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

Who, e'en in words unfetter'd, might at full     Tell of the wounds and blood that now I saw,     Though he repeated oft the tale? No tongue     So vast a theme could equal, speech and thought     Both impotent alike. If in one band     Collected, stood the people all, who e'er     Pour'd on Apulia's happy soil their blood,     Slain by the Trojans, and in that long war     When of the rings the measur'd booty made     A pile so high, as Rome's historian writes     Who errs not, with the multitude, that felt     The grinding force of Guiscard's Norman steel,     And those the rest, whose bones are gather'd yet     At Ceperano, there where treachery     Branded th' Apulian name, or where beyond     Thy walls, O Tagliacozzo, without arms     The old Alardo conquer'd; and his limbs     One were to show transpierc'd, another his     Clean lopt away; a spectacle like this     Were but a thing of nought, to the' hideous sight     Of the ninth chasm. A rundlet, that hath lost     Its middle or side stave, gapes not so wide,     As one I mark'd, torn from the chin throughout     Down to the hinder passage: 'twixt the legs     Dangling his entrails hung, the midriff lay     Open to view, and wretched ventricle,     That turns th' englutted aliment to dross.     Whilst eagerly I fix on him my gaze,     He ey'd me, with his hands laid his breast bare,     And cried; "Now mark how I do rip me! lo!     "How is Mohammed mangled! before me     Walks Ali weeping, from the chin his face     Cleft to the forelock; and the others all     Whom here thou seest, while they liv'd, did sow     Scandal and schism, and therefore thus are rent.     A fiend is here behind, who with his sword     Hacks us thus cruelly, slivering again     Each of this ream, when we have compast round     The dismal way, for first our gashes close     Ere we repass before him. But say who     Art thou, that standest musing on the rock,     Haply so lingering to delay the pain     Sentenc'd upon thy crimes?"--"Him death not yet,"     My guide rejoin'd, "hath overta'en, nor sin     Conducts to torment; but, that he may make     Full trial of your state, I who am dead     Must through the depths of hell, from orb to orb,     Conduct him. Trust my words, for they are true."     More than a hundred spirits, when that they heard,     Stood in the foss to mark me, through amazed,     Forgetful of their pangs. "Thou, who perchance     Shalt shortly view the sun, this warning thou     Bear to Dolcino: bid him, if he wish not     Here soon to follow me, that with good store     Of food he arm him, lest impris'ning snows     Yield him a victim to Novara's power,     No easy conquest else." With foot uprais'd     For stepping, spake Mohammed, on the ground     Then fix'd it to depart. Another shade,     Pierc'd in the throat, his nostrils mutilate     E'en from beneath the eyebrows, and one ear     Lopt off, who with the rest through wonder stood     Gazing, before the rest advanc'd, and bar'd     His wind-pipe, that without was all o'ersmear'd     With crimson stain. "O thou!" said he, "whom sin     Condemns not, and whom erst (unless too near     Resemblance do deceive me) I aloft     Have seen on Latian ground, call thou to mind     Piero of Medicina, if again     Returning, thou behold'st the pleasant land     That from Vercelli slopes to Mercabo;     "And there instruct the twain, whom Fano boasts     Her worthiest sons, Guido and Angelo,     That if 't is giv'n us here to scan aright     The future, they out of life's tenement     Shall be cast forth, and whelm'd under the waves     Near to Cattolica, through perfidy     Of a fell tyrant. 'Twixt the Cyprian isle     And Balearic, ne'er hath Neptune seen     An injury so foul, by pirates done     Or Argive crew of old. That one-ey'd traitor     (Whose realm there is a spirit here were fain     His eye had still lack'd sight of) them shall bring     To conf'rence with him, then so shape his end,     That they shall need not 'gainst Focara's wind     Offer up vow nor pray'r." I answering thus:     "Declare, as thou dost wish that I above     May carry tidings of thee, who is he,     In whom that sight doth wake such sad remembrance?"     Forthwith he laid his hand on the cheek-bone     Of one, his fellow-spirit, and his jaws     Expanding, cried: "Lo! this is he I wot of;     He speaks not for himself: the outcast this     Who overwhelm'd the doubt in Caesar's mind,     Affirming that delay to men prepar'd     Was ever harmful." Oh how terrified     Methought was Curio, from whose throat was cut     The tongue, which spake that hardy word. Then one     Maim'd of each hand, uplifted in the gloom     The bleeding stumps, that they with gory spots     Sullied his face, and cried: "'Remember thee     Of Mosca, too, I who, alas! exclaim'd,     'The deed once done there is an end,' that prov'd     A seed of sorrow to the Tuscan race."     I added: "Ay, and death to thine own tribe."     Whence heaping woe on woe he hurried off,     As one grief stung to madness. But I there     Still linger'd to behold the troop, and saw     Things, such as I may fear without more proof     To tell of, but that conscience makes me firm,     The boon companion, who her strong breast-plate     Buckles on him, that feels no guilt within     And bids him on and fear not. Without doubt     I saw, and yet it seems to pass before me,     A headless trunk, that even as the rest     Of the sad flock pac'd onward. By the hair     It bore the sever'd member, lantern-wise     Pendent in hand, which look'd at us and said,     "Woe's me!" The spirit lighted thus himself,     And two there were in one, and one in two.     How that may be he knows who ordereth so.     When at the bridge's foot direct he stood,     His arm aloft he rear'd, thrusting the head     Full in our view, that nearer we might hear     The words, which thus it utter'd: "Now behold     This grievous torment, thou, who breathing go'st     To spy the dead; behold if any else     Be terrible as this. And that on earth     Thou mayst bear tidings of me, know that I     Am Bertrand, he of Born, who gave King John     The counsel mischievous. Father and son     I set at mutual war. For Absalom     And David more did not Ahitophel,     Spurring them on maliciously to strife.     For parting those so closely knit, my brain     Parted, alas! I carry from its source,     That in this trunk inhabits. Thus the law     Of retribution fiercely works in me."