step-son.” To the bard rever'dI turned me round, and thus he spake; “Let himBe to thee now first leader, me but nextTo him in rank.” Then farther on a spaceThe Centaur paus'd, near some, who at the throatWere extant from the wave; and showing usA 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 waveThou 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 handOn Attila, who was the scourge of earth,On Sextus, and on Pyrrhus, and extractsTears ever by the seething flood unlock'dFrom the Rinieri, of Corneto this,Pazzo the other nam'd, who fill'd the waysWith 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 trackOf steps had worn a way. Not verdant thereThe foliage, but of dusky hue; not lightThe boughs and tapering, but with knares deform'dAnd matted thick: fruits there were none, but thornsInstead, with venom fill'd. Less sharp than these,Less intricate the brakes, wherein abideThose animals, that hate the cultur'd fields,Betwixt Corneto and Cecina's stream.Here the brute Harpies make their nest, the sameWho from the Strophades the Trojan bandDrove with dire boding of their future woe.Broad are their pennons, of the human formTheir neck and count'nance, arm'd with talons keenThe feet, and the huge belly fledge with wingsThese sit and wail on the drear mystic wood.The kind instructor in these words began:“Ere farther thou proceed, know thou art nowI' th' second round, and shalt be, till thou comeUpon the horrid sand: look therefore wellAround thee, and such things thou shalt behold,As would my speech discredit.” On all sidesI heard sad plainings breathe, and none could seeFrom whom they might have issu'd. In amazeFast bound I stood. He, as it seem'd, believ'd,That I had thought so many voices cameFrom some amid those thickets close conceal'd,And thus his speech resum'd: “If thou lop offA 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 beenThe souls of serpents.” As a brand yet green,That burning at one end from the other sendsA groaning sound, and hisses with the windThat forces out its way, so burst at once,Forth from the broken splinter words and blood.I, letting fall the bough, remain'd as oneAssail'd by terror, and the sage replied:“If he, O injur'd spirit! could have believ'dWhat 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 nowMyself I rue. But tell me, who thou wast;That, for this wrong to do thee some amends,In the upper world (for thither to returnIs granted him) thy fame he may revive.”“That pleasant word of thine,” the trunk replied“Hath so inveigled me, that I from speechCannot refrain, wherein if I indulgeA little longer, in the snare detain'd,Count it not grievous. I it was, who heldBoth keys to Frederick's heart, and turn'd the wards,Opening and shutting, with a skill so sweet,That besides me, into his inmost breastScarce 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 eyesFrom Caesar's household, common vice and pestOf courts, 'gainst me inflam'd the minds of all;And to Augustus they so spread the flame,That my glad honours chang'd to bitter woes.My soul, disdainful and disgusted, soughtRefuge 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 liesYet prostrate under envy's cruel blow.”First somewhat pausing, till the mournful wordsWere 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'erWill, as thou think'st, content me; for no powerHave I to ask, such pity' is at my heart.”He thus resum'd; “So may he do for theeFreely what thou entreatest, as thou yetBe pleas'd, imprison'd Spirit! to declare,How in these gnarled joints the soul is tied;And whether any ever from such frameBe loosen'd, if thou canst, that also tell.”Thereat the trunk breath'd hard, and the wind soonChang'd into sounds articulate like these;Briefly ye shall be answer'd. “When departsThe fierce soul from the body, by itselfThence torn asunder, to the seventh gulfBy Minos doom'd, into the wood it falls,No place assign'd, but wheresoever chanceHurls it, there sprouting, as a grain of spelt,It rises to a sapling, growing thenceA savage plant. The Harpies, on its leavesThen feeding, cause both pain and for the painA vent to grief. We, as the rest, shall comeFor our own spoils, yet not so that with themWe may again be clad; for what a manTakes from himself it is not just he have.Here we perforce shall drag them; and throughoutThe dismal glade our bodies shall be hung,Each on the wild thorn of his wretched shade.”Attentive yet to listen to the trunkWe stood, expecting farther speech, when usA noise surpris'd, as when a man perceivesThe wild boar and the hunt approach his placeOf station'd watch, who of the beasts and boughsLoud rustling round him hears. And lo! there cameTwo 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 delayExclaiming, “Lano! not so bent for speedThy sinews, in the lists of Toppo's field.”And then, for that perchance no longer breathSuffic'd him, of himself and of a bushOne group he made. Behind them was the woodFull 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 awayThe tortur'd limbs. My guide then seiz'd my hand,And led me to the thicket, which in vainMourn'd through its bleeding wounds: “O GiacomoOf 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 pointsBreath'st out with blood thy lamentable speech?”He