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

When he had spoke, the sinner rais'd his hands     Pointed in mockery, and cried: "Take them, God!     I level them at thee!" From that day forth     The serpents were my friends; for round his neck     One of then rolling twisted, as it said,     "Be silent, tongue!" Another to his arms     Upgliding, tied them, riveting itself     So close, it took from them the power to move.     Pistoia! Ah Pistoia! why dost doubt     To turn thee into ashes, cumb'ring earth     No longer, since in evil act so far     Thou hast outdone thy seed? I did not mark,     Through all the gloomy circles of the' abyss,     Spirit, that swell'd so proudly 'gainst his God,     Not him, who headlong fell from Thebes. He fled,     Nor utter'd more; and after him there came     A centaur full of fury, shouting, "Where     Where is the caitiff?" On Maremma's marsh     Swarm not the serpent tribe, as on his haunch     They swarm'd, to where the human face begins.     Behind his head upon the shoulders lay,     With open wings, a dragon breathing fire     On whomsoe'er he met. To me my guide:     "Cacus is this, who underneath the rock     Of Aventine spread oft a lake of blood.     He, from his brethren parted, here must tread     A different journey, for his fraudful theft     Of the great herd, that near him stall'd; whence found     His felon deeds their end, beneath the mace     Of stout Alcides, that perchance laid on     A hundred blows, and not the tenth was felt."     While yet he spake, the centaur sped away:     And under us three spirits came, of whom     Nor I nor he was ware, till they exclaim'd;     "Say who are ye?" We then brake off discourse,     Intent on these alone. I knew them not;     But, as it chanceth oft, befell, that one     Had need to name another. "Where," said he,     "Doth Cianfa lurk?" I, for a sign my guide     Should stand attentive, plac'd against my lips     The finger lifted. If, O reader! now     Thou be not apt to credit what I tell,     No marvel; for myself do scarce allow     The witness of mine eyes. But as I looked     Toward them, lo! a serpent with six feet     Springs forth on one, and fastens full upon him:     His midmost grasp'd the belly, a forefoot     Seiz'd on each arm (while deep in either cheek     He flesh'd his fangs); the hinder on the thighs     Were spread, 'twixt which the tail inserted curl'd     Upon the reins behind. Ivy ne'er clasp'd     A dodder'd oak, as round the other's limbs     The hideous monster intertwin'd his own.     Then, as they both had been of burning wax,     Each melted into other, mingling hues,     That which was either now was seen no more.     Thus up the shrinking paper, ere it burns,     A brown tint glides, not turning yet to black,     And the clean white expires. The other two     Look'd on exclaiming: "Ah, how dost thou change,     Agnello! See! Thou art nor double now,     "Nor only one." The two heads now became     One, and two figures blended in one form     Appear'd, where both were lost. Of the four lengths     Two arms were made: the belly and the chest     The thighs and legs into such members chang'd,     As never eye hath seen. Of former shape     All trace was vanish'd. Two yet neither seem'd     That image miscreate, and so pass'd on     With tardy steps. As underneath the scourge     Of the fierce dog-star, that lays bare the fields,     Shifting from brake to brake, the lizard seems     A flash of lightning, if he thwart the road,     So toward th' entrails of the other two     Approaching seem'd, an adder all on fire,     As the dark pepper-grain, livid and swart.     In that part, whence our life is nourish'd first,     One he transpierc'd; then down before him fell     Stretch'd out. The pierced spirit look'd on him     But spake not; yea stood motionless and yawn'd,     As if by sleep or fev'rous fit assail'd.     He ey'd the serpent, and the serpent him.     One from the wound, the other from the mouth     Breath'd a thick smoke, whose vap'ry columns join'd.     Lucan in mute attention now may hear,     Nor thy disastrous fate, Sabellus! tell,     Nor shine, Nasidius! Ovid now be mute.     What if in warbling fiction he record     Cadmus and Arethusa, to a snake     Him chang'd, and her into a fountain clear,     I envy not; for never face to face     Two natures thus transmuted did he sing,     Wherein both shapes were ready to assume     The other's substance. They in mutual guise     So answer'd, that the serpent split his train     Divided to a fork, and the pierc'd spirit     Drew close his steps together, legs and thighs     Compacted, that no sign of juncture soon     Was visible: the tail disparted took     The figure which the spirit lost, its skin     Soft'ning, his indurated to a rind.     The shoulders next I mark'd, that ent'ring join'd     The monster's arm-pits, whose two shorter feet     So lengthen'd, as the other's dwindling shrunk.     The feet behind then twisting up became     That part that man conceals, which in the wretch     Was cleft in twain. While both the shadowy smoke     With a new colour veils, and generates     Th' excrescent pile on one, peeling it off     From th' other body, lo! upon his feet     One upright rose, and prone the other fell.     Not yet their glaring and malignant lamps     Were shifted, though each feature chang'd beneath.     Of him who stood erect, the mounting face     Retreated towards the temples, and what there     Superfluous matter came, shot out in ears     From the smooth cheeks, the rest, not backward dragg'd,     Of its excess did shape the nose; and swell'd     Into due size protuberant the lips.     He, on the earth who lay, meanwhile extends     His sharpen'd visage, and draws down the ears     Into the head, as doth the slug his horns.     His tongue continuous before and apt     For utt'rance, severs; and the other's fork     Closing unites. That done the smoke was laid.     The soul, transform'd into the brute, glides off,     Hissing along the vale, and after him     The other talking sputters; but soon turn'd     His new-grown shoulders on him, and in few     Thus to another spake: "Along this path     Crawling, as I have done, speed Buoso now!"     So saw I fluctuate in successive change     Th' unsteady ballast of the seventh hold:     And here if aught my tongue have swerv'd, events     So strange may be its warrant. O'er mine eyes     Confusion hung, and on my thoughts amaze.     Yet 'scap'd they not so covertly, but well     I mark'd Sciancato: he alone it was     Of the three first that came, who chang'd not: thou,     The other's fate, Gaville, still dost rue.