The Divine Comedy by Dante: The Vision of Hell, Or The Inferno: Canto XIII

Ere Nessus yet had reach'd the other bank,     We enter'd on a forest, where no track     Of steps had worn a way. Not verdant there     The foliage, but of dusky hue; not light     The boughs and tapering, but with knares deform'd     And matted thick: fruits there were none, but thorns     Instead, with venom fill'd. Less sharp than these,     Less intricate the brakes, wherein abide     Those animals, that hate the cultur'd fields,     Betwixt Corneto and Cecina's stream.     Here the brute Harpies make their nest, the same     Who from the Strophades the Trojan band     Drove with dire boding of their future woe.     Broad are their pennons, of the human form     Their neck and count'nance, arm'd with talons keen     The feet, and the huge belly fledge with wings     These sit and wail on the drear mystic wood.     The kind instructor in these words began:     "Ere farther thou proceed, know thou art now     I' th' second round, and shalt be, till thou come     Upon the horrid sand: look therefore well     Around thee, and such things thou shalt behold,     As would my speech discredit." On all sides     I heard sad plainings breathe, and none could see     From whom they might have issu'd. In amaze     Fast bound I stood. He, as it seem'd, believ'd,     That I had thought so many voices came     From some amid those thickets close conceal'd,     And thus his speech resum'd: "If thou lop off     A 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 been     The souls of serpents." As a brand yet green,     That burning at one end from the' other sends     A groaning sound, and hisses with the wind     That forces out its way, so burst at once,     Forth from the broken splinter words and blood.     I, letting fall the bough, remain'd as one     Assail'd by terror, and the sage replied:     "If he, O injur'd spirit! could have believ'd     What 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 now     Myself I rue. But tell me, who thou wast;     That, for this wrong to do thee some amends,     In the upper world (for thither to return     Is granted him) thy fame he may revive."     "That pleasant word of thine," the trunk replied     "Hath so inveigled me, that I from speech     Cannot refrain, wherein if I indulge     A little longer, in the snare detain'd,     Count it not grievous. I it was, who held     Both keys to Frederick's heart, and turn'd the wards,     Opening and shutting, with a skill so sweet,     That besides me, into his inmost breast     Scarce 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 eyes     From Caesar's household, common vice and pest     Of 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, 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."