answer'd: “Oh, ye spirits: arriv'd in timeTo spy the shameful havoc, that from meMy leaves hath sever'd thus, gather them up,And at the foot of their sad parent-treeCarefully 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 artTo work her woe: and if there still remain'd notOn Arno's passage some faint glimpse of him,Those citizens, who rear'd once more her wallsUpon 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 landWrought in my bosom, I the scatter'd leavesCollected, and to him restor'd, who nowWas hoarse with utt'rance. To the limit thenceWe came, which from the third the second roundDivides, and where of justice is display'dContrivance horrible. Things then first seenClearlier to manifest, I tell how nextA plain we reach'd, that from its sterile bedEach plant repell'd. The mournful wood waves roundIts garland on all sides, as round the woodSpreads the sad foss. There, on the very edge,Our steps we stay'd. It was an area wideOf arid sand and thick, resembling mostThe soil that erst by Cato's foot was trod.Vengeance of Heav'n! Oh! how shouldst thou be fear'dBy all, who read what here my eyes beheld!Of naked spirits many a flock I saw,All weeping piteously, to different lawsSubjected: for on the earth some lay supine,Some crouching close were seated, others pac'dIncessantly around; the latter tribe,More numerous, those fewer who beneathThe torment lay, but louder in their grief.O'er all the sand fell slowly wafting downDilated flakes of fire, as flakes of snowOn Alpine summit, when the wind is hush'd.As in the torrid Indian clime, the sonOf Ammon saw upon his warrior bandDescending, solid flames, that to the groundCame down: whence he bethought him with his troopTo trample on the soil; for easier thusThe vapour was extinguish'd, while alone;So fell the eternal fiery flood, wherewithThe marble glow'd underneath, as under stoveThe viands, doubly to augment the pain.Unceasing was the play of wretched hands,Now this, now that way glancing, to shake offThe heat, still falling fresh. I thus began:“Instructor! thou who all things overcom'st,Except the hardy demons, that rush'd forthTo stop our entrance at the gate, say whoIs yon huge spirit, that, as seems, heeds notThe burning, but lies writhen in proud scorn,As by the sultry tempest immatur'd?”Straight he himself, who was aware I ask'dMy guide of him, exclaim'd: “Such as I wasWhen living, dead such now I am. If JoveWeary his workman out, from whom in ireHe snatch'd the lightnings, that at my last dayTransfix'd me, if the rest be weary outAt their black smithy labouring by turnsIn Mongibello, while he cries aloud;“Help, help, good Mulciber!” as erst he criedIn the Phlegraean warfare, and the boltsLaunch he full aim'd at me with all his might,He never should enjoy a sweet revenge.”Then thus my guide, in accent higher rais'dThan I before had heard him: “Capaneus!Thou art more punish'd, in that this thy prideLives yet unquench'd: no torrent, save thy rage,Were to thy fury pain proportion'd full.”Next turning round to me with milder lipHe spake: “This of the seven kings was one,Who girt the Theban walls with siege, and held,As still he seems to hold, God in disdain,And sets his high omnipotence at nought.But, as I told him, his despiteful moodIs ornament well suits the breast that wears it.Follow me now; and look thou set not yetThy foot in the hot sand, but to the woodKeep ever close.” Silently on we pass'dTo where there gushes from the forest's boundA little brook, whose crimson'd wave yet liftsMy hair with horror. As the rill, that runsFrom Bulicame, to be portion'd outAmong the sinful women; so ran thisDown through the sand, its bottom and each bankStone-built, and either margin at its side,Whereon I straight perceiv'd our passage lay.“Of all that I have shown thee, since that gateWe enter'd first, whose threshold is to noneDenied, 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 worldLiv'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 shoutsHis infant cries. Within the mount, uprightAn ancient form there stands and huge, that turnsHis shoulders towards Damiata, and at RomeAs in his mirror looks. Of finest goldHis head is shap'd, pure silver are the breastAnd 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 whichThan on the other more erect he stands,Each part except the gold, is rent throughout;And from the fissure tears distil, which join'dPenetrate to that cave. They in their courseThus far precipitated down the rockForm Acheron, and Styx, and Phlegethon;Then by this straiten'd channel passing henceBeneath, e'en to the lowest depth of all,Form there Cocytus, of whose lake (thyselfShall see it) I here give thee no account.”Then I to him: “If from our world this sluiceBe thus deriv'd; wherefore to us but nowAppears it at this edge?” He straight replied:“The place, thou know'st, is round; and though great partThou have already pass'd, still to the leftDescending to the nethermost, not yetHast 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 streamsOf Phlegethon and Lethe? for of oneThou 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'dOne 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 giveSafe passage, unimpeded by the flames;For over them all vapour is extinct.”

Canto XV

One of the solid margins bears us nowEnvelop'd in the mist, that from the streamArising, hovers o'er, and saves from fireBoth piers and water. As the Flemings rearTheir mound, 'twixt Ghent and Bruges, to chase backThe ocean, fearing his tumultuous tideThat drives toward them, or the Paduans theirsAlong the Brenta, to defend their townsAnd castles, ere the genial warmth be feltOn Chiarentana's top; such were the mounds,So fram'd, though not in height or bulk to theseMade equal, by the master, whosoe'erHe was, that rais'd them here. We from the woodWere not so far remov'd, that turning roundI might not have discern'd it, when we metA troop of spirits, who came beside the pier.They each one ey'd us, as at eventideOne 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 skirtCaught 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 notBut I remember'd him; and towards his faceMy hand inclining, answer'd: “Sir! Brunetto!“And art thou here?” He thus to me: “My son!Oh let it not displease thee, if BrunettoLatini but a little space with theeTurn 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 throngOne instant stops, lies then a hundred years,No fan to ventilate him, when the fireSmites sorest. Pass thou therefore on. I closeWill at thy garments walk, and then rejoinMy troop, who go mourning their endless doom.”I dar'd not from the path descend to treadOn equal ground with him, but held my headBent 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 lifeSerene, I wander'd in a valley lost,Before mine age had to its fullness reach'd.But yester-morn I left it: then once moreInto that vale returning, him I met;And by this path homeward he leads me back.”“If thou,” he answer'd, “follow but thy star,Thou canst not miss at last a glorious haven:Unless in fairer days my judgment err'd.And if my fate so early had not chanc'd,Seeing the heav'ns thus bounteous to thee, IHad gladly giv'n thee comfort in thy work.But that ungrateful and malignant race,Who in old times came down from Fesole,Ay and still smack of their rough mountain-flint,Will for thy good deeds shew thee enmity.Nor wonder; for amongst ill-savour'd crabsIt suits not the sweet fig-tree lay her fruit.Old fame reports them in the world for blind,Covetous, envious, proud. Look to it well:Take heed thou cleanse thee of their ways. For theeThy fortune hath such honour in reserve,That thou by either party shalt be crav'dWith hunger keen: but be the fresh herb farFrom the goat's tooth. The herd of FesoleMay of themselves make litter, not touch the plant,If any such yet spring on their rank bed,In which the holy seed revives, transmittedFrom those true Romans, who still there remain'd,When it was made the nest of so much ill.”“Were all my wish fulfill'd,” I straight replied,“Thou from the confines of man's nature yetHadst not been driven forth; for in my mindIs fix'd, and now strikes full upon my heartThe dear, benign, paternal image, suchAs thine was, when so lately thou didst teach meThe way for man to win eternity;And how I priz'd the lesson, it behooves,That, long as life endures, my tongue should speak,What of my fate thou tell'st, that write I down:And with another text to comment onFor her I keep it, the celestial dame,Who will know all, if I to her arrive.This only would I have thee clearly note:That so my conscience have no plea against me;Do fortune as she list, I stand prepar'd.Not new or strange such earnest to mine ear.Speed fortune then her wheel, as likes her best,The clown his mattock; all things have their course.”Thereat my sapient guide upon his rightTurn'd himself back, then look'd at me and spake:“He listens to good purpose who takes note.”I not the less still on my way proceed,Discoursing with Brunetto, and inquireWho are most known and chief among his tribe.“To know of some is well;” thus he replied,“But of the rest silence may best beseem.Time would not serve us for report so long.In brief I tell thee, that all these were clerks,Men of great learning and no less renown,By one same sin polluted in the world.With them is Priscian, and Accorso's sonFrancesco herds among that wretched throng:And, if the wish of so impure a blotchPossess'd thee, him thou also might'st have seen,Who by the servants' servant was transferr'dFrom Arno's seat to Bacchiglione, whereHis ill-strain'd nerves he left. I more would add,But must from farther speech and onward wayAlike desist, for yonder I beholdA mist new-risen on the sandy plain.A company, with whom I may not sort,Approaches. I commend my TREASURE to thee,Wherein I yet survive; my sole request.”This said he turn'd, and seem'd as one of those,Who o'er Verona's champain try their speedFor the green mantle, and of them he seem'd,Not he who loses but who gains the prize.